The Winter's First Bread, and other Nibbles

I did something unprecedented this morning and stayed home, finally giving in to the third trimester fatigue (and threatening emotional meltdown) building since working the bookstore on Black Friday. I think I'm just too pregnant for retail. All the running around, bending and squatting and ferrying books places, and responding courteously to all the strangers commenting on my bulk: Is this your first? Your life will never be the same! (That comment is always accompanied by a slightly crazed, sinister glitter of camaraderie.) Boy or girl? When's she due?

And then there are the people who are disappointed in my size, as if I should go listing around clumsily like a cargo ship. Which I do feel like sometimes (though I love the cargo), but I look more like someone who's taken to wearing a basketball under her shirt than a ship. I put on a red sweater and beanie the other day, and as I left for work T turned to me and smirked, "You look like a hoodlum tomato." He swears it was said with love and complete acknowledgement of my eternal attractiveness. Hmm.

But today. Today I gave in and called in and am resting. Which for me means doing a lot of laundry, cleaning the bathroom, finishing watching Midnight in Paris, reading on the couch, and doing my favorite thing: baking bread.

Little projects like last weekend's cinnamon rolls aside (do make them!), it's been a long time since I've seriously pursued baking bread. Life just got in the way (as it does). But then my friend lent me 52 Loaves, and while in some ways it's a very silly memoir, William Alexander's passionate pursuit of the perfect pain au levain reawakened my need to open the fridge and see a yeasty tub of dough fermenting until dinnertime. Besides, the teaching term is about to end and aside from working the bookstore, my evenings and weekends will be freer. And then I'll have maternity leave. Which really makes this winter the best time to start a sourdough culture and reinvest myself in my bread-baking self-education.

So today I pulled down the standing mixer and made a batch of mostly white (a little rye) dough, which I've shaped into a boule and am about to pop in the oven. I didn't have great expectations--it's been a long time since I baked artisan-type bread and my shaping and slashing skills were never that great--but it's exciting to get started. I couldn't wait to see the dark brown crust (in actuality, a lovely golden) or to hear it crackle and sing when it met the cooler air of my kitchen. It turned out so much prettier than I had anticipated!

Plus, I get to share it tonight with my book club, for whom I've also made French Onion soup and a flourless chocolate cake (yes, I'm bad at resting). Though...that cake might need to be taste-tested before I serve it. You know, just your basic quality control slice two hours before the gathering.

Flourless Chocolate Cake (courtesy of the Whole Foods website)

I think this cake must be delicious (though to be fair I haven't tried it yet, which I know is a recipe-posting heresy), because as I was checking out at the Whole Foods near my apartment the clerk said, "Baking today?" When I answered yes, a flourless chocolate cake, she brightened and said, "Have you tried ours? It's amazing!" I was thrilled to report to her that I was planning on making the same one.

For the cake:

8 ounces bittersweet chocolate chips or pieces

2 sticks unsalted butter, in chunks (I used salted butter, as the recipe calls for no salt, which seemed odd--a little bit of salt really enhances chocolate)

1 C sifted cocoa

1 1/4 C sugar

6 eggs

For the ganache:

4 ounces bittersweet chocolate

3 T unsalted butter, in chunks

1 T milk

1 T honey

1/4 tsp vanilla extract

Cake:

1. Preheat the oven to 375 degrees F.

2. Grease a 9-inch springform pan. Line the bottom of the pan with parchment paper and grease this as well. Set aside.

3. Melt the chocolate and butter together over low heat on the stove (or microwave).

4. When melted, remove from heat and stir in the sugar. Whisk in the eggs one at a time, and then add the cocoa until just blended.

5. Pour batter into the pan and bake for 35-40 minutes, until the cake has risen and thin crust forms at the top. The center of the cake should be just firm to the touch.

6. Let the cake cool for 10 minutes. Then, invert the cake onto a plate, removing the side of the springform pan first, and then the bottom of the pan. Finally, peel off the parchment paper. Put a second plate on top of the cake and flip the cake over. Let cool.

Ganache:

Meanwhile, make the ganache.

1. Melt the chocolate and butter together as in step 1 (above).

2. Remove from heat and stir in honey, milk and vanilla extract.

3. When the cake is cool enough, pour the ganache onto the center of the cake and use a spatula to gently spread it over the top and sides of the cake.

4. Place cake in the fridge for 30-60 minutes before serving to set the ganache and make slicing easier.

Quick Bread Cinnamon Rolls

I've been remiss as a blogger, and tonight is no exception because I do not have pictures of my cinnamon rolls for you. First, in a pregnancy-induced craze I ate three of them, and second, I brought them to and then left them at my in-laws in a desperate attempt to avoid eating more of them. So you'll just have to take my word for it that these are heavenly, easy rolls, perfect for the lazy baker who wakes up needing cinnamon buns and doesn't have the stamina to wait 2 hours for the dough to rise.

I found the basic recipe for these rolls on the web, and then modified them somewhat for a more tender crumb and less buttery interior. They bake up just as puffily as their yeasted cousins, but have more of a biscuity texture (pleasingly dense and flaky). You can still top them with a cream cheese frosting, but I like them unadorned with a cup of coffee. You can also make them a little healthier by using whole wheat flour and lowfat milk instead of whole or cream in the dough. I think you'll sacrifice some tenderness and flavor by doing so, but you may feel a lot more virtuous.

Quick Bread Cinnamon Rolls

These are best eaten warm the day they are made. You can re-heat them gently in a 300 degree F oven, covered by aluminum foil to prevent drying out.

2 C pastry flour: whole wheat or white

3 tsp baking soda

1/4 tsp baking powder

1/2 tsp salt

4-6 T softened butter, cubed

3/4 -1 C milk or half-and-half

brown sugar

cinnamon

Preheat the oven to 375 degrees F.

Butter a 9X11 square pan or a 8-inch round cake pan.

In a bowl (or the food processor fitted with a pastry blade), mix together the first four ingredients.

Add the cubed butter and cut in until well-blended. You want the dough to be pretty sandy in texture--no need for the pea-sized lumps of pie or biscuit dough.

Add the milk until you have a silky, slightly sticky dough.

Roll the dough out on a floured surface to the approximate dimensions of 10 inches by 5 inches (I didn't measure mine).

