Holiday Blend

I've been taken hostage by cookies and little baggies with string. Going homemade for the holidays, I've been sidetracked from my keyboard by baking sheets and treat boxes and gooey, sweet pounds of...well, now, since some certain family members may be grazing these pages I won't say what exactly, but I'll just say chocolate may or may not be involved.

My furious baking has also taken me away from recipes not involving excessive amounts of butter or cups packed with sugar. I'm starting to forget about vegetables. I promise we'll start the new year with a confettied parade of green leaves and baby tomatoes, but for now, let's just be sugar drunk for a little longer.

In addition to little white lights and the smell of pine, I've always been particularly fond of the holiday season as it is a widely celebrated excuse to eat sweets. Because the more the merrier is a true sentiment, and because the more friends, the more cookies you can bake, since we last chatted some of the best people in the Greenpoint area gathered in the name of great goodies; I baked, Russ sprinkled nutmeg on seriously frothy eggnog, and our friends snacked, pinning cloves into ribbon-tied oranges for a deliciously scented, affordable option in the way of ornaments.


Vanilla-sugar coated, soft molasses drops were the bat-sign of cookies shining bright on a starry Brooklyn night; everyone answered the call leaving crumbs of glittery sugar. One of my favorites, I promise you the smell of these baking is so warm and fantastic it actually feels good down to your toes.


Almost as good, that is, as it does to snack with your favorite sweeties. While there are certainly times that call of solitary ice cream consumption, and while there will always midnight snacks where you eat just one more of those brownies than you would have if someone were watching...the holidays remind me that I love food for the way it unites us, unwinds us, and gives us shiny moments to feel needed and be nourished.


I'm sure you are all packing wool socks and flannel pj's in preparation for your own holiday plans. I myself am heading to Michigan with Russ to seriously celebrate my love for snow (and family), so it may be a little while till we meet here again. But before we go, I'd like to give you one last snack; a childhood favorite of Russ's, try filling dried dates with peanut butter, finishing them off with a roll in white sugar:


If I could wrap them in a box for you I would. A sweet snack from me to you as I'm so truly glad you've all found your way to my little corner shop of a blog. And because I'm looking out for you, after the holidays, vegetables, I promise.

From the glow of eight candles to stars perched on tree tops, I wish you all warm sugary holidays. Safe travels! Eat up!

Peanut Butter-Stuffed Sugar Dates

Dried dates
Peanut butter
Granuated sugar

1. Cut a slit into the middle of a dried date.
2. Using knife, spread a bit of peanut butter into the date.
3. Roll in sugar.
4. Repeat until full.

Yield
your heart's desire

The Great Scone Experiment

My apron is my lab coat.  My kitchen, my lab.  The experiment?  Solving the equation for creating a perfect scone.

I've shared with you my deep feelings for breakfast.  All things starchy and sweet in particular.  However, in a sea of malted waffles and flapping jacks, I've always been particularly fascinated by what we call the scone.  It's a chameleon in the pastry case.  It's cakey, crumbly, dense...sweet then savory... almost always delicious but almost never the same.  

How curious.  I feel a call to experiment.   In the name of science (and yes, because I love love love scones) I decide I will work in a cloud of flour to discover the perfect mix of butter and sugar, trying currants, chocolate chips, herbs and cheese, tirelessly seeking out the ratio for a scone that embodies true...scone-iness.  

Trial 1.  I start with cranberries:

And ginger.  Hypothesizing that the shining example of a scone should have the ability to change with the times, I observe the times now call for holiday breakfasts complimented with scents of fresh pine and cold winter air. What better then, than ruby berries and warm spice.

But what about the meat of the scone?  Whirling around from the cutting board, facing the drawing board...I quickly remember it's blank.  With the number of scone recipes in the world as many as there are bakeries and breakfast buffets, I decide the most scientifically methodical decision is to spin the globe, close my eyes, and drop my finger.  

It lands on a new cookbook in my collection, "The Sweeter Side of Amy's Bread".  Cream scones to be exact.  Alright I say.  We're off. 

Stirring together flour, spice, berries and brown sugar, a stream of heavy cream brings it all together in a gooey blob of a dough; as I mix it up to the morning croons of Otis Redding, I make an observation that thus far the recipe is simple enough to allow mixing and simultaneous shimmying.  A check in the plus column.

On the table it's a bit of a sticky mess.  Not unmanageable, just enough to get your hands dirty.  The cold creamy dough coats my fingers like a spa treatment, breakfast style.  Taking care to keep the dough fairly thick (the method reminds that the scones tend to spread significantly during baking), I slice six large triangles and send them into the oven.  Then I wash my hands.

