A Finger in Every Pie

Oh The Cleverness of Me: Double-Apricot Cheesecake Bars

"How clever I am!" he crowed rapturously, "oh, the cleverness of me!"
               - J.M. Barrie, Peter Pan

Forgive me.  I need a little something to crow about, even if it's something as silly as simply having feathered the apricot cheesecake bars.  I've never done it before, you see.  And it's now clear to me that it's one of those tricks that will make other people behave as if I'd just made them Pierre Hermé's Plaisir Sucré, instead of simply a batch of bar cookies.  Very worthwhile, in that case. 

I know I abandoned this space for more than three weeks.  And my chum Bakerina says that recently married people are allowed some space for blogbandonment.  But I wish it were because we'd been off honeymooning in some fabulously other realm.  My school's secretary and I have this running joke about how, at times, we'd rather be Elsewhere.   Well, it's going to be a while before G and I get to Elsewhere.  It's been a gruelling few weeks -- and there's no real light at the end of this tunnel, at least not for the next month or so. 

After the glory of our May 12th family wedding-sorta-type-party was over (and it was glorious, and I do have a lovely treasured family heirloom paté recipe for you which was one of the highlights of the buffet, much to the caterer's chagrin, since I made and brought it myself, but that's another story), regular life resumed with a bit of a vengeance. 

Suffice it to say that both G's and my work/school schedules have made it impossible to do much else except for occasional family obligations.  My school is prepping our first 10th grade class for NY State Regents exams, and I've been called down from my perch of professional development specialist and am teaching 8 periods of cranky 10th graders a day.  I'll show them cranky.  In addition, my admin program is drawing to a close, and the requirements are getting ever more stressful.  I'm not sure, at this point, that I'll make it to the finish line with all my work in tow.   I won't say more about this program and its requirements until I have my little certificate safely in hand, for fear of being dooced (or its equivalent for the schoolplace rather than the workplace).  In addition to all my work and school stress,  G's production workshop is moving, he's behind on orders for his business, and has a massive amount of freelance computer work to complete before the end of the month.  So yes, overworked, underpaid -- but still here.

Still, we did some work and play this weekend.  It was lovely to have three days off, and we made a stab at some cleaning and reorganizing of our lair, which had settled into a rather atrocious state.  And I found time to get up early and bake for my last grad class tomorrow.  Brownies, with and without nuts, and a new venture -- double apricot cheesecake bars.  A nutmeg-scented butter cookie crust, a vanilla bean cheesecake batter, and swirls of last season's homemade apricot curd from the freezer, as well as June Taylor's fabulous apricot sauce (hence the two tones of apricot).  Even if I don't finish the admin program, they'll remember me for my baked goods.

Double Apricot Cheesecake Bars

You could substitute any fruit curd here, and/or any tart jam or fruit sauce.  My recommendation would be to stay with something pretty tangy, since you want the contrast of the sweet vanilla-bean cheesecake and the sharp fruit flavor.  Berries or any fresh fruit are a lovely garnish. 

Crust Ingredients:
Scant 1/2 cup sugar
10 tablespoons unsalted butter, softened
1 1/2 cups a.p. flour
1/2 tsp. kosher salt
1/2 tsp. freshly grated nutmeg

Filling Ingredients:
1 lb. cream cheese
1/2 cup sugar
2 tsp. Madagascar vanilla bean paste
3 eggs
1/2 cup sour cream
1 Tbsp. a.p. flour
1/4 tsp. kosher salt

Swirl:
1 cup apricot curd
1/4 cup apricot sauce

Preheat oven to 350°F.  For crust, combine 1/2 cup sugar and butter in large bowl. Beat at medium speed until creamy. Reduce speed to low; add flour, salt and nutmeg. Beat until well mixed. (Mixture will be crumbly.) Press crust mixture onto bottom of greased, foil-lined 13x9-inch baking pan. Bake for 15 to 17 minutes.

Meanwhile, combine all filling ingredients in the same bowl.  Beat at medium speed, scraping the bowl quite often, until mixture is creamy. 

Spread half of the filling over the hot, partially baked crust; using about two-thirds of the apricot curd, lay thick stripes of it over the cheesecake filling. Carefully spoon over the rest of the cheesecake batter, covering the curd as much as possible.  Spoon alternating horizontal stripes of apricot curd and apricot sauce over the cheesecake batter  (a squeeze bottle would have been great here, but I didn't have one).  Use a knife to carefully feather a vertical lines through the apricot stripes, running in alternating directions.  Put the whole shebang in the oven, and continue baking for 28 to 33 minutes or until set. Cool completely, and even give it a couple of hours in the fridge if you have the patience. Cut into bars with wet knife, store refrigerated -- you know the drill.  These should keep for at least four or five days, but they're at their best in the second day or so. 

Brownies Rediscovered: The Blue Bird of Happiness

It's always crucial to keep our priorities in order.  Even a person who's getting married in less than three weeks needs to keep working on the quintessential brownie recipe.  What a revelation it can be, then, to discover that the recipe was actually within easy reach all along.  And what an analogy for life-altering events: sometimes what we most want is within our grasp, if only we can see it, find it, take hold of it. 

When I was a child, I was fond of the many children's books by British author  Noel Streatfeild, which fed my fantasies of a) being British, so that I could eat trifle and have "cream teas", whatever they were, and b) being an orphan who would end up at a professional children's school, to be trained for a "useful" profession -- like the stage, of course.  In particular, I loved Ms. Streatfeild's first book Ballet Shoes, where the orphans seem to constantly be preparing for the Christmas pantomimes.  A production that figured largely in these preparations was Maurice Maeterlinck's "The Blue Bird," in which two children set out on travels and adventures to find the Blue Bird of Happiness -- only to discover, at the end, that it was in their own back yard all the time.  It's a sort of "no place like home" allegory, which is a good one to dwell upon, I think, as I plight my troth (whatever the hell that means).   I mention all this because I finally rediscovered the brownies of my dreams right in my own back yard -- or in my own kitchen, as it were. 

Over the past several years, I've made many batches of brownies, searching for that apotheosis of deep chocolatiness combined with true chewiness.  Chewiness should not be mistaken for fudginess.  Fudginess, in my opinion, is easy to achieve, especially if you undercook your brownies a bit, and then stick them in the fridge.  But chewiness is when you create a bar cookie that has almost the toothiness and snap-back of a caramel.  I tried recipes with corn syrup (eeekk), substituting molasses or honey or sometimes golden syrup.  I tried using various blends of sugars.  Many of these recipes were good, as were their resulting treats -- and often popular with the populace upon whom they were bestowed.  But for me, they were missing something. 

So I tried a tiny psychological exercise on myself.  When had I had brownies like the ones I was thinking of; what were the ones that had the qualities I wished for?  There was only one right answer.  I searched inside the battered sheaf of old newspaper clippings and back-of-envelope scrawls until I came upon the two bits of paper.  There was an ancient insert from an ancient box of Droste's cocoa, with modifications jotted next to the quantities.  And on the back of an envelope, there was a further metamorphosis of the same recipe, with the words "Ellie's Brownies" at the top.  Ellie was my mother's name -- and the name that will be given to my niece-to-be, as she and my nephew-to-be dive into the world, later this spring or early summer. 