Leaving a 1/4 inch border around the edge of the dough, pat the dough with brown sugar and then cinnamon to taste. Use more sugar than cinnamon, and place a nice layer down. You do want the interior to be spicy-sweet and gooey.

Roll the dough length-wise, starting at the long end closest to you, pinching as you go to encase the filling. You will end up with a dough log.

Cut the log into equally sized pieces (I ended up with 8 or 9) and place each piece snugly against one another, swirly end-up, into the prepared baking dish. It's okay if you have more dish than rolls--I did. Just make sure the rolls you do have are securely snuggled together .

Bake for 20-25 minutes, until risen, lightly golden and firm-ish to the touch. Let cool slightly, pull apart, and enjoy.

P.S. If you feel a little guilty about indulging in these rolls (though you should not! Unless, of

course, you eat three of them), make this lovely, bracing salad to go with lunch or dinner:

1-2 raw ruby-red beets, peeled and very thinly sliced and match-sticked (use a mandoline if you have one)

2 clementine oranges, peeled and sectioned

a small amount of very thinly sliced red onion

lemon juice

good olive oil

sea salt

cracked pepper

Mix the above ingredients together, season to taste, and get ready to feel both seasonal and virtuous. And now if you'll excuse me, it's time for "second dinner." It's for the baby, okay?

Croissants: Take One

Two nights ago on impulse I decided to dedicate this weekend to croissants. They've been on my baking to-do list for ages now, and it was time to flour up my counters and beat the hell out of some butter.

I did a little internet research and found an amazing blog post at mamaliga.com that details Julia Child's croissant recipe step-by-step, with beautiful, captioned photographs. I also looked in my copy of The Italian Baker (which I've been saving for the future day when I feel like I've graduated from decent amateur to real home baker, master of sponges and puff pastry), but the recipe makes three pounds of dough and I just don't have the confidence to make that much of it. Julia's recipe makes a quaint dozen croissants and doesn't involve building a butter block; instead, you simply bash a stick of butter with a rolling pin until smooth, and then shape it into a circle. This is a good way to burn pre-croissant calories and simultaneously work out the day's aggression.

So, with Gabi from mamaliga behind me (metaphorically) and a mound of pastry flour, Kerrygold Irish butter and parchment paper at my front, I set into the most intimidating yeasted baking process of my life. Because these are not the innocent cinnamon buns or wholesome whole wheat bread, or even the intricately shaped Greek Easter round loaf that I bake every winter; no, croissants come with an intimidating array of baggage: layers of buttery, flaky, fat little crescent-shaped baggage that break my heart every time I excitedly buy one only to bite into a glorified, greasy roll. The best croissant possesses infinite golden striations that make a mess on your plate and gum up the jam knife. A croissant worth eating is rich without being greasy, and airy enough to crack on the surface, while dense enough to provide a pliant, buttery middle. In essence, a croissant must offer you all, or it is nothing.

That's a lot of pressure for the casual home baker, and I think it's why (other than the butterfat quotient) most of us choose to occasionally grab a croissant as a treat rather than incorporate them into the kitchen repertoire. But, I figure I'm at home, a little bored, a lot pregnant, and the weather is cold and rainy. So why not take a chance? Besides, I was wrapped in a fantasy of pulling croissant goodness from the oven like a goddess of butter and Sunday breakfast good will. I envisioned myself benignly dropping off homemade croissants at my parents' and in-laws' houses and basking in the oohs and ahhs.

To be fair, the dough-making process was a lot easier than I'd imagined it to be. You do need to be at home for a six-hour or so stretch, because the dough needs to rise, and then be turned, rolled and chilled twice for 1-2 hours at a stretch before being shaped, and then the shaped rolls have to rise before being baked, and then washed with egg, and you get the drift. This is not a baking project for commitment-phobes. But actually making and shaping the layers isn't too hard, especially with Gabi's awesome instructions. What turned out to be hard was shaping the rolls.

I thought that would be the easy part! You cut little triangles and roll them from base to tip, curving them into crescents. Just like rugelach. But somehow mine turned out long and thin, like the French chef's answer to Virginia Slims. And the four I stuffed with bars of dark chocolate looked like sand crabs. Never mind, I told myself, they'll improve with the final rise. And to a certain extent, they did. Besides, sand crabs are an interesting design choice and probably highly original. And whatever shape they take, they still taste good.

They don't break into a million layers, but they're crispy and buttery and fragment a little bit when you bite into them. The corners are marvelous. The plus side of my shaping snafu is that I'll just have to continue making croissants until they look perfect. The minus side is politely enduring the sound of T's laughter as he walks my little butter crabs across the table...which is somehow made worse by the fact that it is funny. Stinking little pastry crustaceans. Get in my belly!

Cumin-Scented Fall Grain Salad

This weekend, after two years of grumbling and surreptitious back rubbing, we finally bought a new mattress! It's a luxurious pillow-top queen with memory foam that we plan to spend lazy weekend mornings in before the baby arrives. Sure, we don't have any sheets that fit it and our feather-bed will droop over the sides like my great aunt's upper arms, but these are piddling concerns when met with the fact that we will sleep like babes in arms.

But that's not the only good thing to happen this weekend. The other one involved black rice, millet, butternut squash, onions, cumin, garlic, cilantro, avocado, lemon and olive oil. Not only healthy and beautiful to behold, this fall salad is hearty enough to comprise a vegetarian meal and flexible enough to act as a side dish or potluck contribution. So where's the picture? In my pregnant belly, which is increasingly capable of eating large amounts of food before I find the camera. But I promise you, picture or no, this is worth cooking. You'll feel virtuous and happy eating it, and those two sensations don't always go together.

Cumin-Scented Fall Grain Salad (adapted from Bon Appetit 11/11)

You can substitute any rice and whole grain for the millet and black rice I used in this salad. The original recipe calls for red quinoa, as well as some parsley and chives. I had millet and cilantro on hand, so that is what I used.

1/2 C short-grain black rice

1 C millet

2 C butternut squash, cubed and roasted with some olive oil and coarse sea salt

1/4 C chopped cilantro

1 onion, finely chopped

3 garlic cloves, minced

2 tsp cumin seeds or 1 tsp ground cumin

1-2 lemons

1 bay leaf

4 T olive oil

1-2 avocados

sea salt and pepper

1. Combine the black rice with 1 C water in a small pot. Bring to a boil, cover and lower the heat, and simmer gently until the water is absorbed, about 20 minutes. Set aside.