One mug of coffee and a few eager peeks into the oven later, the first run of the experiment nears it's close.  Pulling the tray from the oven, pushing smart looking glasses up for a close look, I note the scones look soft, have spread slightly and smell, well, heavenly.  

I too note my rumbling stomach and commence the final phase of testing.  Tasting.  The result?A success for cakey scone supporters.  They are very light, slightly crumbly, very moist and happily, very tasty.

These winter wonderfuls are a good place to start.  I ate two and wished there were more.  But I wonder, should they have been firmer?  Thicker?  I ponder.  Is there such a thing as a perfect scone or is a scone a scone because of it's shape-shifting sweetness?  For the sake of research, and a little bit for my love of scones, the experiment shall continue.  

Stay tuned.  Until next time, I wish you cakey cranberry ginger scones, happy holiday breakfasts, a shimmy or two and lots of Otis Redding.

Cranberry Ginger Scones

adapted from The Sweeter Side of Amy's Bread

3 1/2 C flour

1 T plus 1 t baking powder

1 1/2 t salt

6 t ground ginger

1 C dark brown sugar

2 1/2 C fresh or frozen cranberries, chopped

2 2/3 C heavy cream

1 egg (for egg wash)

Turbinado sugar for sprinkling

1.  Preheat oven to 400.

2.  Whisk together flour, baking powder, salt and ginger.  Stir in brown sugar until evenly distributed.

3.  Stir in cranberries.

4.  Make a well and pour in heavy cream.  Stir with a wooden spoon or spatula until a soft dough is formed, strong enough to hold its shape without spreading.  If the dough is too stiff you can add a little more cream.

5.  Divide the dough evenly in two.  Gently shape each piece into a disk about 2 inches thick.  It will be VERY STICKY!  Go with it, enjoy it.

6.  Using a floured knife, cut each disk into six wedges.

7.  Place six on a sheet tray leaving as much space around each as possible.  Brush with egg wash (1 egg plus 1 t water), and sprinkle tops with turbinado sugar.

8.  Bake at 400 for 7 minutes.  Rotate pans, lower oven to 350, continue baking for 15 to 20 more minutes.  Scones should be golden brown and firm to the touch.  You can turn the oven down to 325 if your scones are browning too quickly.

9.  Do a shimmy and eat a scone!

Yield

12 large scones

Soup: A Love List

In an ode to love letters and grocery lists, here are 15 reasons (seasoned with one recipe) for which I am smitten with soup.

1. While it's not officially winter, it is officially cold. And soup, well, it's hot. It's the warm-cocoa-in-a-mug of nourishing meals.

2. Unlike cocoa, soup is further like tea; it knows no season. Or rather, it knows them all. While it warms in the winter it also glistens in the spring, satisfies in summer, soothes in the fall.

3. Soup is a white t-shirt and a slinky black dress. In a cup on a sick day, in a thermos for a quick lunch, in a white china bowl in a candlelit restaurant...it always looks good.

4. And what can't you put in it? Soup does not discriminate. Potatoes and ham. Coconut and chicken. Hazelnuts and mushrooms. Or, say...a bumpy pile of sunchokes.

5. Soup is easy. A handful of this, a sprinkle of that; add liquid and veggies, meat and seasonings, turn up the heat and you are your own chef; the soup's on.

6. Soup is comfortable. It is no hard shelled lobster. No fishy filet full of fragile bones. On a white tablecloth full of silvery silverware you can always find the soup spoon. A bowl feels good in your hands. A spoon, good between your lips.

7. Soup is sipable. Soup is slurpable.

8. It can be as simple or as complex as your time and tastebuds wish. Chicken and noodles or a melange of mysterious spices. If you're thinking sunchokes try shallots, sage, thyme and garlic.

9. Soup keeps you on your toes. It's thin and clear, smooth and thick, subtle and indulgent, chunky and nourishing. As many times as you've had it, it can continually surprise.

10. And continually change. You love clam chowder? A career could be made from tasting the varieties that simmer with people's secret ingredients.

11. So how wonderful is it then that chicken soup isn't always just chicken soup. Tomato bisque, not simply tomatoes and cream. A good soup is layered with flavors brewing just underneath the surface; to add some shazaam to your sunchoke soup, sautee andouille sausage with the seasonings before adding broth and veggies

12. And while it cooks, listen. Soup sizzles, hisses, beats and bubbles.

13. When its done, the more the merrier. No need to scrimp with soup; plunging a long spoon into a tall pot, it is satiating, even before the first bite, to know you're stirring a meal meant for feeding people you love.