My mother's brownies.  Of course I didn't really want to be an orphan. 

Over the years, she refashioned them from the modest version on the little insert in the Droste's box.  Bit by bit, she upped the cocoa content until they were deep, dark brownie wonders.  She kept the butter content low, and added a bit more brown sugar, which gave them the extra chew factor.  And she perfumed them with orange -- grated rind, a squeeze of juice, a splash of Grand Marnier.  When they were good, they were wonderful -- perfect, in fact.  Occasionally she became distracted, and overbaked them, in which case they still tasted chocolatey but were beginning to move over to the crunchy side.  A few times, in an effort to give them more of the citrus perfume she loved, she put a bit too much orange juice and Grand Marnier in them, and they turned cakey.  But most of the time they were lovely. 

In addition to their delectable chocolatey chew, these brownies are actually not nearly as deadly as many other versions you might set your teeth to.  Firstly, they're made with cocoa rather than chocolate.  Secondly, for an entire 13 x 9 inch pan, they require but one-half cup of butter.  Consider, by contrast, Nigella's Domestic Goddess brownie recipe, which has 13 ounces of chocolate and one and 2/3 cups of butter.  Or the Barefoot Contessa, whose Outrageous Brownies call for a pound of butter and over two pounds of chocolate.    I also think these particular brownies are a perfect vehicle for lots of crunchy walnuts, a protein/fiber/omega 3-laden superfood.  But don't make these for their health benefits.  Make them because they are really and truly good.  I'm really not much for stinting on ingredients when it comes to dessert.  I make these because they actually satisfy my brownie jones better than the richer kinds.  

My best beloved G prefers them nutless, of course, and without orange -- pumped up instead with a handful of Ghiradelli or other good bittersweet chips.  It's easy enough to make a batch of batter, scoop half into one side of the pan and pat it down with a smattering of chips.  The other half gets the walnuts and the orange elements, and so we're both happy, eating brownies together.  A good metaphor, I think, for how to conduct a marriage. 

Sometimes a recipe is more than a recipe; the act of rediscovery is a reminder of the absolute love that's right here at home, after what feels like a lifetime of searching the wide world over.

Ellie's/Julie's Brownies

I've upped the cocoa in these even more, to good purpose, and given the brownies a nice salt kick.  The orange elements are certainly optional, but quite delicious.    The layer of batter is a bit thinner in the pan than what you may be used to, but this also ups the "chew" factor. 

1/2 cup unsalted butter
2 cups brown sugar, packed
2 eggs, lightly beaten
2 tsp. Madagascar vanilla extract or vanilla paste
1 tsp. kosher salt or sea salt
3/4 to 1 cup sifted good-quality cocoa (I'm using Bensdorp at the moment; Droste's is, of course, wonderful in this recipe)
Grated rind of one large orange
Squeezed juice of 1/2 orange
1 Tbsp. Grand Marnier
1 cup sifted AP flour
2 cups coarsely chopped walnuts and/or bittersweet chocolate chips

Preheat the oven to 325F.  Line the outside of a 9 x 13 inch baking pan with aluminum foil, and press it to the shape of the pan.  Carefully remove the shaped foil, and fit it down into the inside of the pan.  Butter the foil very well.  This promotes easy removal of the brownies (a trick learned from Maida Heatter, to give credit where it's due). 

Melt the butter in a large saucepan -- big enough to mix the brownie batter in, so you can have a one-pot recipe.  Mix in the sugar till well-blended, and then the eggs.  Stir in the vanilla and the salt.  Mix in the cocoa, and then grate the orange rind directly over the batter.  Cut the orange in half, and squeeze the juice of one half into the batter, being sure to pick out all the pips that fall in.  Save the other half to slurp at while the brownies are baking.  Lightly stir in the flour, and then the walnuts.  Don't be alarmed if the batter is quite thick, more like a dough. 

Pat the batter/dough evenly into the foil-lined, buttered pan.  Bake for approximately 30 minutes, but start testing at about 25 minutes.  Take them out when they're no longer wet, but there's still a bit of fudgy crumb clinging to an inserted toothpick.  Cool in the pan ten minutes or so, and then lift them out, foil and all.  Cool to room temperature before cutting.  They cut more easily if they're refrigerated for a few hours first, but this depends on your degree of restraint.  I like to cut them small, so that I can justify having another one.  The brownies from the edges are always a bit crunchier and chewier -- my preference.  Some people like the softer middle pieces best.  Keep in the refrigerator for up to five days, or freeze -- they taste pretty divine straight out of the freezer, too. 

Madeleines Mendiants

"Those look like some sort of big Klingon insects or something," G commented as he passed the cooling rack on the way to his second cup of coffee.

I didn't take it personally.  Neither did the little cakes.  Nor did the Klingons, as far as I know.

Sometimes I like to get up early on a weekend morning and bake.  I feel like I'm stealing a march on the day, as if I've gotten something accomplished even before breakfast or Saturday morning dance class.  This weekend I had more motivation than usual -- three motivations, in fact.  I was headed to a party later on, and then to a dinner (another opportunity to meet with a remarkable blogger).  And a colleague's mother had passed away.  All of these are events that, to my mind, call for baked goods.  Something homemade, something delectable, preferably; something chocolate is almost always a good choice when bringing a party platter, a friendship token or comfort to the bereaved. 

I've been working on a nutty chocolate chunk madeleine for a while.  I first made them last spring for a dinner party, and had liked them very much.  But I never noted down my recipe, and it had gotten lost somewhere in my memory.  It was one of those "I'll base this on my tried-and-true madeleine formula, and add a little bit of this, a little bit of that..." 

I made another stab at it recently, and didn't like it quite as much as I'd remembered.  It was the pistachios.  Within the context of the melting almondy chocolatey little cakes, the pistachios were still flavorful but had turned a bit soft.  It must have been true last spring as well, since my experience is that when you bake nuts into a cake, even if you toast them first, they invariably soften in the moist crumb.  Madeleines, and other cakes, are simply not like a crisp little cookie, where nuts will almost always maintain  their crunch and snap.  On a confessional note, this frustrates me.  I have a hard time accepting it.  I want the soft cakey madeleines, and the crisp, crunchy nuts.  Together.

Why not bake the nuts on top of the madeleines, I thought.  And so I gave it a try.  For this run, I used a mixture of pecans, almonds and pistachios.  Considering the nutritional value of nuts, and the health-giving properties of dark chocolate, this would make my madeleines practically a health food.  Especially since the batter has a base of almond paste, which makes the flavor of these not unlike the lovely Chocolate Nut Loaf of Pierre Hermé.  Once I sprinkled the nuts and patted them lightly into the batter so they'd stick, I was struck by the resemblance to one of my favorite confections, the mendiant: a chocolate disk (or in some cases, a bar) studded with any combination of nuts and dried fruits that strikes the confectioner's fancy.  The word mendiant means beggar in French; the confections are originally named for mendicant monastic orders.