2. Combine the millet with 2 1/2 C water or stock and the bay leaves. Bring to a boil, cover and lower the heat, and simmer gently until the water is absorbed, about 20-25 minutes. Fluff, remove the bay leaf, and set aside.

3. In a pan, cook the onions in 2 T olive oil until softened. Add the cumin and garlic and cook until aromatic, about 2 minutes.

4. In a large serving bowl, combine the millet with the onion-cumin mixture. Add the rice, cilantro, roasted butternut squash, 2 T of olive oil, and lemon juice to taste. Season to taste with sea salt and pepper.

5. Serve the salad with additional lemon wedges and sliced avocado. I like to top a big bowl of salad with avocado slices, and then drizzle a bit more olive oil and lemon juice on top.

This keeps well in the fridge, but let it come to room temperature again before eating leftovers (or zap it in the microwave--sans avocado--for 1 minute). Definitely taste the leftovers to see if additional lemon juice, olive oil, or seasonings are needed, as grains tend to absorb flavors over time.

Cry Baby Likes It

I know the pregnancy hormones must be getting to me because the Glee cast's rendition of "True Colors" just made me cry. This is not a good sign, folks. Tomorrow I'll be weeping at long distance telephone commercials, and then woe betide the day I watch a movie with an actual baby in it.

This excessive sentimentality might also be a symptom of the September heat, which has been keeping me up at night. The only thing that gets me to sleep is envisioning little pink baby feet (the bottoms, specifically, which are so wrinkly and soft), and that just loops back to the above issue of my becoming a baby-bearing, infant-centric human weep-a-thon. But before you judge me, O Unpregnant Peoples, know this: There is no stopping the onslaught of irrational feelings that besiege the pregnant female. You might say to yourself, "This is not my beautiful mind." And you might be right...four months ago. Because now you have a brain that might misplace the keys, burn dinner, and forget entire conversations, yet it can spot a fellow mama from a distance of .6 miles and smell any baby in the greater metropolitan area. You don't ask for these changes. They're part of the experience of pregnancy, like painful breasts and frequent urination. And since you have to live with them for nine months, I say revel in them.

I like crying easily at stupid television shows and cheesy songs, because I've never been like this before. I like my little belly, because I've never had one before; and I especially like to rub it absentmindedly while I read or when I'm falling asleep. I like being careful with myself, and taking a rest from heavy lifting and biking to work. I love yoga class. I love eating coffee ice cream (it's safe) with chocolate chips after dinner every night and not feeling guilty. There are still lots of scary thoughts and sometimes experiences to get through, and the never-ending sense that this is so fragile and needs the tenderest care, (and all of these feelings may change when I can no longer see my feet), but right now pregnancy is mostly nice. It's rare to get the opportunity--or to be more honest, feel comfortable giving yourself the opportunity--to treat yourself like a goddess, and pregnancy allows you to do that. At least, the first one does because you don't have to take care of anyone else and everyone wants to take care of you.

The Pickles at the End of the Garden

Today is one of my favorite kinds of days (the others involving tropical beaches, wineries, rainstorms, fireplaces and movie theatres, though not all at once). It's the last day of a long weekend vacation, the majority of which we spent in Bend, Oregon performing at the inaugural Bend Shakespeare Festival. It was awesome. The audiences were huge and enthusiastic, howling with laughter and thoroughly bent on enjoying themselves--and us--as much as possible. The stage is in the beautiful Drake Park, right in front of the river, which makes the matinees picturesque if brutal (the heat, oh the heat) and the evenings perfect. We spent Thursday through Sunday morning in Bend, swimming and sunning when not onstage, and then joined our friends and cast mates Christy and Jason at the Oregon State Fair in Salem. It had been years since either T or myself had been to the fair, and it did not disappoint. State fairs have to be the tackiest American custom, with the deep-fried candy bars, garish game booths and evangelical stations (our favorites included the "Are You Going to Heaven Booth: Free and Only Two Questions Long" and the anti-abortion booth that was giving away little plastic fetuses, available in Caucasian and ambiguous ethnic). T ate a fried Twinkie and I happily drank frozen lemonade while petting the miniature horses and ogling the piglets. The evening ended with dinner at my in-laws, which is always a pleasure.

But perhaps the greatest pleasure was going to sleep knowing I had today off, too. I love lazy weekday mini-vacations; I always get loads of laundry, cleaning and cooking done, and yet still feel luxuriously unburdened. Today's major project involved converting excessive numbers of zucchini and wilty tomatoes into Zucchini Dill Pickles, Bread and Butter Zucchini Pickles, and Tomato Jam.

Pickles are fun to make because they're both labor-intensive and easy: all you do is prep the veggies and make a brine. The mildly tricky part is sterilizing and processing the jars so that you can safely store the pickles in the cupboard for fall and winter eating. Plus, just as with jam, there's tremendous satisfaction to be had to gazing at all of your gorgeous filled jars in the pantry. I ogle mine several times a day until the new wears off.

I haven't tried the pickles yet (they need to soak up all of the flavors in the brines for 1-2 weeks), so proceed with the above recipe links knowing that they were tested in the Bon Appetit kitchen and so are likely reliable. The August issue recommends serving the bread and butter pickles--a wonderful sweet and sour pickle that I grew up eating, but know is new to many people--with grilled ham and cheese sandwiches. I also love them with cold cheese and charcuterie plates and with tuna sandwiches. The dill pickles, which like the bread and butter pickles are normally made with cucumbers, should go well with any deli-type sandwich, burgers, and again, tuna salad. The tomato jam, which is kind of like a fancy, chunky ketchup with a smoky punch, will taste amazing with chicken and ham, sturdy seafood like swordfish or sturgeon (I can even imagine pan-tossed prawns dipped into the stuff, mixed with a spoonful of horseradish), grilled tempeh, and smeared onto any sandwich with flavorful cheese. And if you don't feel like going to the trouble of canning the jars, just sterilize them and refrigerate the pickles for a month's worth of happy noshing.

One last tip is that while you can experiment with the spices in the brine, don't alter the amounts of sugar, vinegar or salt in pickle recipes. These amounts are carefully measured to kill harmful bacteria; likewise, follow each recipe's instructions for sterilizing and processing the jars. You want a full belly, not an aching one.