14. Soup is the little dish that can. It stands alone as well as it complements a good salad, or teases before a feast. Try your sunchoke and sausage soup with a sandwich on crusty bread.

15. And best of all, soup has long arms. It leaves no one out and it squeezes tight. A fine she-crab bisque, or a campfire steak and potato stew, cabbage stock or broth with alphabet noodles, gumbo or puree of sunchokes, isn't soup something we all have in common?

Sunchoke Soup with Andouille Sausage

2 pounds sunchokes
1 medium to large link of andouille sausage*
8 medium sized shallots
3 cloves of garlic
4 springs of thyme, picked
1 T fresh sage, chopped
salt
pepper
2 T olive oil
2 qt chicken stock

*in a pinch, anything slightly spiced and smoked will do!

1. Peel and chop sunchokes. (don't let the bumps scare you...just peel right over them, and if you loose a little flesh, no big whoop)
2. Slice sausage into 1/2 inch medallions, then chop slices to quarter.
3. In the bottom of a large stock pot, over medium heat, pour olive oil and sautee sausage, shallots, thyme, sage and garlic plus salt and pepper to taste. Heat until shallots are sweated and translucent. And when peppering, remember your sausage packs a punch! Pepper with care.
4. Add sunchokes and heat together for 2 min, stirring to brown lightly.
5. Cover with stock. Bring to a boil, then reduce to a simmer and let cook for about 45 min (or until sunchokes are tender).
6. Remove from heat. Let cool for about 20-30 min.
7. In a blender, puree half of the soup. BE CAREFUL! Hot soup in a blender has a tendency to get rowdy and explode out the top due to the steam...to prevent this, leave a small hole between the body of the blender and the lid (facing away from you!) and cover the top with towels to shield your hands from hot soup.
8. Pour pureed soup back into pot, stir.
9. Reheat to taste and serve.

Yield
approx 6 entree sized, soup lover servings

Pretty Cups, Pounds of Chocolate

What inspires creativity in the kitchen?  Sweet potatoes from the farmer's market.  A new cookbook.  A rainy day.  Cravings.  Time.  There are as many sources as there are ways to cook an egg.  Not so long ago celebrating birthday number 27, I was given a set of beautiful, dreamy tea cups; in the time it takes to rip wrapping paper, inspiration!

It was clear to me that these little cups were meant for something special.  Something as indulgent as the golden, spiraling, dotted flowers that circled their thin rims.  Something as festive as the wintery-brilliant colors splashed on the saucers.  Something rich enough to let one tiny cup get the job done.

For me, more often than from dishware, inspiration in the kitchen comes from taking a close look at what's around.  On chilly days off from work, when you want to cook, but are also passionately committed to long underwear and slippers, creativity can be born from what's at hand in the pantry.  

Today my eyes fall on one 11 pound box of dark chocolate.  

I know this is not normal pantry fare.  I often wish on eyelashes and birthday candles and clocks at 11:11 for everyone's pantries to be heavy with pounds of chocolate.  Myself having made an investment some time ago figuring I'd benefit from chocolate on days just as today, this morning my special pantry provided just the idea for those special cups.

Hot chocolate.  Dark, excessively thick, milky hot chocolate.  Wheels still turning I see rosemary.  Really rolling now I think  caramel.  In a whir I grab bowls and milk and pots and sugar.

Wait.  Rosemary?  I know having 11 pounds of chocolate in my cupboard may imply insanity but follow me on this one.  In recent chats on navigating the path between sweet and savory Russ and I agreed that rosemary might indeed be a mighty little Magellan.  Earthy, wintery, fresh...combined with warm, nutty and sweet...tingling with the spirit of adventure that comes from new plans in the kitchen I decided it was time to test the waters.

So the rosemary set sail into a caramel.  Heating cream and steeping fresh rosemary needles in the pot I envision the herby caramel a cashmere scarf wrapped around scruffy, bearded cheeks; sweet and cozy with a hint of rustic wintry bite.

Slowly pouring the cream into a pot of caramelized hot sugar, the mixture froths wildly and fills the room with rich, herbal, sweet smelling steam.  For the hot chocolate base, boiling milk poured into a bowl of little chocolate pebbles further enhances the merry mix of scents and steam that warm the kitchen, wafting and fogging up windows.

To finish the drink I whisk the caramel into the thin chocolate ganache.  I dip a spoon into the bowl.  Inside slippers my toes are tickled.  My belly is happy.  And while my box of chocolate is a few ounces lighter, the taste test proves the experiment well worth the cocoa butter.  A fine, handsome drink for that dainty cup.