G has decided that he prefers the original pistachios-inside version, since he's not as wild about nuts as I am (you may construe this last sentence however you like).  For my little party platter, I mixed both kinds.   For those whom I'm quite sure are as nuts about nuts as I, I gave the nuttified version.  Personally I'm very fond of these madeleines mendiants, with their crunch-nutty tops (or feet, depending on how you look at them).   It's true that after a day under wraps, the nuts have softened a bit. They're still crunchier than when baked inside the cakes.  And I feel sure that if I go to a little trouble and heat the madeleines a bit before serving, they'll crisp up.  This will have the added benefit of giving the dark chocolate chunks inside the cakes a chance to become melty again.  Crunchy little cakes with soft interiors, running with melting chocolate, crisp with nuts -- something for those in distress, good to have at a party, and a warm gesture of friendship. 

And Klingon bugs or no, you may want to consider that they wouldn't make a bad Valentine at all...

Madeleines Mendiants au Chocolat

5 ounces bittersweet chocolate (85% cocoa solids works well here)
7 ounces almond paste, cut into small pieces
1 cup granulated sugar
5 eggs, room temperature
1/4 teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
1 cup sifted unbleached all purpose flour
1 teaspoon baking powder
10 tablespoons(1 1/4 sticks) unsalted butter, melted and cooled
7 ounces chopped bittersweet chocolate (something you like to eat; I used 70% for this purpose)
2 cups assorted nuts ( a mixture of coarsely chopped pecans, crisp pistachio halves, and slivered almonds, for example)

1. Preheat oven to 350 F.  Brush madeleine molds with melted butter and dust lightly with flour, or spray lightly with baker's cooking spray.
2.  Melt the 5 ounces of chocolate over boiling water or in a microwave.  Allow to cool.
3.  Cream the almond paste and sugar in a food processor fitted with a steel blade. Transfer to a large mixer bowl and add the eggs, one at a time, beating well after each addition. Add the melted chocolate, and blend.  Add the vanilla extract and the salt and beat until light and fluffy, 1 to 2 minutes.
4. Sift the flour and baking powder together and fold lightly into the almond-chocolate mixture. Gently fold in the melted butter just until combined. Stir in the chopped chocolate pieces. 
5. Spoon the batter into the molds, filling them three-fourths full. Sprinkle nuts to cover each madeleine, and pat them lightly onto the batter, so that they stick. 
6.  Bake just until they spring back in the center, 8 to 10 minutes.   Do not overbake.
7. Let cool for 5 minutes, and then gently remove to wire racks to cool completely. Allow the molds to cool before wiping clean and rebrushing with melted butter or cooking spray.
8.  Repeat the process with the remaining batter and nuts.

These madeleines keep very well for 4-5 days in an airtight container with waxed paper between layers.  They don't dry out as quickly as many others, due to the high proportion of almond paste.  They also freeze well wrapped in wax paper and sealed in airtight bags.  In both cases, it's advisable to refresh them slightly in a warm oven for several minutes. 

Approximately 48 large madeleines.

 

The Disaster That Wasn't

The flavors of the past can be deceptive.  Do the foods we try to recreate seem to fail us because they don't, in actuality, live up to the treats upon which we once feasted?  Or are they imbued with the savor of nostalgia, a flavoring essence that defies the possibility of true resurrection?   

Not long ago, I had an exchange with my brother in the comments field of a post on this very blog.  The subject was cakes we'd eaten in our childhood, including a chocolate studded ring-shaped cake, glazed in more chocolate and drenched in rum.  It was made by a small French bakery called Le Chanticler in the town of our youth.  This was not the other French bakery which also existed in the town, Le Gourmet.  That was the one where every mouthful was rich with butter.  No, Le Chanticler made bread, tough little cookies and had just a few workhorse specialties.   Their "rum ring" was the only one my mother purchased with any regularity.

I decided that I would try to reconstruct this delicacy for my brother's birthday.  I further decided that I would do it in time for the justly-celebrated David Lebovitz's edition of Sugar High Friday, using a brand-name chocolate.  This way I could do a test-run and repeat the cake the following weekend for the birthday celebration. 

I bought some lovely Green & Black's organic chocolate, and proceeded to construct a recipe.  My memory of the cake was that it was similar in texture to a savarin or a rum baba, so I found an excellent brioche-style dough for savarin in Sherry Yard's The Secrets of Baking, and made it up with quantities of chopped dark chocolate folded into the dough.  It rose beautifully, it baked gorgeously, and received its soaking of rum syrup as well as its glaze of dark chocolate. 

Then we sliced it and tasted it. 

G saw my disappointed face, and shrugged.  "I think it tastes good," declared my loyal fiancé.  It did taste reasonably good.  It just didn't taste like the cake of my memory.  Instead, it tasted like very good brioche with chocolate in it that had been drenched in rum syrup and glazed in chocolate.  It was, in fact, a little bit bready.  Kind of more bready than cakey.  The cake of my memory had had that sodden yet supple quality of a good baba au rhum.  My rummy chocolatey bready ring didn't quite cut it, as far as I was concerned. 

I wrapped it up, put it in the fridge and ignored it quite pointedly for several days.  Since I didn't serve him any, G promptly forgot about it as well.  I didn't post the photos I'd taken of it during its rising and after its baking, and I didn't write a post about it for Sugar High Friday.  I was too busy snubbing the sad rummy thing taking up space in my refrigerator.  And I was too disheartened to try another run in time for my brother's birthday, especially since I wasn't quite sure how to remedy the recipe.  [Instead, I ended up making the same cake I'd made for him last year -- *King of Chocolate* David Lebovitz's German Chocolate Cake, with a few of my own adaptations.  It had been such a success that I thought "well, once a year is certainly not too often for this cake."  It was received once again with much acclaim, including somewhat overblown statements like "This isn't just the best cake you've ever made -- it's the best cake anyone's ever made." ]

But the rum ring that refused to live up to expectations continued sitting coolly in the depths of the fridge.  Finally I decided to take it to work for an afternoon staff meeting.  Hungry high school teachers will eat anything, especially if it's sweet.  Surprisingly, it didn't just get eaten.  It got gobbled, amid declarations of love and avowals of fidelity to this cake/bread, if only I would ever make it again.  Breaching my own disdain, I cut myself a small slice.  To my surprise, although it still was not the rum ring of blessed memory, it was quite delicious.  Unlike most cakes and people, it had benefitted substantially from a combined process of neglect and aging. 

I will try the rum ring again at some point, I think.  I'll probably find another recipe -- something eggier, chewier, springier somehow.  I'll soak it in more rum syrup, and see once again if I can't recreate the Chanticler's special cake.   I'll just try to bear in mind that while cake may be replicable, memory -- experience -- nostalgia -- is not.

Sugar High Friday #26, Sugar Art: Bûche de Noël Pastorale

Voilà une bûche de Noël for Sugar High Friday #26, Sugar Art.  This month's event is sponsored by the ever-adventurous Danielle, of the gorgeous and provocative blog  Habeas Brûlée. 