I also want to say that it is infinitely lovely to be back to writing on my blog. I've had an amazing summer of rehearsals and performance, but for once I'm eager for the summer to wind down (if not for the sunshine to disappear) because I'm taking this year off from theatre and so will have more time to cook and nest and write. I'll still be working like crazy for the bookstore and the college, but not having evening commitments should mean more grading during the week and more fun projects on the weekends. (Two plans for this fall: apple and pumpkin butters.) Plus, I feel a bit shy but I suppose the time is ripe to mention that T and I are expecting a little buddy in February, which will for sure send our lives into noisy, messy, hopefully adorable arrears, but also slowly afford me more time at home to learn to be a mommy and to teach my little one the pleasures of the kitchen.

-

Stem Pickles, of the Swiss Chard Variety (Part 1)

Leafing through one of my cooking magazines the other day, I came across (and have since been unable to find!) a blurb about a bartender or chef who turns swiss chard stems into refrigerator pickles. After last summer's success with pickled sugar snap peas, and in my effort to use every edible part of all of our vegetables, I have decided to give the pickled stems a try. Tonight. Because I have nothing better to do and a huge bowl of fuchsia stems in the kitchen, winking prettily at me, asking to be made into something other than compost.

Because I can't find the official recipe (did I dream it up? and if so, what does it mean that I'm dreaming about pickles?), I altered a promising recipe for asparagus pickles that I found online and followed the sugar snap pickle protocol:

1. Sterilize a quart jar and lid.

2. Boil equal parts water and vinegar with some salt and sugar--in this case, 2 C each water and cider vinegar, with 1/2 T salt and 1/8 C sugar.

3. Put 2 smashed garlic cloves, 2 red chilies, some dill and some mustard seeds, along with the chard stems, into the sterilized jar.

4. Pour the boiling vinegar brine into the jar, using a funnel if you're spill-prone.

5. Seal and store in the fridge. Can be made up to a month in advance.

In my (trivial) pickling experience, the pickles will start to taste snappy in about 24 hours, but will increase in flavor over the next couple of weeks. I'll keep you posted on the result, but my intended use for the pickled stems is for cheese and pickle sandwiches, or what we around here call "jungle style." I imagine they'll also taste nice in Bloody Marys, for those of you in the cocktail set.

Japanese Turnips

Before you navigate away, because the word "turnip" is not only boring but sounds like something your grandparents were forced to eat as children, know that I am discussing Japanese turnips. And unlike their American relatives, which are rock hard and rooty, these delicate white veggies are crisp, juicy, sweet and fresh. They can be enjoyed raw like jicama, or roasted or sauteed in olive oil and garlic. The first method is refreshing, the second as savory as potato and as juicy as fresh pear.

We've been getting large bunches of them in our CSA tote each week, and at first I sliced them thinly and ate them for breakfast on buttered toast with a sprinkling of smoked salt. Then I shredded them into a lemony salad with young beets and sunflower seeds. The next time I parboiled them and rolled them in a bit of butter and coarse salt. And yesterday I did the best thing yet, which was to slice them thinly, toss them with a bit of olive oil and a lot of minced garlic, and roast the bejeezus out of them. The resultant "chips" were salty and golden, and juicy as hell. I nibbled a few out of the pan and tossed the rest for lunch today with brown rice, black beans, cherry tomatoes and feta.

If you think you dislike turnips, or are finding large quantities of them at the farmer's market or in your own CSA tote, try the below recipe. It would make a nice accompaniment to any type of roast or richer fish; or, eat them on their own, as I did, standing at the pan with a glass of wine.

Simple Roasted Japanese Turnips
Note: All of the literature I've found on Japanese turnips say they're spicy and strongly flavored. Ours have been sweet without even the slightest radishy kick, but it might be best to taste one raw before determining what to do with your bunch.

Japanese turnips
olive oil
2 cloves garlic, finely minced
coarse salt
pepper

Preheat oven to 425 F.
Trim and thinly slice turnips (1/4"), setting aside the greens for sauteing.
Toss the turnip slices with a healthy lug of olive oil, the minced garlic and a pinch of salt, and spread into one layer.
Bake until the turnips are starting to turn tender and golden, then flip with a spatula.
Continue baking until golden and somewhat shriveled, but not dry or burnt.

This all takes roughly 45 minutes, but as I didn't watch the clock (I was watching Buffy), be sure to check the veggies occasionally to get the texture you like.

Fudgesicles, Jessica-style

It's happening.

The rainy hours are growing fewer and the blue skyed moments are beckoning us outdoors to sit in puddles of sunshine. My brandywine and roma tomatoes are reaching upwards, and the yellow squash adds a new leaf each week. The strawberries are putting forth green fruit, and the sage looks like it will take over the world.

It's springtime in Portland. When summer seems almost possible.

And because we Portlanders go a little crazy when we see the sun, we drag out the summer dresses and the pale ale and tbe BBQ well before the weather warrants. We do crazy things, like shiver sweaterless on the patio and make popsicles that we have to eat indoors.

As if to tease, and in the time-traveling way of all food magazines, my Bon Appetit and Food and Wine are arriving with the brazen heat of midsummer in their recipes, all ice creams and cold seafood salads. And even though no reader above the Mason-Dixon line has access yet to local heirloom tomatoes or watermelon, it's hard to resist the urge to run out and buy all of the shipped-from-overseas produce that you can hold, so that you too can eat fig and feta salad and fried squash blossoms. I practically sit on my hands on our backdoor stoop, whispering to my plants to grow, grow, grow into such marvelous meals.

Luckily, one doesn't need to wait for hot weather to make popsicles. And when I saw Deb's recipe for fudgesicles on Smitten Kitchen, all of my memories of the 3pm summer camp ice cream ritual arose and I knew I had to make them, rain or shine.

First I went out and bought the cheapest, most colorful popsicle set I could find (Jelly Belly brand, in case you're interested). And then I bought organic dark chocolate and hemp milk, because my sister Jessica can't eat dairy. And then I got to work.

This recipe takes ten minutes. Substitute whole milk or any other alternative "milk" for the hemp; I like to use hemp milk in vegan baking because it's tremendously rich and creamy, and full of omega-3 fatty acids. It doesn't taste great straight out of the box, though. A little...plant-y. You can also use semi-sweet chocolate for a milder flavor; again, I had to avoid dairy and dark chocolate is a lot more appealing than carob.