Maybe you don't have pounds of chocolate on hand.  Maybe your cups are cracked or coffee stained.  I have those too; don't worry about it.  Let this recipe inspire you to try a little cup of something delicious.  Let it give you some oohs and ahhs, some slippered-toe tickles,  and maybe let it lead you to your next great kitchen discovery (if that's the rationalization of excessive pantry chocolate stashing, all the better...)

Rosemary Caramel Hot Chocolate

For the caramel:

1 1/2 C heavy cream

2 large sprigs of rosemary, picked (about 2 T)

1 C sugar

For the chocolate base:

12 oz. dark chocolate, chopped (about 2 C)

4 C milk

1.  To make the caramel, first heat cream to a near boil.  Take cream off the heat, stir in rosemary, cover and let steep for about 5 min.

2.  Strain rosemary and reserve 1 C of cream.

3.  In a small pot, mix sugar with water (enough to make sugar feel like heavy, wet sand.  Don't stress...too much water won't hurt).  On high heat, cook until sugar reaches a beautiful, amber brown.

4.  Turn off heat.  Immediately, slowly stream in 1 C of cream.  Pour carefully- the mixture will foam up!  Stir caramel until smooth.

5.  To make the chocolate base, in a medium pot bring milk to a boil.

6.  In a large bowl, pour hot milk over chocolate.  Cover for 2 minutes without stirring.  

7.  Uncover, and whisk until mixture is smooth.

8.  Whisk in the rosemary caramel.

Yield

approx 1 qt

Turkeys Travel Too

I had planned on writing to you yesterday, but on the way to my computer I fell into a turkey and stuffing and sweet potatoes with toasted marshmallows coma, stretched out on the floor in front of my parent's fireplace, and fell asleep.

I've finally shaken my turkey stupor.  But I'm not quite finished with the turkey talk yet.  Now, now, before you turn around and run for fear of overdosing on any more Thanksgiving food let me set your groaning stomachs at ease; no turkey recipes, I promise.  I know the day has come and gone but there is something I have to share with you before we truly call it a day.

This year I stumbled upon something special.  An extraordinary turkey.  A bird with a story.

Before the last Thursday of every year's November, we travel from our corners, all with the same destination: tables holding pounds of golden, crispy turkey.  We come from Brooklyn, the west coast, just around the corner...all for the bird.  But what about that bird?  It travels too.  All years before this I'd say our turkey came from the grocery store.  Before the store? Hmm.  Maybe I'd rather not know.

This year it was different.  My turkey came from Kansas.  It came from The Good Shepherd Turkey Ranch.  It was farmed by Frank Reese Jr.  Frank Reese Jr. has a mustache.  This year I'm all in the know just from reading the package of my Heritage Turkey.

Heritage turkeys are ancestors of the industrial, Broad-breasted White turkey we find in our store coolers today.  They can have a lineage as far stretching as 150 years back, and are raised on small farms in the heartland of the U.S.  Domestic breeds, largely in danger of extinction as industrial farms pack chain groceries with heavy, antibiotic rich turkeys, to save the Heritage breeds farmer's would tell you we need to eat them.

For those in the east and the west, the north and the south, wondering...how?  Heritage Foods USA.  A business created by Patrick Martins, the founder of Slow Foods USA, Heritage Foods provides consumers with the Heritage breeds of turkey that need your ovens and gravy to stay alive.  A connection between the small farmers and your holiday company, with a Heritage bird you are assured a vegetarian fed, free range turkey.  A happy bird.  You'll know where it came from, who raised it.

And I can tell you, you'll know it will taste delicious.  Richer, full of flavor, and so mouthwateringly moist...

Best of all, it doesn't stop at turkey.  You're full of turkey, I know.  Heritage Foods USA also has pork, beef, lamb.  Charcuterie.  Even fruit preserves and snacks.  All from regional producers (like Frank Jr.) who celebrate honest American traditions of farming and food production.  Some have mustaches, some don't.

During a time when we travel to say thanks to our favorite people, I couldn't help but feel thankful for the traveling turkeys, that there are still healthy birds and people to plan their trips to our table.

I know you can't wait for Chinese take-out night.  Pizza.  Anything but more turkey (thank you for allowing me a few, possibly gratuitous post-Thanksgiving turkey photos!)  I just couldn't let pass the opportunity to share with you my discovery in hopes it will excite you too.

And remember, your Christmas goose is just around the corner, your Hanukkah brisket not far behind...

Wishful Whiskeying: Part III, a conclusion and a cocktail

The past four days here in Brooklyn have been cold.  Really cold.  Mittens and a hat and a scarf and you're still shivery cold.  The consistency of four days in a row, I fear, means winter is close by.  And that, my friends, means it's about time to finish up that fall whiskey.