My woodland scene includes a pure-white marzipan pig which I swiped when my brother and SIL hosted us at a wonderful holiday luncheon at Scandinavia House a few weeks ago.  Piggy is truffle hunting, and has just come upon a gigantic cache of truffles (yes, I'm aware that's not how it happens) next to a prehistorically gigantic yule log.  The scale's kind of off, but I was going with a concept, ya see. 

Each Christmas Eve we go to my beloved cousin's home for a family dinner.  We always have a good time, and feel very lapped in the best sort of family love and warmth.  And each Christmas I bring several multiple sets of cookie assortments -- one for the holiday table, one for cousin Diane and her husband to stash away for themselves, and various other gift assortments.   One year I tried bringing just one cookie assortment for the table, and since there were other desserts, Diane tried to put it away while no-one was looking.  Unfortunately she was discovered in the act and other family members raised a battle cry.  Ever since then, I bring enough cookie stashes for all. 

In addition, I'm generally called upon to make some sort of chocolate cake, since this is far and away the favorite family dessert.  However, because of younger family members and their preferences, it's got to be straight-up chocolate -- no coffee or orange or raspberry, no rum or cognac, and certainly nothing as outré as chestnut, which was an idea I toyed with for a while, and then set aside. 

This year I thought a bûche de Noël would fit the bill, as long as I kept it to straight chocolate, with maybe a vanilla filling.  I used a bittersweet chocolate roulade recipe from Cooks' Illustrated, which I will not reprint here, since I would not use it again.  It wasn't ghastly, and in fact everyone oohed and ahhed and gobbled it all down quite nicely.  But it was very labor intensive -- lots of beating of yolks, and then separate beating of whites -- and then it all deflated when the flour and cocoa were added after the whites had been folded in -- a direction I thought rather bizarre to begin with.   Then it shrank strangely in the oversize pan that I purchased specifically for this purpose.   And then it cracked when I rolled it.  In addition, it was just a teensy bit rubbery for my slightly perfectionist taste  -- perhaps too high a proportion of eggs to other ingredients.  I had expected it would be like a fallen chocolate soufflé cake, rolled around the vanilla filling and iced with ganache.  Truthfully, it all tasted quite lovely.  But then again, I probably could have filled the towel I rolled it in with vanilla-bean mascarpone filling and iced it thickly with bittersweet ganache and that towel would have tasted pretty damn good, too.  I have, however, overcome any trepidation I might have harbored about roulades or yule logs or buches, since the easiest and most fun part of the whole thing was rolling, assembling and decorating. 

So I'll leave you to find your own yule log recipes, and with wishes for the happiest and loveliest of new years, in which you may all find your hearts' desires.  I know I've found mine -- but more about that in a later post.

Ginger in the Extreme

I'm way behind on my holiday cookie schedule.  Starting the day after Thanksgiving, my life at this time of year is no longer my own.  A number of years ago I started baking cookies and giving them as gifts at holiday time. Since that time, come December, the cookies and their demanding schedule rule all, and I am but their servant.  However, this year life has intervened in some pleasant ways, as well as other, well, never-mindish, not-so-pleasant interruptions for which I will not provide any links -- but which, it will suffice to say, don't do a lot to get me in the holiday spirit.

Especially when I'm berating myself for not having enough cookies made.  Usually by the second weekend in December I've got quite a stash on hand.  Woe is me, I have but four sorts baked at the moment.   I don't freeze cookies for the holidays, since I  a) don't have much freezer space, certainly not enough for 1500 cookies, and b) think that some varieties do tend to deteriorate in the freezing.  For years now, I've used my venerable but falling-apart copy of Rose's Christmas Cookies as a guide to how well certain kinds of cookies will keep if stored in airtight tins.  In every recipe, Rose Levy Beranbaum thoughtfully includes tips for storage and an idea of how long the cookies keep at room temperature.  And she's much more generous in this regard than most recipes I read, which usually tell you that your cookies are best eaten within a few days.  Rose believes that many cookies keep very well at room temperature for quite a while, even some of the more butter-rich types.  And truthfully, she's never steered me wrong on this count.  I use her good sense about this as a guideline, even when I'm not making her exact recipes (which are all excellent, btw).  For example, I may make my own recipe for pecan sand tarts, but I look up Rose's storage tips for her Mexican Wedding Cakes or Three-Nut Fingers, since the ingredients and proportions are similar. 

That's how I create my own time-template for cookie making.  I generally make the "good keepers" early, and save the more fragile ones for right before giving/eating time.   I've just finished making the lumpy bumpy oatmeal cookies.  I've got wallflower loaves ready to be sliced and so reveal their mosaic loveliness, and there are linzer biscotti "curing" in their tin on the kitchen counter, since they are one of several types whose flavor deepens with time.  I haven't yet gotten to dulce-de-leche bars, hazelnut lebkuchen, peanut-butter blossoms or cups, pecan sand tarts, orange-almond florentines, espresso eclipse (coffee shortbread dipped in dark chocolate), midnight mint (triple chocolate mint cookies), perhaps some lovely lemon sablées like Molly, probably a batch of Korova cookies, maybe my favorite chocolate-dipped meltaways.  We'll just have to see what the next couple of weeks bring, both in terms of cookies and time-management crises. 

But the one other type I've managed so far are the ginger cookies.  Not just your ordinary, everyday ginger cookies, either.  My recipe has gone through some evolution over the years.  I've tweaked and bumped up the ginger to a level to where they're almost hot; crisp and crunchy with a  rich spice bouquet and a lovely candied ginger bite.  This year I also gussied them up with some big glittery sugar;  now they don't have to feel like Plain Janes on the party plate next to some of the dressier sweets.  And they too are good keepers -- honestly, like most gingerbread, they last for ages.  It's actually a shame to eat them too soon, since the gingery kick develops over time.   And what's more, they're good for you.  It's not that they don't have plenty of butter and sugar and all of those not-so-good-for-you things, because of course they do.  But they've got ginger as well.  Long known as a folk remedy for whatever ails you, I'm here to tell you that ginger really does work.  The other night my stomach was somewhat upset after dinner.  I remembered the counsel of my former supervisor, a dear Jamaican woman who I'm blessed to consider friend, mentor and colleague.  She has long sworn by ginger as a panacea, particularly for stomach woes.  With her in mind, I ate one of these sparkly beauties, and low and behold, my stomach settled right down.  And just the other day I was sitting through the longest class in the world with a friend/colleague who's pregnant -- with twins -- and having a very rough first trimester.  One of these crunchy sparklers worked so well to settle her all-day, all-night morning sickness that she begged me to bring in some more for her the next day.  Have a cookie for your upset tummy, why don'tcha. 

These gingery mouthfuls are sturdy, easy to assemble, keep well, and win raves from ginger lovers, molasses fans or your general spice enthusiasts. So go forth with a bold footstep -- no need to tread gingerly with these.

Extreme Triple-Ginger Spice Cookies

I find these cookies deeply reminiscent of people, places and times.  I think of the ginger lovers who ask for them each year, an estranged friend who used to particularly adore them, holiday parties gone by and family friends who made similar cookies when I was a child.  But most of all, I think of my own mother, who was an ardent ginger fan.  We used to buy her jars of preserved ginger in syrup, ginger marmalade, ginger ice-cream, stem ginger biscuits, chewy ginger candies, crystallized and chocolate-dipped ginger.  She was fond of the root in all its guises -- and she loved these cookies, too. 