Fudgesicles (makes 4)

2 T chopped semi-sweet or dark chocolate

1/3 C sugar

1 T cornstarch

1.5 T cocoa

1.25 C whole or vegan milk

pinch of salt

1/2 tsp vanilla

1/2 T butter


Melt the chocolate in a heavy pan over low heat. Whisk in the milk, cocoa, cornstarch and salt and cook (5-10 minutes) until thickened. Remove from the heat and whisk in the vanilla and butter. Cool slightly and pour into the popsicle molds. Freeze.

the girl next door

We have a new neighbor.

She's like chartreuse molasses, or something else similarly vibrant and spaced out; maybe she's a neon flower through the haze in an opium den.

She came to the door in black clothes and a beige beret and stayed for an hour. I know about her previous relationship in Georgia; her injuries as a dancer and photographer in New York City; her need to repaint her bedroom turquoise because the sage color is too deadening. Her love of curtains, and how she doesn't really drink much, but a beer on a hot day in the backyard is really nice. And she'll be drying her unmentionables on a laundry line out back.

I was in the middle of playing hooky to grade papers all day when she rang the bell, and the whole time she stood here, petting the cat, drawling sweetly about this and that, I couldn't decide if I'd met my new best friend or someone I will spend the next several months studiously avoiding by allowing the dinosaur ferns out front to finally obscure the front door.

I'm charmed by her friendliness and her weirdness (she kept referring with nostalgia to her "old neighborhood," which it turns out is a few blocks north of here, about five minutes away), but a little worried that the (miniscule) backyard is about to be invaded by 8,000 carefree artist types plunking away on guitars to all hours, amid the fuschia underpants swinging drowsily from the clothes line.

And then, what's so terrible about that? I'm always bemoaning the lack of community in our short row of apartments, and a super friendly neighbor who loves our cats and vintage furniture and fabrics and, okay, adds a little quirk to our backyard sounds fun. I think I've become so used to people being inaccessible--maybe to being a little bit that way myself--that someone so un-anxiously outgoing is a bit of a shock.

It's almost like Pippi Longstocking went to Sarah Lawrence, mated with Phoebe from Friends, and then the issue of that union moved in next door.

Readers, I sense a story.

Humble Pie

My husband doesn't really like dessert. The first time I made dinner for him, aside from extracting a promise from my roommate Justin to retire to his room very early in the evening, I baked almond biscotti and hand-dipped each cookie in bittersweet chocolate. While I was cooking the seafood rigatoni and making the salad, I gazed approvingly at those golden crescents, imagining T dunking a cookie into a cup of coffee at the end of our (amazing) meal, and envisioning me in bridal white. (I can't help it; like all 18th century authoresses before me, the best romances end in matrimony.)

Well, Justin and I enjoyed the cookies, albeit with neither of us desiring subsequent nuptials. T ate two generous helpings of the pasta and praised the salad and ignored the biscotti. Sweets just aren't his thing. I was baffled, and a little impressed. I like my dessert.

Over the years I've learned the few desserts that do appeal to T. Anything with fresh berries. Dark chocolate brownies with walnuts. Salted chocolate chip cookies. And we fight over coffee ice cream. So this morning when I offered to make dessert for Sunday dinner with his parents, I already had in mind a lazy crisp filled with strawberries and rhubarb.

Crisp (or crumble, I've yet to determine a real difference between the two) is a wonderful alternative to pie, because it's both less time-consuming and fruitier. Pie is lovely (okay, beyond lovely and bordering on heavenly), but the pastry crust does become a dominant flavor; in a crisp/crumble, a sweet, nutty and buttery crust gives way to a spoonful of rich stewed fruit. What lands on your tongue is fruit, and the topping simply provides a spicy complexity and wonderful texture.

Also, I'm lazy. Why fret over a pie crust that falls apart or is too tough or doesn't have enough flakiness when you can scrunch some butter, oats and sugar in a bowl, pour it over fruit and call it good?

I added oats, ginger and cinnamon to the usual flour/butter/sugar topping to add texture, nuttiness and a subtle kick to the streusel. You could add finely chopped nuts, too (almonds or walnuts would be nice), or grind the oats a bit for a finer crumb. It's pretty impossible to go wrong with a crisp, so experiment with your favorite fruits and flavors. In the summer cherry-almond is a nice combination, as is peach-pecan. One last note, crisps aren't always beautiful in the pan, but pair your spoonful of vibrant fruit and golden crumb with a scoop of softly yellow vanilla bean ice cream, and you have a sweetheart of a dessert.

Strawberry Rhubarb Crisp (adapted from Gourmet)

• In a bowl, combine: 2 lbs strawberries, halved; 1 1/2 lbs of rhubarb stalk, in 1/2 in slices; 1 C sugar; 3 T cornstarch; and 1 T lemon juice. Toss and pour into a 3 quart baking dish.
• Wipe out the bowl and combine: 1 1/2 sticks unsalted butter, softened and cut into small pieces; 3/4 C brown sugar; 3/4 C flour; 1/4 tsp salt; 1 1/2 C rolled oats; and a pinch each of cinnamon and ginger. Mix together with your hands until the butter is integrated and the topping comes together in little clumps.
• Spread the topping over the fruit, pressing down a little with your hands if you like a firmer crust.
• Bake in a 425 degree oven for 45-50 minutes, until the fruit is bubbling and the topping is golden brown. Serve warm, with ice cream or whipped cream as desired.

Charlotte, NC

We just returned home from a whirlwind trip to Charlotte, North Carolina for my little cousin's bat mitzvah. It was Tom's first bat mitzvah, and elaborate Jewish event, and I was as excited to show him the cultural markers of American Jewish adolescence as to see my extended family. We sat through the marathon Saturday morning service, line danced to Shania Twain at the after-party, and ate lots of bagels with my many cousins. The little kids zoomed around in a pack, the ladies (of a certain age) ate and complained about their weight, my grandma looked downright foxy, and in a moment of either pride or utter humiliation (jury's out) I exchanged party dresses with my eight-year old cousin, Olivia, who in my defense is tall for her age. It was really nice.