Taking a taste on the fourth day of infusing it was agreed upon that the flavor was just right.  The number of days had created a taste that was new and yet still with the definable feel and personality of straight bourbon.  After all the pears and nuts and cinnamon sticks, was I finally headed towards the title of whiskey girl extraordinaire?

Before the clock struck cocktail hour there remained one final step.  Time to strain.  To do this we gathered a large rubber band, scissors and a few pieces of cheese cloth.  

Folding the cheesecloth, creating layers to make a tight filter, we rubber banded the cloth over the jar lid and simply poured it from jar to spouted cup.

Warning: to those of you who look eagerly at the nutty mix of whiskey soaked spiced pears remaining at the bottom of the infusing jar...do not eat them.  Do not do it.  Yes, it was hard to throw away those remaining goodies, but thinking surely there was something that could be done with them I bit into a pear to knockout alcoholic, squish squashy results.  The pears have done their work.  Let them go.

And let yourself raise a glass!  Pouring the bourbon into a clean bottle it was like positioning a trophy as I arranged it on a shelf in the kitchen.  Admiring the amber mix a thought crossed my mind: it's wonderfully warming to take serious time creating something meant to be slowly savored.

And after waiting and wondering and wishing, how wonderful and warming is the first taste of the highly anticipated?  With the wind whipping at the kitchen windows all the shivers now were only in excitement of the first sip.

Spicy, subtly sweet, toasty and tingling.  I am a whisky girl for this.

I'm also still the pre-bourbon Kaitlin.  I like rosy drinks.  I haven't bought a red dress and while I am pleased with the fall harvest treat I'm not ready for a glass on the rocks.  But the possibilities only start on ice.  Inspired by the chilly weather and turkeys to be, Russ and I evolved the fall harvest bourbon into a crowd pleasing, company keeping holiday cocktail: hot-buttered cider bourbon, or what we like to call a "Baked Apple".

Straight, sweetened, dressed up or dressed in slippers, I hope you find just the way to make your bourbon your own.  And that your bourbon finds you a little warmth in your week.

Baked Apple

hot-buttered fall harvest bourbon with cider

1/2 T butter

2 t brown sugar

3 oz (just less than half a cup) fall harvest bourbon

6 oz (3/4 of a cup) apple cider

1.  Place butter, brown sugar and bourbon in a mug.

2.  Heat cider until hot enough to melt butter.

3.  Pour hot cider into the mug, whisking until sugar has dissolved and butter has melted.

4.  Garnish with a cinnamon stick and serve hot.

Yield

one serving

Wholly Pumpkin

In between all this talk of strong whiskey I feel the need for something wholesome.  Namely, pie.  Pumpkin pie.  It is the season after all, and if we are really being honest, when is there a wrong time for pie?

I have many pie ambitions.  I aspire to shape flawlessly crimped crusts.  I will find the perfect recipe for both flaky and mealy dough (I happen to prefer a crumbly crust!)  Among my many pie dreams is nestled a shamefully simple wish: to make a pumpkin pie from an actual pumpkin.  How this has yet to be, I often ask ask myself.  And while there will always be a place in my stomach for mom's Libby's canned pumpkin pie, I recently decided it was time to get back to basics and slice into a real, big, orange pumpkin.

Full of that enthusiasm you get from setting out to fulfill a lifelong quest, I pick two picture worthy, round and deeply orange sugar pumpkins from a big pile at my local grocery.  Two, and not just the sufficient one, because...I get excited.  Quest fulfilling enthusiasm is a powerful thing.

And speaking of powerful things, I'm sure all you pie people out there will confirm, once you start thinking about pie you can't compartmentalize that kind of want.  It calls for instant gratification.  Back in the kitchen, it's pie time.

To make pumpkin puree is a simple task.  The largest challenge really lies in getting into the pumpkin itself.  With a sharp knife, stabbing at the thick rind I felt ghoulish, a little like some form of vegetarian butcher.  Then, shaking the ghoul and setting down the knife, breaking open the pumpkin, comes a beauty moment.  Beauty moments are what I call those times when you, a true lover of food, think to yourself just how beautiful -- physically, colorfully, texturally -- food can be.  When you think, "that grows, naturally...like that!"  My fellow pie lovers, a beauty moment:

Scraping out the flesh I remember being a little girl, soaking my fingers into slimy, stringy pumpkin goo to pick out seeds for toasting on pumpkin carving night.  I make sure to save the seeds from these sugar pumpkins to do the same.