12 tablespoons (1 1/2 sticks) unsalted butter, softened
Scant 1 cup sugar
1 large egg
1/4 cup molasses
2 tablespoons finely grated fresh ginger
finely grated zest of one (Meyer) lemon
2 1/4 cups all-purpose flour
2 teaspoons baking soda
1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1/2 teaspoon ground cloves
1/2 teaspoon freshly grated nutmeg
1/2 teaspoon allspice
2 - 3 teaspoons powdered ground ginger (make sure your jar is fresh)
1/2 teaspoon salt
3 - 4 oz. finely chopped crystallized ginger

Large sparkling crystal sugar or just plain sugar for rolling

Combine the butter and 1 cup of the sugar in the bowl of an electric mixer. Beat until light and fluffy, 3 to 5 minutes. Beat in the egg, molasses, grated lemon zest and grated ginger.  Sift the flour, soda, cinnamon, cloves, nutmeg, allspice, ginger, and salt together onto a piece of parchment. Add to the butter mixture in 2 batches, beating just until combined.  Stir in the crystallized ginger. Cover with plastic wrap and chill for 2 to 3 hours.

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees F. Place the coating sugar in a pie plate. Shape the dough into one-inch or walnut-size balls and roll the top half in sugar to coat. Arrange 2 inches apart on greased baking sheets and bake until cracked and dry but still soft, about 10 minutes. Cool on the baking sheets for 5 minutes, then transfer to cool on wire racks.

Makes about 5 or 6 dozen. 
 

SHF #24: In Miniature

When I myself was quite small, there was nothing I liked quite so much as little things.  I was fond of dolls, and would lovingly create tiny everything for the favorites in my possession: tiny clothes,  tiny books, tiny tea parties and meals, and entire diminutive environments.  I once, at about the age of ten, transformed a narrow vertical bookcase into a  doll apartment building, complete with teensy hand-sewn cotton-filled  futon mattresses for one of the rooms.  I loved miniatures of all kinds, and would beg, borrow or make them myself in order to have the little things I needed to create miniscule worlds.   I longed for bonsai trees so that my miniature spaces would be green, too. 

Most of all I loved tiny food.  As soon as I saw lady apples and seckel pears in the market each fall, I begged for them.  "They'd be perfect for my dolls," I'd croon to my mother, hanging on her arm at the market pleadingly.  I adored baby vegetables too, even if the scale wasn't quite small enough for my dolls.   But the first time I ever saw petits fours, I really fell in love.  They were the tiny square iced-cake ones with a bitty flower on top, and unlike every other one of their ilk I've eaten since then, they were as delicious as they were beautiful.  Made in the excellent and authentic French bakery in the town where I grew up, they were perfect little layer cakes, made of genoise cake filled with buttercream, dipped in a layer of apricot glaze and iced in chocolate or pastel fondant frosting.  And of course, they were the perfect party food for the petite dining room I had made in my bookcase doll's world. 

When I saw that Jeanne was hosting a Sugar High Friday with tiny treats as the theme, I first thought of recreating those sweet little cakes of fond memory.  But knowing in the midst of the tangle of several hellish weeks that I was going to be running late for this event (and I'm still hoping that I get this posted before our lovely host awakens from her slumbers, since she extended the deadline to whenever she wakes up on Saturday), I decided that I couldn't quite manage the multiple recipes that iced and filled petits fours would require.   I decided upon two other treats:  first, miniature Korova cookies.  These required only that I defrost some frozen cylinders of dough made last weekend, and re-form them into tinier cookies for baking.  I gave them the bit of dress-up that true mignardises require:  a sparkly fragment of candied violet stuck on with an extra dab of chocolate. 

My other treat required a little more ingenuity.  It's a sort of scented almond baby financier cupcake filled and topped with a droplet of this summer's apricot curd, waiting in the freezer for a special occasion.  What better moment than SHF? 

The financier is made from my favorite scented madeleine batter, made with beurre noisette instead of plain melted butter.   The apricot curd can actually be made in any season, and is almost as delicious made solely with dried apricots as it is with fresh.  Assembly requires only that tiny cupcake cases in tiny muffin tins be almost-filled with the madeleine batter, and a half-teaspoon drop of apricot curd dolloped on top.  The batter rises around the curd, which provides a tangy, creamy fruit center in the middle of all that fragile, fine-crumbed almond cake.   These bake just like my original madeleines recipe, for 8-10 minutes at 400F.  At serving time, you need only dollop another drop of curd on the top of the cooled cakelets for a pretty presentation. 

I still love miniatures, but I no longer waste my tiny treats on dolls.  It's fortunate that as small as these cakes may be, both recipes have a large yield.  Little things as tasty as these demand multiple servings in a big-people world.

In Search of Subtlety and an Almost-Perfect Chili

I have a kind of love-hate relationship with cinnamon.  It seems to go in phases, from childhood moments where cinnamon toast remains a delectable memory, to the times where a well-meaning but perhaps absent-minded or possibly selectively deaf barista has dusted cinnamon atop my coffee drink, despite my exhortations not to do so.  I now loathe it on coffee -- although I occasionally liked it brewed in coffee when I was in college.   I like spice cakes and breads and cookies, where cinnamon usually leads the called-for combination of spices.  I'm also fond of the Mexican-chocolate or Eastern-European Lebkuchen effect of chocolate exposed to a very small quantity of cinnamon, although some of my family members feel that this spoils chocolate entirely. 

I often like cinnamon in fruit desserts, but not used to excess, and not with every fruit.  I won't, for example, use cinnamon with apricots or peaches, although I will sometimes with plums and apples.  People seem to think that a recipe using apples is carte-blanche to throw in spoons of cinnamon, which will, especially if you're using wonderful seasonal apple varieties like Northern Spy or Winesap, completely obliterate all the glorious apple flavor.  Just a pinch, just a hint -- that's really all that's needed.  The first time I made an apple tart using cardamom and vanilla was something of a revelation;  I had discovered that while cinnamon is fine with apples, it's not strictly necessary.   I love using just a whisper of it in ricotta ice cream -- not enough to even tell it's there, but enough to give the flavor an indefinable boost.  And I like cinnamon very much as a subtle touch in savory dishes; Moroccan and Greek food as well as the late, deeply-lamented Laurie Colwin's favorite company dish of crunchy, oven-baked chicken all come to mind.  It just seems important not to use it to excess, especially if one has strong, high-quality cinnamon.  This finicky approach of mine is in sharp contrast to G, whose adoration of the spice leads him to crave cinnamon toast made on cinnamon-raisin bread, a longing of his which I indulge occasionally at breakfast or for a snack. And when I make it for him, the scent rises warm to my nose and, often as not, I'll make a piece of cinnamon toast for myself on a piece of plainer bread, since I don't really need or want the double-cinnamon whammy. 