We rarely get out to the east coast where most of my family and three of my best friends live (though I didn't get to see them), and we miss so much: little kids grow up, we've become adults...it's hard not to feel like an interloper, albeit one with the same genetics, when you pop in and out of people's lives at lengthy intervals. As a little kid on Long Island, I took it for granted that everyone sees their grandparents every week, and that older cousins (now moms of bat mitzvah girls) always babysit for them. That's one of the reasons Tom and I are so invested in staying in Portland--to afford our future kids the same proximity to all of that grandparental, et al love and companionship. I just wish we could have our lives here, in a place so much healthier for and in tune with my nuclear family than Long Island ever was, and still be close to all those aunts and uncles and cousins and grandmas back east. Family will drive you crazy, it's true (I mean, I do tire of my grandmother's comparisons: "You look just like my mother! She wasn't a great beauty, but..."), but families are also tremendously comforting in their, well, familiarity. There's something lovely about walking into a room and knowing all of the old ladies are going to gush about your figure, and there will be little children to tease and tickle, and the male relatives who still pinch your cheek, and the cousins to gossip with. The outlandish symphony of kvetches and kisses and shrieks and coffee spoons stirring into endless teacups is paradoxically a melody of intimacy. Maybe you have to be born in it to find it soothing, or maybe you have to move 3000 miles away to enjoy brief returns to it; whatever the reason, for all its hectic travel, this weekend was relaxing.

Charlotte itself is a pretty and clean, if somewhat anonymous city. Most of the historic buildings have been razed and replaced by skyscrapers, but there are tons of fountains and open plaza spaces with modern art and restaurants. The cleanliness reminded us of Portland circa 1992--wide pristine sidewalks surrounded by trees and happy-looking pedestrians. Tom and I took a long walk Saturday afternoon with my parents and Lukas, and stumbled upon a little graveyard with fallen soldiers from the Revolutionary and Civil wars. We also walked to the "historic South End," which FYI is a ghetto and should be avoided. But what's travel without (minor) misadventure?

Pinky Finger Food

Well, the arthritis has struck again! Almost two years to the date of the last (and first) flare-up, my little left pinky finger is red, itchy and swollen, and I'm back on the elimination diet of misery. It's not so bad. I can still eat meat, vegetables and fruit. But wheat, dairy, coffee, alcohol and sugar? Nooo. Mornings without coffee are like days without sunshine; and since we have a lot of days without sunshine, mornings have become especially dark. Though I will say this for breaking the caffeine habit (again): after a couple of days, you wake up feeling remarkably alert; instead of plodding downstairs like a zombie, you fairly prance down the steps on the way to herbal tea. I can't decide if the bright-eyed and bushy-tailed perk of going without compensates for the absence of strong, dark, hot liquid in one's mouth. And since that sentence veered so far from its humble intention, let's move on.

I don't understand why a 30-year old woman would get arthritis of the finger, but my naturopath (who speaks in riddles, like a Korean Yoda) tells me it's a good thing, as it's better to store toxins in the joints than in the organs. Because of this, he thinks that I'll probably live a long, cranky life of creaky bones. Nevertheless, it's best not to store toxins anywhere, and thus we come back to the Diet, which is supposed to set things aright. So for the next little while I'm going to focus on the simple foods that I'm eating to detox, in the hopes that it will help someone out there who needs to do the same, for whatever reason. The recipe below isn't much, but it makes a quick and filling breakfast. To feel even more virtuous, you can leave out the yolk.

Breakfast of Champions: Avocado and Egg Duet
1/2-1 ripe avocado
1-2 hard-boiled eggs (I use 1 egg and 3/4 avocado)
coarse sea salt pepper
1. To boil the egg(s): Place 1 or more eggs in a pot and cover with cold water. Add a generous pinch of salt, and bring to a boil. Boil the egg(s) for 1 minute. Then, remove the pan from the heat, cover, and let sit for 10-13 minutes. This should yield a firm but creamy yolk. Run eggs under cold water and peel the shell.
2. While the eggs are cooking, slice an avocado into cubes. Put into a bowl.
3. Crumble or dice the egg(s) and add to the avocado. Season liberally with sea salt and pepper. A squeeze of lemon or lime wouldn't be amiss, either.

What to do with Education

I was planning to write an entry titled, "What to do with a big pot of roasted buckwheat," because that's my current culinary dilemma, but Oregon's educational crisis (plus the mayhem in Wisconsin, Michigan, and elsewhere) has me thinking. About reform, to be precise, and from an educator's perspective.

Our governor, John Kitzhaber, is currently locking budgetary horns with the Oregon Teacher's Union, which is a fiscal powerhouse in the state and also legitimately upset about classroom size, layoffs, and school closures. The problem is that we don't have enough money in Oregon to cover our constituents' basic needs: food stamps and pantries, mental healthcare, low-income health coverage, housing services and public education. Services need to be cut, and since we've already stripped social services to the bone, the school budget has to be renegotiated.

I think the first problem is that people hear "we're cutting the school budget" and freak out: Classroom size will be out of control! Test scores will go down! Teachers will be overworked or laid off! The powerful teacher's union kicks into an emotionally fueled diatribe about how hard it is to be a teacher.

And it is hard. Non-educators equate teaching with instructional hours, but the fact is that most educational work is done at home or in our offices, when we're planning lessons, grading papers, and dealing with students and administrators; for adjunct college instructors like myself, this is unpaid labor. Public school teachers are compensated for some of this time, but because the work is invisible it is not given the recognition that it deserves. Or the financial consideration. A teacher who goes from having four classes with 25 students each to 4 classes with 45 students each is not given a parallel raise in pay.

(Worth noting: The average class size as of 2009 in Oregon was 19.4 students per teacher, giving us a national ranking of 49th in terms of poor student to teacher ratios. I think the number, low to the naked eye and high by national standards, is impacted by the high number of tiny, rural school districts in Oregon. I was in public school here from 1992-1998, in advanced classes, and never had fewer than 25 peers per class. )

Let's step into that teacher's shoes for a minute: with 180 students, it is safe to assume that the teacher is grading 180-360 pieces of homework per week, which will vary in length and detail depending on the course. That's roughly 25-50 papers to grade each night of the week (weekends included), in addition to planning lessons and having a life outside of work.

Do you think that teacher is carefully examining each piece of homework to determine each student's strengths and weaknesses, and then revising the lesson plan to cater to those needs? Is that essay being proofread and the grammatical and content errors rigorously addressed? Is it likely that the high-performing students are being lauded without being challenged, and the low-performers chucked, however unintentionally, to the side because there simply isn't time to sit down with the student who after several weeks of class still doesn't understand the quadratic formula or how to write a thesis statement?