Once clean, the halves go face down on parchment lined baking sheets and into a toasty 425-450 degree F oven.  Working on the crust I'll admit, a near crisis ensues as I nearly forget about the precious beauty moment inspiring pumpkins.  It's a mystery among many burn-prone bakers...how when things go into the oven simultaneously the mind goes out for a drink.

But I come to just in time.  A small pumpkin should take about 40 minutes until the flesh is soft and the skin peels right off.

Once cool, the food processor comes out.  A few pulses, a whir, a hum, and the pumpkin turns into a sweet, brilliant, glistening pumpkin-pie-dream-fulfilling puree.

The rest is just like mom makes.  Eggs, cinnamon, allspice, sugar.  Adding a little more spice than the recipe calls for I watch the mixture turn a deep, rich and warm brown.  I pour it into the unbaked, not quite perfectly (yet) crimped crust.  And into the oven it goes.

Coming out, I think, "My god I love pie!"  Smelling it hot out of the oven I think it's a shame pumpkin pie tastes so much better chilled.  Waiting for it to cool I think how surprisingly happy I now am to have a freezer full of excessive amounts of pumpkin puree (re: the pumpkin buying enthusiasm).

The result of the real pumpkin adventure?  Worth it.  Perhaps worth getting excited and buying two, making extra puree and having it on hand to keep for the next time...less messy, and quicker.  But turning a pumpkin into a pie is a trick worth feeling enthusiastic about.  The flavor is sweet, but in an organic way, more complex and rich.  I didn't include a recipe for the pie because you can simply slip your puree into your own favorite pie recipe (I know pies can get very personal.)  You will however find a seed suggestion...for something to eat while you are waiting for the pie to cool.

Spiced Vanilla Pumpkin Seeds

The cleaned seeds from 1 pumpkin

Melted butter to coat

Sugar to coat

1/2 vanilla bean, scraped

approx 1/2 t spice blend (or spice to taste)

Spice blend:

2 parts cinnamon

1 part nutmeg

1 part allspice

1/2 part cardamom

1.  Toss seeds in melted butter.

2.  Sprinkle with sugar and toss to coat.

3.  Stir in the inside of vanilla bean and spice blend...add more or less spice according to your taste.

4.  Spread evenly on a parchment lined baking sheet.

5.  Bake at 350 degrees F until golden brown, stirring often.

Wishful Whiskeying: Part II, bourbon in the morning?

In the past two days something has gone awry. Don't worry, the bourbon is tasting delicious. But...somehow instead of slipping on that red dress, I've found myself sipping from a shot glass in my robe and slippers.

Now, now. I'm just tasting. And while I'm not suggesting you complement your morning omelet with a strong drink (other than a good dark roast cup of joe), it's just been too exciting to wait until the sun goes down to taste the changes in the bourbon each day. Right away it grew cloudier as the pears rose to the top, the nuts settling to the bottom.


On day two it was softer...I sipped and when no whiskey face ensued I nearly fell out of my slippers. Today I could start to taste pear and the sugars from the fruit. Looking for a little more spice we added half of one cinnamon stick and another tablespoon size piece of ginger.

Remember, before you try your mix each day give the jar a slow turn upside down to gently stir it up. For now our jar is back on the shelf and tasting like it will only need a few more days worth of infusing. All the fun is in making it exactly how you like; mixing and waiting and sipping...even in your slippers.

Check back soon for the final report and a cocktail recipe suited for sleepy, post-Thanksgiving dinner night caps.

Wishful Whiskeying: Part I, an experiment in infusions

It's bothered me on more than one occasion that I cannot drink whiskey. If I could have it my way I'd be the kind of girl that could sit down in a red dress at a bar, toss my hair carelessly and order, "Whiskey, neat." Sometimes I toss my hair, but now that I'm thinking about it, I don't even own a red dress. What happens when I try whiskey is that my face wrinkles into a prune, my mouth burns and I make a strange involuntary, "plecchh," sound while my tongue shoots out (all of this further reason for me to forgo whiskey, especially in public places). I hate to admit it, but with the exception of a good gin and tonic, I am in fact partial to pink drinks that fizz.

Maybe it's the change in the season approaching, or a little chilly weather restlessness, but I've recently rediscovered my want to be a whiskey girl. I look to my right hand man. I think what a happy coincidence he happens to make a living mixing up spirits at New York City's Gramercy Tavern. And even better, that he's recently plotted to bring his work home, gathering jars and fruit and spices to make original whiskey infusions. As bottles and shot glasses come out, our kitchen island transforms into a bar and I decide this experiment will be good for me (and hopefully you too).