Probably the best thing I had to eat during my recent trip to Montana was the chocolate chip cookie I received on arriving at my Doubletree Hotel -- which contains, although you might not even realize it, the faintest ghost of cinnamon (that last statement, by the way, is not intended to cast any aspersions on the local cuisine, about which I still know very little, sad to say.  It was just that this was a 3-day business trip, with a) no time for searching out restaurants, b) late night work sessions, and c) room-service or hotel-restaurant dinners).  Actually, I didn't receive my cookie on arriving.  But being a veteran of numerous stays at Doubletree Hotels from San Diego to Tarrytown, I knew my rights.  At some point after getting settled, I remembered that I hadn't received my signature warm check-in cookie.  So I marched up to the desk to demand (actually to politely ask for) it. 

It was good.  It always is.  In fact, it's pretty much the best thing about staying in a Doubletree Hotel -- which is by no means a bad place to stay when you're on business.  It's not exactly luxurious, but it's reasonable comfortable and serviceable.  And they've got cookies.  But they just give you one, although it's a pretty good size.  The cookie sets up a serious craving for more cookies, which the nice Doubletree people use to their advantage by having tins of cookies available for sale at the desk.  A tin of six cookies costs anywhere from $9.00 to $12.00, depending on which Doubletree you're staying in.  Or they're available by mail for $8.95 a tin, plus shipping and handling. 

Now, the ones handed out by Doubletree are pretty good cookies.  I think it's safe to say that they're made with excellent ingredients, since I have a fairly good taste-detector in terms of anything made with a mix or ersatz components.  The problem is that it can get pricey to fill a cookie habit like this, once it's initiated.  So I restrained my craving until I got back to NYC and googled Doubletree cookies.  I found not only online recipes, but discovered that a number of bloggers have made and enjoyed this recipe, whether it is indeed the actual Doubletree formula or not.  That was good enough for me, so I made it too.  They were very delicious, and did hit the craving spot.  In fact, the ones I brought in for colleagues and for my cooking class set up a whole new series of cravings in others.  The cooking class availed themselves of the opportunity for some consumer math.  I explained to them that even using premium quality chocolate chips (Ghirardelli) and other relatively expensive ingredients, it only cost about $10 to make 40 very large cookies, comparable in size to Doubletree's.  Now that they realize it's possible to make cookies that retail for $1.50 for only 25 cents, they now want to hold a bake sale to fundraise for our cooking class.   

After a day or so, these cookies aged into being just a tiny bit cakier than I would want; I'm always seeking the holy grail of the crisp-chewy nexus when it comes to chocolate chip cookies.  These met that criterion when they were oven fresh, and can recapture it upon a slight reheating.  Everyone who tried them absolutely loved them.  But for my taste, there was too much cinnamon in the recipe.  Mine seemed more cinnamon-y than the original Doubletree cookies, where I didn't really notice the cinnamon presence.  You would think that just a quarter-teaspoon would provide that subtle, almost-not-there quality I was seeking.  But it was still too much.  Perhaps I'm using stronger cinnamon than they do; whatever the reason, if I make these cookies again, I'll cut back the cinnamon. 

More successful was my recent use of cinnamon in what I am currently calling "the best chili of my career."  Every year, as soon the air breathes even its faintest chill, G starts making noises about chili.  I like to respect this wish, since for the most part this is a man who eats and appreciates almost any dish I create for our dinners.  But chili has had me a bit befuddled.  I like it, sort of, but I always find it too heavy.  Three spoonfuls and I'm done.  I never seem to make the same chili twice, since I'm not usually happy with the results.  But this time, using as a template this recipe from Epicurious, I devised a formula which, while not exactly "light", doesn't leave you feeling as if a colony of large heavy things have taken up residence in your stomach and are never going to go away.  I have a feeling that part of the secret rests in my having used lean cuts of meat, and ignoring G's pleas for the addition of sausage, which I have often added in the past, but which ups the fat content exponentially.  I'm not fond of Cincinnati or "sweet" chili, but I did want a mellow kick to counterpose some of the powdery sharpness of the other spices.  Cinnamon was my friend here, providing a flavor balance which neatly tipped the occasionlly acrid notes of chili powder and cumin.  Sadly, I have no picture for you, although I'm not sure chili is the most photogenic of foods anyway.  We ate this for several dinners, along with my favorite cast-iron skillet buttermilk cornbread and each time we were so greedy with anticipation that I forgot to take a pic.  It seems I've finally found a chili recipe I'll save, and make again. 

Practically Perfect Chili

This makes a moderately spicy chili, but nothing that will win the kind of competition where the purpose is to burn down through the judges’ esophagi all the way to their stomach linings.  Personally, I like spicy food, but I also like to be able to actually taste what I’m eating.  Now this is not to say that there isn’t room here for your preferences.  If you’re a Texas chili die-hard, leave out the beans.  If you eschew the use of tomatoes in chili, eschew to your heart’s content (although the tomato presence here is not noticeable – the gravy is thick but with a meaty, not an acid flavor).  Don’t like peppers?  Ditch ‘em.  Spicier?  Add another chipotle or seven, and leave in the seeds.  I have full confidence that you can fine-tune this one to your likes, and find it just as delectable as I did. 

3 tablespoons olive oil
1 ½ pounds beef stew meat or chuck steak, trimmed and cut into ½ inch cubes
2 ½ pounds boneless pork butt or boneless country-style spareribs, trimmed and cut into ½ inch cubes
2 large onions, chopped
1 green bell pepper, chopped
1 red bell pepper, chopped
10 garlic cloves, chopped

1 26-ounce box Pomi chopped tomatoes
½ cup strong black coffee
1/3 cup New Mexico chili powder
3 canned chipotle chilies in adobo, seeded and chopped
1 tablespoon smoked chipotle Tabasco sauce
2 tablespoons ground cumin
1 tsp. ground coriander
1 tsp. oregano
½ tsp. cinnamon

2 19-ounce cans kidney or small red or pinto beans, rinsed and drained

Grated cheddar cheese
Chopped fresh cilantro
Chopped red onions
Sour cream

Heat oil in large Dutch oven over medium-high heat. Add beef and pork to Dutch oven in small batches and sear well over high heat.  Cook over medium-high heat until no longer pink, stirring occasionally, about 10 minutes. Transfer mixture to bowl, using slotted spoon. Add 2 onions, bell peppers and garlic to pot and sauté until tender, about 12 minutes.  While sautéing, add in all the dry spices:  chili, cumin, coriander, cinnamon and oregano. Return meat mixture to Dutch oven. Add tomatoes with liquid, coffee, Tabasco, and chipotles. Season with salt and pepper. Cover Dutch oven and simmer until beef and pork are almost tender, stirring occasionally, about 1 hour.

Add beans to chili. Simmer uncovered until beef and pork are tender and chili thickens, about 30 minutes. Adjust seasoning. Ladle into bowls. Serve, passing cheese, cilantro, and sour cream separately.  Best accompanied by a hot pan of cornbread. 

Serves 10.