No, he isn't.
No, it isn't.
Yes, it is.

I know this because I know public school teachers, but more importantly because I teach their students once they've arrived in college. And my students can't read or write at the college level. Sometimes, and I'm not being snide, my students' critical faculties (reading comprehension, understanding of symbolism and irony, ability to make connections between diverse materials, or apply philosophical or critical concepts to texts) pale in comparison to my eleven-year old brother's, who is fortunate enough to attend Montessori school.

And I think, "We are failing these kids." I think, "My God. I live in an America unaccustomed to thought."

There are people who argue that class size doesn't matter. And to them I reply, "You stand in front of a classroom of 25-45 children or adolescents four times a day and know each of their names, all of their pertinent skills and weaknesses, how to address their individual learning needs, and by the way, keep everyone focused." Smaller classes make these tasks easier. And a teacher who can't do the above with a class of 25 or less should not be a teacher.

Which brings me to the second problem: teacher evaluation.

Currently in Oregon teachers with seniority are protected against firing or lay offs. As a union member who has recently benefited from seniority protection (though not in the educational sector) I understand the security this imparts. But let's be honest--seniority doesn't always equal enthusiasm, innovation or skill; the only thing seniority ensures is experience, and depending on what you've done with that time, that experience could be of negligible use in the classroom. And the only way to gauge the value of that experience, and its application, is to evaluate teachers more frequently and in person.

The current and favored method, standardized test scores, is not a legitimate way to evaluate teaching.

First, a teacher "teaching to the test" is limiting the students' knowledge and abilities to those needed to pass an exam. Standardized tests rely on formulaic questions (multiple choice, chiefly) and brief passages of text, as well as short essays. So students learn how to narrow down an answer from four to two likely choices, and they learn how to read and write very brief documents. And they're not reading interesting texts, or responding to exciting essay prompts; they're being taught to scan a paragraph on any subject in order to pull out the main idea and chief metaphor. They're not being taught that symbols have wide interpretations. Or that reading is fun. Or that critical thinking is more than memorizing facts--that critical thinking, indeed, is being able to ask questions as well as answer them.

And the worst part of this system is that students who are not adept test-takers are labeled un-teachable or left back. And the teacher who has a high proportion of these students in his classroom, or who dislikes this model of education, is considered a bad teacher.

You know what a bad teacher is? Someone who doesn't like kids. Someone without patience. Someone who doesn't remember what it's like to struggle to learn something. Someone without the energy and imagination to continually try new methods of engaging and teaching students. Someone who won't take critique to heart and change her approaches to students and materials. Someone who can't communicate clearly to lower-performing students. Someone too burnt out to care. Someone who doesn't make learning as fun as possible.

There are experienced teachers and new teachers who are bad teachers. If all teachers were evaluated at least once a term by fellow educators, and then given the opportunity for discussion and growth, and then reassessed, and then let go if they couldn't do the job, that would be fair. And it wouldn't cost a dime to implement. And it would raise the stakes for teachers to do their best; and it would raise the stakes for administrations to support their teachers.

But now you're thinking, what about the budget? We still need to cut money.

We do.

And my answers are, in no particular order:

1) Get rid of seniority-based firing.
2) Stop using so much expensive and (studies continue to show) fairly useless education technology.
3) Reduce the administration and increase the teaching staff.
4) Do not hire administrators who are not also educators. Do not hire outside of the state. Set a time limit on job hunts for new administrators. Do not pay administrators more than teachers.
5) Instead of offering "gourmet" course options like anthropology, integrate those subjects into standard courses like English and Science and select teachers who can do that.
6) Look into alternative educational models like Montessori or Waldorf that manage to integrate intellectual autonomy and creativity into largish classrooms that also focus on hard science, math and english.
7) Ask the students where they want money to be spent.
8) Make all teachers contribute to their pension plans (just like every other employee on the planet, who pays into his 401K).
9) Reduce classroom size but have teachers double as academic advisers.
10) Reduce classroom size but have teachers lead extracurricular activities and clubs.
11) Put the school into the community, and the community into the school. Make the school the cultural center of the community by hosting events, renting the gymnasium, inviting in outside groups to host events and join in school celebrations.

At the end of the day, what a school really needs is a safe building, a blackboard, desks, paper and pencils. It needs computers for word processing, and a cafeteria that offers simple, healthy food. It needs students and teachers and a principal.

That's a lot, but it's not impossible and it doesn't need to be expensive.

Tomato Orange Soup

While the rest of the country gets snow and tornadoes and mysterious earthquakes (not that the latter two are remotely enticing), Oregon gets rain. Full weeks of pouring rain that wails from the sky and mutes our days to a perpetual dusk. Is it any wonder that Oregonians love coffee and microbrews, or that our restaurant journalists write an article a week on where to find the best grilled cheese and tomato soup?

When the sky is slate and the air is that damp wet that eats into your bones, tomato soup fills your center with a delicious, radiating warmth. Other soups are good, too (I'm thinking in particular butternut squash soup and chili), but at least twice a month T marches downstairs and announces, "tomato soup!" with the boyish, military precision of a toy soldier. And I look outside at the cold and the wet, and get cooking.

While I make several different tomato soups, the soup I'm sharing today is our favorite, and can be assembled in no time; plus, it only improves with a day or two in the fridge. The butter and cream amounts are flexible, as is the orange juice. I've made it with the full two cups and been thrilled by the flavor, and also with 3/4 C and enjoyed the tiny orange hint in my soup spoon. And though I rarely eat this with grilled cheese, it begs at least for baguette and a side salad.

Tomato Orange Soup, adapted from Elephant's Delicatessen

2 28-ounce cans crushed tomatoes (I like the Whole Foods 365 organic brand)
1 stick butter
a couple glugs of olive oil
1 onion, finely chopped
1 tsp baking soda
2 tsp thyme
up to 2 C orange juice (I prefer 1 C)
1/4-1 C cream (I probably end up adding 1/3 C cream)

Heat butter and olive oil in a deep soup pot over medium heat until sizzling but not smoking.
Add onion and saute until translucent (10 minutes).
Add the tomatoes, baking soda and thyme. Stir, bring to a boil, and then reduce heat to low medium.
Let tomatoes simmer for 20 minutes or so.
Remove pot from heat and puree soup. This is easiest with an immersion blender (a cheap and absolutely wonderful kitchen device), but can be done carefully in batches in the blender.
Set pureed soup back on low heat and add the orange juice and cream. Heat through, tasting for seasoning. (I never find that I need salt or pepper, but I use salted butter and tomatoes.)
Eat, preferably by a window, so you can stick your tomatoey tongue out at the rain and remind yourself that sometimes the winter is worth it.