So welcome to day one. The project is called Fall Harvest Bourbon; 750mL of Bourbon whiskey infused with pears, hazelnuts, cinnamon, nutmeg and ginger.

As we peel pears and toast nuts I feel a bit like a kid making a mud stew with sticks and berries. It's a carefree way of cooking; chop it all up, and throw it in a jar. Smelling the toasty hazelnuts and the refreshing bite of the ginger we add, improving the planned ingredients a touch, I think this may be the kind of whiskey I can really get into.


And then my spiced pear dreaming is interrupted. With all the ingredients in the jar (save the alcohol), Russ pours a shot of the Buffalo Trace Bourbon. He pushes it towards me. "Here," he says. A reality check. I am not ready for this. Has he never seen my straight whiskey face? I panic. I wonder. I sigh. Only in the name of understanding the transformation from pre-infused to spicy sweet Bourbon do I hesitantly take a sip. No picture will follow of the face that ensued.

But it is a good start. Pouring the bourbon into the jar, I still feel the caramel, slightly musky and hot flavor burned into my mouth. I will know the difference when I taste it. And when will that be, I hear you thirstily ask? A general range is about three to five days, perhaps longer, though you should taste it every day to decide when it's reached the perfect point. Remember: this is the start of a few entries so don't feel lost and confused, we'll drink and work it out together.


Closing up the jar, we turn it over once, gently, then back to an upright position. It is set on a shelf to start it's transformation. A culinary science project of sorts, I stare at the amber mixture as if waiting for some sort of flashy chemical reaction to take place.


While it's no baking soda volcano, something is happening. I think about all the flavors melding and mixing and expect this project to be a serious step in my pursuit of an affinity for whiskey. Below you will find the recipe for our first go around, but note that it’s a recipe in development; check back soon for changes and taste tests.

With the Bourbon on the shelf for now, I think I might go shop around for a red dress.

Fall Harvest Bourbon
(a starting point)

750mL Bourbon
1 C pears, peeled, thickly sliced
1/2 C hazelnuts, toasted
1 cinnamon stick
1 tsp fresh nutmeg (1/2 tsp pre-ground nutmeg)
1 chunk ginger, about the size of a tablespoon

1. Put all ingredients in a large jar.
2. Pour alcohol over ingredients.
3. Seal jar. Gently turn over once.
4. Put the jar on a shelf...
5. Take a sip everyday and check back here while you wait and see!

For the Love of Breakfast

        If the stories I write to you are any representation of myself and my appetite, then it's about time we get around to breakfast.  I love breakfast.  I love, love, love breakfast.  Pastries, pancakes, cinnamoned oatmeal and honey-flaked cereal...it was early in my life that I realized how near breakfast was to dessert and it's been close to my heart ever since.

       I also swoon for the first meal of the day because as a rule, I wake up starving.  I'm with a bagel and coffee no less that 15 minutes out of bed.  Skipping breakfast is...an offensive thought.  I could never do it.  In fact, on sleepy weekends when others rise at noon, it's often my growling stomach that forces my lids up before the sun and moves my feet to swing out from under warm covers.

        Take this morning for example.  A wonderfully grey, rainy Saturday and I'm up by eight o'clock pondering what's good in the kitchen.  Weekend mornings like this one, on the dry side of rain-drizzled windows, these are my favorite for they give you the time to make breakfast an event.  Scones, waffles...a little flour and a dash of elbow grease yield the food you work through the week to get to.

        Thumbing through the King Arthur Flour Baker's Companion I scanned for the perfect Saturday starch.  Pancakes?  No buttermilk in the fridge.  Biscuits?  No honey or jam.  Reviewing the options, I could feel my hunger snowballing with every recipe read.  Fifteen minutes down; a decision needed to be made, fast.  I flipped the page.  In the top left corner the heading read "Welsh Cakes."  Welsh cakes?  The thrilling, rare occurrence of a breakfast goodie just discovered!    Described in italics as a cross between a pancake and a biscuit, the deal was sealed and the Welsh cakes were on.

        I should note that my love for breakfast is deepened by the inherent comfort both of making and eating it.  In the quiet hours of an early day there has always been something calming about noiselessly whisking together flour and sugar.  And I know it may be wrong, but facing a white-canvased morning, I've never managed to feel guilty about anything I eat for breakfast.

        So this morning I whisked quietly, stirring flour, sugar, nutmeg and allspice.  Looking for a substitution for currants, I chose very thinly sliced bananas, the fruit that both my mother and Russ will claim a cure all in times of hunger, headaches, heartache, dehydration, sleeplessness and stomach bugs alike.