Sugar High Friday #21: "Fresh Peaches 'n' Cream" Sorbet/Ice Cream Swirl

Ice Ice Baby, it’s brain freeze time
Get out your freezer and start to rhyme
Don’t do no hand-crank, got some higher tech
I ain’t talkin’ pacojet, no, not yet
Decisions, decisions, it’s all about flava
Something delish, to make ‘em all rave-uh

Yo it’s simple, vanilla’s the flash
Playin' the back-up to a seasonal splash
A little taste makes you shiver and shout
Sweet summer peaches, that’s what I’m about
Peel ‘em, puree ‘em, mix ‘em with liqueur
Put it in the freezer, can’t happen no quicker

Marble that vanilla, make it swirl,
Peaches 'n' Cream for Big G and bad girl.

Thanks to Sarah, this month's edition of Jennifer's brainchild  Sugar High Friday helped me discover that I share Sarah's feeling about my own abilities as a rapper. I, too, am probably more suited to making ice-cream than writing Vanilla Ice parodies, a talent break-down for which I find myself immensely grateful.  Yes, I know you are too.

About a year and a half ago, my brother and SIL bought us a Cuisinart ice-cream maker with an extra canister.  Although we’ve made ice-cream several times, this is the first time I’ve taken advantage of two canisters by making two flavors, one right after the other.  We now have a LOT of ice cream in the freezer, particularly since last week we had some Ben & Jerry’s coupons and decided to stock up.  The beneficiaries of this creamy frozen treasure trove will be our apartment-swapping friends Betty, Alma and Martín, who will arrive here from San Francisco as we wend our way west next week to take over their home in the Mission after a week's stay with friends in Berkeley.  That's fine; we plan to spend a lot of time at Mitchell's.

“Peaches and Cream” Sorbet/Ice-Cream Swirl
This turned out even better than I'd hoped.  We've been enjoying it late at night on warm evenings, when it's just right to satisfy the desire for something cool and lightly sweet but not too sticky.  Neither heavy nor cloying, it seems to strike a nice balance between luxurious and refreshing.   

Part I:  Simple But Excellent Vanilla Bean Ice Cream
I created this a couple of weeks ago.  I had just baked a peach-apricot-blueberry pie but knew that even if I wanted homemade ice-cream with it, I didn’t have enough patience remaining to a) stand over the stove making a custard in the heat, b) chill it down, and then c) freeze it.  G commented that this actually tastes more like “frozen custard” than the usual custard-based vanilla.  After some thought, I figured this was probably due to the condensed milk, which has a pronounced “cooked-milk” flavor.  This ice-cream is amazingly simple and yields very fast, extraordinarily creamy and delicious results.  The only planning ahead you need to do is to remember to freeze the inner canister of your ice-cream maker if you have one that requires 6 to 24 hours in your fridge’s little tiny freezing compartment or in your big ol’ freezer.

1 14-oz. can sweetened condensed milk
2 cups excellent heavy cream*
1/2 - 1 cup whole milk
1 vanilla bean
1 teaspoon best-quality vanilla extract (Nielsen Massey preferred)
pinch salt

Stir together the condensed milk and 2 cups of the cream.  Split open the vanilla bean and scrape as many of the seeds as you can into the milk/cream mixture (and then of course put the spent bean into the container of vanilla sugar in your pantry).  Add the vanilla extract and the salt.  Taste.  If it’s way too achingly sweet for you, add 1/2 cup of milk and taste it again.  Add more milk if you need to.  You want it to be just a little too sweet for your taste, since when the mixture is eaten frozen it will dull the palate and not taste quite as sweet as it does at room temp.   Many condensed milk ice-cream recipes call for sugar in addition to what’s already in the condensed milk, which makes my teeth hurt just to think about it.  When it reaches the desired level of sweetness, pour it into your ice-cream maker and freeze. 

*Get the best, heaviest organic cream you can find – I like Vermont-based Butterworks Farm Jersey cream, or failing that, Ronnybrook Farm Dairy (which is not strictly organic) or Organic Valley, which I find the best brands to be had in my area.

Part II:  Peach Sorbet (adapted from Cooks Illustrated, July 1995)
This is an incredibly aromatic and refreshing sorbet, quite delectable all by itself.  The quality of the ingredients are key here, of course.  Your peaches should be local, fragrant, recently picked and perfectly ripe, probably from a farmers’ market.  Try to obtain a really good peach liqueur (crème de pêche, crème de peche de vigne, or liqueur pêches).  Either something French or one made by a small artisanal grower will be exponentially better than the syrupy, often artificially-flavored schnapps or fruit cordials from big liquor industry producers in the U.S.

6 beautifully ripe peaches, blanched and peeled
1/2 cup water
juice of 1/2 lime
3/4 cup sugar
3 tablespoons crème de pêche or other good peach liquer

Slice and pit the peaches.  Purée them in the food processor.  Pour the puree into a bowl, and add the sugar and liqueur.  Stir until the sugar is completely dissolved, then chill the mixture until cold in the refrigerator.  Freeze in the ice-cream maker. 

Part III:  Assembly

Make the vanilla first, and let it freeze a bit while the peach sorbet is churning.  Get your containers ready – you’re going to need about 5 pint containers.  It’s up to you to decide how many you want of the mixed swirl, and whether or not you want a pint or so of just peach sorbet and one of just vanilla.  When the peach sorbet is thick and nicely frozen, you have to work quickly.  Take the vanilla ice-cream out of the freezer and put some into the desired container. Make deep swirly grooves and valleys in it with a spoon.  Pack the sorbet into the valleys, and fold and swirl them together some more, making an effort not to actually mix the two ices.  You want to maintain them as separate ribbons in the frozen dessert.  Cover and freeze again until fairly solid but still scoopable.  Repeat until you’ve filled up all your containers.  When ready, serve in beautiful dishes with lovely homemade madeleines or something good like that. 

Makes about 5 pints – 3 mixed, and one each of peach and vanilla.

Meetings With Remarkable Bloggers

Obligatory disclaimer about a post which, as is often the case, should have happened a while ago:  I'm WAY behind. On everything.  But as I look around me, taking a gander at a few other blogs, I realize that pretty much everyone else feels exactly the same way all the time.  I'd very much like to find someone on whom to blame this feeling, so if you can think of anyone, please let me know. 

That being said, it's been ages since I had meet-ups with three quite wonderful bloggers, one of whom is known to me quite well, one whom I had the pleasure of seeing for the second time (this time in her city, not mine), and one who was new to me and utterly delightful.  And I've been meaning to write at least a bit about these meetings for some time, and am only just getting around to it now.  So finally, in chronological order,

Tale #1:  Seattle Sojourn

Quite some time ago, at the tale end of my Cascade Mountains retreat, I had a day to spend in Seattle.  Who would be the best possible person to a) recommend some great places to go on a free afternoon in Seattle and b) to be one's dining companion in that fair city later on into the evening?   Yes,  I know you know.  None better than Molly, the darling doyenne of Orangette.  Since it was a Friday, she had to work, but kindly allowed me to drop my bags at her office and then made maps for me to have my own little walking tour.  Following her suggestions, I walked to Salumi, where I'd long dreamed of going and which was a perfect walk from Molly's office.  I waited happily on line to buy a gorgeous, drippingly delicous porchetta sandwich (which is long gone, of course) and a salami (which still resides in my fridge, waiting for an occasion of some sort or other, since it apparently lasts a long long time).