Farro & Greens Casserole

I got the idea for this dish from Heidi at 101 Cookbooks, who has posted several lovely farro dishes, including a baked farro risotto. Her recipe calls for uncooked farro which is slowly baked until al dente in a mixture of homemade tomato sauce, vegetable broth, onion and Parmesan. That's a wonderful idea if you have a stash of sturdy grains like farro or kamut in your pantry and no idea what to do with it (one of those well-intentioned bulk bin splurges, sadly resigned to staleness in the cabinet); I've been eating a lot of whole grains lately, and so had a pot of cooked farro in the fridge and no idea what to do with it. When I realized that I also had half a tub of homemade tomato sauce, some leftover Parmesan cheese and a bunch of wilting kale in the fridge, I formed a battle plan.

Skipping the broth, which is only necessary if you're using uncooked grains, I sauteed an onion in some olive oil until softened, added a couple of cups of cooked farro and chopped lacinato kale, stems and all, to the pan, and cooked that until the kale was softened and bright green. I then tossed in the tomato sauce and maybe 1/4 C of Parmesan cheese and let the flavors blend, stirring, for maybe five minutes. Adjust for salt and pepper.

Following Heidi's lead, I rubbed an 8X8 baking dish with olive oil and scattered the zest of one lemon on top of the oil. Don't skip this step. The lemon zest adds enormous flavor and aroma, and imbues the dish with a bracing brightness that contrasts nicely with the rich tomato and Parmesan flavors and the bitter kale. I then dumped the farro mixture into the dish, scattered the top with the remaining cheese, and baked it in the oven at 400 degrees for twenty minutes. The casserole came out golden brown, with a wonderful lemony steam and chewy texture.

What's fun about this dish, and whole grains in general, is that they're so versatile. I could easily have combined cold farro with avocado, citrus, feta and a lemon dressing for a light but filling salad, or warmed it up with a bit of olive oil and garlic, and added pink beans, salsa and sour cream for a taco bowl. I've been making an effort to keep a small pot of whole grains (I like to switch it up, but chewy grains like kamut and farro are my favorite) and one of beans (this week they're pink, just for the prettiness of it) in the fridge each week for easy, healthy meals. Add some roasted veggies or stir-fried greens, and you have a near-instant meal.

Plus, when you eat such healthful meals, you can afford to splurge. Coming next: the easiest, cocoa-iest scones, for you and your sweeties, courtesy of Alice Medrich, cocoa queen.

Something to Blog About: Brown Butter Cocoa Brownies

I have a growing collection of unfinished blog posts and random pictures of recipes in mid-process, but nothing that I've felt like publishing. I've been busy with work and the holidays and shows, and then I got a cold that just won't quit last week, and the house always needs to be cleaned, and you know how life goes. We've eaten plenty of good meals, and there's political fodder galore for a rant, but somehow writing just gets pushed aside in favor of bed and a few minutes with Alison Weir's fantastic volume on the wives of Henry VIII. But tonight I made what may be the best brownies on earth, and I want to share them with you.

We're going to start trying to get me pregnant (T hates the "we're pregnant" trend, since it's physiologically untrue) in a few months, so I've been making a concerted effort lately to cook more wholesome meals and fewer treats and breads featuring white flour. I am in love with black bean chili with squash and bulgar wheat, and Mark Bittman's tomato sauce featuring squash, ground lamb and cinnamon. Roasted beet salads with feta, avocado and oranges have been making routine lunch appearances. I've also been experimenting with brown breads full of seeds and nuts, trying to replicate the amazing seeded whole wheat from Whole Foods, to some success. But the February Bon Appetit arrived with the Brown Butter Cocoa Brownies on the cover, and I knew they needed to be baked, by me, immediately.


The fact of the matter is, I love chocolate. Not to the chocoholic extent (mostly because I hate the images of romance novels and minivans that the term conjures), but I can't imagine a more satisfying close to pretty much any meal than a square of dark chocolate, or a homemade treat studded with the stuff. These brownies rely on plain Hershey's cocoa powder for their oomph, but contrary to most expectations, cocoa powder creates a more intensely flavored dessert than you would get using bar chocolate. It's also a little more affordable than high quality chocolate, and a little goes a long way. Bon Appetit advises that one use plain as opposed to Dutch processed cocoa, which is darker but apparently less flavorful than unprocessed cocoa. As for the walnuts in this recipe, you could easily omit them, but then why eat a brownie? (I jest, though slightly. There was a time when I wouldn't touch a baked good with nuts in it.) If you do like them, however, the slightly bitter walnuts in this recipe cut the richness of the chocolate and brown butter just enough so that you can appreciate both flavors alone and savor their partnership, simultaneously.

Bon Appetit's Brown Butter and Cocoa Brownies

• 2 eggs, chilled
• 3/4 C cocoa
• 1/3 C plus 1 T flour
• 1/4 generous tsp salt
• 2 tsp water
• 10 T butter (1 and 1/4 sticks)
• 1 1/4 C sugar
• 1 tsp vanilla

1. Preheat the oven to 325 degrees. Line a 8x8 inch pan with aluminum foil or parchment paper (leaving an inch or two draping over the sides of the pan, for easy removal), and grease lightly.
2. Melt the butter over medium heat in a large pan. Stirring frequently, wait until the foam subsides and the bottom of the pan starts collecting little browned butter bits. Take off of the heat and add the cocoa, sugar, salt, water and vanilla. Combine well.
3. Add the eggs one at a time, stirring well to incorporate.
4. When the batter looks glossy, add the flour and stir well.
5. Beat the batter 60 times (do it by hand for a nice, quick workout).
6. Pour the batter into the pan and spread into the corners, leaving a nice, even top.
7. Bake for 25 minutes, or until a toothpick inserted into the middle comes out with a few fudgy crumbs clinging to it. Let cool in the pan on a rack.
8. Once cool-ish, lift brownies out of the pan using the paper or foil and let cool completely before slicing and enjoying.

Brownies can be made up to 2 days in advance. Store cooled brownies in an airtight container.