I then made my way to Elliott Bay Books, another brilliant Molly recommendation, where I proceeded to spend the greater part of my afternoon, even sacrificing time at Pike Place Market (books win out, even over food) in order to lose myself in a big, beautiful, wandering, multi-storied, multi-roomed, funky, independent bookstore-cum-cafe, the likes of which really doesn't exist in NYC, to my ongoing dismay (it's true that there are independent bookstores in NYC, of course, but all of them are missing something -- atmosphere, selection, a café, a certain bookstore je ne sais quoi.  My favorite is probably the HousingWorks Used Bookstore, which has the best atmosphere -- but a somewhat limited selection, since they sell only donated books.  Why is it that the books I buy at bookstores like these and lug home in my suitcase are always better than other books?  I try saying to myself that I don't need to add 15 pounds to my luggage, I can order these on Amazon or buy them at the dreaded B & N, but somehow or other I always buy good books when I have an afternoon to browse in an independent bookstore and leave my money there.  So far, this is what I've read in my haul from Elliot Bay Books:  Perma Red, Resistance, and Truth and Beauty, each of which was, in its own way, so remarkable and so compelling that I had trouble returning to the world when I was done).   

From there I walked up to Pike Place Market, stopping along the way to buy a slightly extravagant mud-silk kimono jacket (one of those purchases that you make, knowing it costs more than you'd like to pay, but secure in the knowledge that if you don't buy it, you will keep remembering its beauty, perfect fit and suitability-for-many-occasions and gnash your teeth in regret later on).  I meandered in the market, buying luscious local apricots but forgoing the seductive-smelling doughnuts, since Molly and I were to meet for drinks and then hook up with Brandon for a what turned out to be a perfectly lovely meal at the Boat Street Café.  Although Molly and I have only met once before, and we have about a generation between us in terms of age gap, we seem to have no trouble chatting an afternoon away.  After all, when you both find writing, food, work and love to be utterly compelling topics, time flies pretty fast.  And there are always personal histories woven in, so no one needs to resort to recently-viewed movies.  Take it from me, Molly is every bit as dreamy, smart, funny, and elegant in person as she is on her blog. 

Our dinner, too, was marvelous -- as was Brandon (and yes, Orangette readers, he IS worthy of your treasure -- if indeed a worthy suitor exists).  We shared plates, talked, laughed, and then they took me on a little driving tour of some favorite Seattle spots before leaving me at the airport to catch my red-eye flight.   It's a glorious thing to see a city through the eyes of those who love it and know it well, even when it's just for a day.  You know your hosts have done a particularly excellent job when you begin ruminating on the cost of living in that city, as compared to your own much more expensive and population-dense hometown, and noting the "For Sale" and "For Rent" signs as you peruse the various neighborhoods.   Thanks so much, Molly and Brandon. 

Tale #2:  Of Cell Phones and Cellophane Noodles

It's my great pleasure and privilege to call myself friend to the adorable and talented Jen, aka Bakerina, who is deserving of more praise than I can find to heap upon her.  Out for drinks, in for cooking and baking, on a shopping crawl, it's all better when Bakerina's there. 

A few weeks ago, as I set out for a Saturday mid-morning market ramble, it occurred to me that maybe Jen was there at Union Square too, and we could, perhaps, meet up for a nosh and some prattle.  I called her, and left a message on her cell phone.  A few minutes later I felt my phone vibrate, but I'd missed the call.  The message, however, said that she was indeed in the neighborhood at her favorite yarn haunt, and would return to the market to meet up with me.  Somehow or other we kept missing calls.  I finally realized that my phone was not ringing -- and neither was hers.   It seemed that yet another monster corporation was conspiring to ruin our day.  But we were victorious, finally just leaving message after message that said things like "I'm on the West side of the market, at Mountain Sweet Berry Farm.  It's 12:00."  Or "I'm approaching the market from 17th Street.  It's 12:10."  And finally, "I'll meet you at the Coach Farm stand at 12:15."  We had triumphed over the hellishly evil technology that seeks to rule ever more of our lives. 

We swaggered across the street to Republic (which, for some reason, I always think of as Revolution -- maybe the red star logo?)  for glasses of restorative basil lemonade and bowls of noodles, to finally have our chat.  To spend time with Jen is to laugh, to swap horrors and victories, and to feel truly heard and understood.  Add all of that to someone who's endlessly erudite, witty as all get-out, and has a real gift for putting things into perspective, and you've got yourself one hell of a friend.  I know, I know.  I am a lucky girl. 

Tale #3:  Just Deserts*

The email subject line said "are you around this weekend?".  It was from none other than Shuna Fish Lydon, phenomenal author of eggbeater and pastry chef par excellence, who had come to NYC and wanted to know if I were game to meet up.   I have long been an admirer of Shuna, whom I find fascinating and extraordinarily moving as a writer and photographer, as well as a consummate teacher of all things culinary, particularly in the realm of the sweet. 

Shuna suggested that we meet at Room4Dessert.  I was excited both to meet her, and to have an eating adventure into the realm of molecular gastronomy, which amuses me but about which I take a kind of "now kids, don't try this at home" attitude.  After all, it's only a bit over a year ago that I got my humble little ice-cream machine.  I'm not really set up for a pacojet. 

Shuna was standing outside the restaurant, wearing the eggbeater t-shirt.  We went in and sat at the long bar -- which, incidentally is the only kind of seating the restaurant offers.  It's a lot of fun to go to a dessert restaurant with a pastry chef, since you'll get to taste almost everything.    We tried two of the dessert "glasses", which had layers of various tastes and textures, and three of the tasting plates, each of which were composed of four little things in various sorts of precious little dishes, bottles and cups. 

After we left the restaurant, we walked and talked for a while.  It was Shuna's perspective on the food we'd shared which really helped me to understand what they were doing -- and not doing -- at the restaurant.  When she talked about her disappointment that at this time of the year, there was so little fresh fruit on our plates, I thought about the connection between food and values (I know I've been writing about that a lot recently).  Through much of what she said, I saw that what we value on our plates is easily a metaphor for what we value in our lives.  Do we sacrifice freshness for convenience?  Value innovation over quality?  Look for novelty instead of authenticity?  Create luxury at the price of ethically produced food? 

Later we spoke of teaching, and found ourselves united in our contempt for scripted curricula; my experience has been in public schools and universities, and Shuna's in the world of culinary classes, where some of her employers wanted her to teach from a script rather than from her experience, her instincts, and what she knows to be true -- which is what all real teachers should be permitted to do. 

What I'll say about the evening is that I enjoyed Shuna's company far, far more than I did the desserts -- which isn't nearly enough praise for Shuna, since the desserts were fun but didn't knock me over.  Of all the many things we tasted, there was really nothing there that made me feel I'd have to go back to this restaurant to get another taste of this or of that.  But I would certainly enjoy more of Shuna's company -- and I hope to next month, if schedules collide, when G and I visit the Bay Area again this summer for a couple of weeks. 

So ends this installment of Meetings With Remarkable Bloggers.  With any luck, it'll become its own category...