        Now before I get to the griddle, allow me to bring something to light.  Surely there are many kinds of cooks in the world (some with a love of breakfast, others, bananas).  However, more specifically among the varieties there are those who are patient and methodical no matter the situation, and those who abandon focus and control while cooking when hungry.  Please remember how much time must have passed at this point since I'd risen.  I am not the first kind of cook.

        Thus, there were two results of my nature in the kitchen this morning.  One, I discovered that Welsh cake dough is delicious raw.  Second, was the creation of a new method, much faster yet ultimately producing a cake more...rustic in appearance (below you'll find both approaches so you can personalize your morning cake).  Ditching a process of chilling, rolling out and biscuit cutting perfectly thin, round cakes, I threw the bowl of dough in the freezer for five minutes, hand-patted thick cakes and flattened them on the griddle with a spatula.  My stomach and I are working on patience in the face of sweet dough.

        Whether you choose thin and lovely or thicker and slightly misshapen, I think you will find the result of your Welsh cakes a curl-up-on-the-couch-with-your-coffee classic.  Firm enough to pick up but soft and tender inside, the cakes were warmly spiced, sugary and so pleasantly filling.

        Sprinkle them with powdered sugar, drizzle them with syrup, cover them with jam or butter.  And if you believe in the power of something other than bananas, say blueberries, crushed nuts or dried cranberries, trade out the banana, put in what you love.

        Sneak into the early-morning quiet of your kitchen next weekend, heat up your griddle and try these sweet little breakfast cakes.  And for you late sleepers, a tip from an early weekend riser; if everyone is still sleeping, no one will see you eat the dough.        

Spiced Banana Welsh Cakes

adapted from The King Arthur Flour Baker's Companion

1 1/2 C all purpose flour

1/2 C sugar

1 t baking powder

1/2 t nutmeg

1/2 t allspice

1/8 t salt

1/2 C (1 stick) butter

1 banana

1 egg beaten, with enough milk added to equal 3/8 C

Method 1: Oh my god I need to eat RIGHT NOW.

1.  In a medium bowl, whisk together flour, sugar, baking powder, nutmeg, allspice and salt.

2.  Rub in butter with your hands until it is in coarse chunks, evenly distributed in the flour.

3.  Thinly slice the banana, and stir into the dry ingredients.

4.  Stir in egg and milk, creating a wet dough.

5.  Put the dough in the freezer for 5-10 minutes.

6.  Heat a griddle or frying pan, coat with butter.

7.  With floured hands form a cake about 3 inches wide and 1/2 and inch thick, dropping it onto the griddle.

8.  Cook until golden brown on one side, pressing down gently to spread as it cooks.  Flip*, and cook until golden brown on the other side.

*it may be hard to flip cleanly, but hey, it will taste the same either way and you are hungry.

Method 2:  I would like to impress my guests and will make these the pretty way.

1-4. See above.

5.  Refrigerate dough for about 30 minutes or until not too sticky to roll out.

6.  Working with one half of the dough at a time (reserving the rest in the fridge), roll out the dough to 1/4 inch.

7.  Using a biscuit or circle cookie cutter, cut rounds (the size is up to your taste) from the dough.

8.  Cook on griddle as instructed above.  

Yield

approx 10 1/2 inch thick, 4 in wide (once pressed) rustic cakes

approx  20 1/4 inch thick, 4 in wide lovely looking cakes

A Secret and a Chicken

        I have a secret.  Well, perhaps more of a guilty admission to make.  Remember that Vermont apple wine I wrote of?  Oaky and olive-ish?  Well.  The cold hard truth is that in reality it was...gross.  There, I said it.  Gross.  It was oaky and olive-ish but also tart and vinegary.  I wanted to like it, but I also wanted it to taste like a magically alcoholic cider that would warm one's toes on chilly nights.  This drink, it was not.

        In fairness, it was an interesting concoction.  Maybe it wasn't meant for my glass but with three-quarters of a bottle looking lonely on my countertop I couldn't bring myself to pour it into the sink.  Plus, I really did want to like this drink with such a nice title: apple wine, a drink that stirs cozy images of rustic winters.  To drink or not to drink?

        Perhaps neither.  Enter, the chicken.  To drink or...to poach!  Resourceful and more than helpful in the kitchen, Russ considered the bottle then speculated; dry and savory, maybe the stovetop was just the home this wine was looking for.  It was an interesting idea.

        Now, before we go on, another admission: generally, I don't feel strongly for things poached.  The concept of a poached food has always brought to mind images of squishy eggs and slimy salmon.  But for the love of wine, on this particular night I decided to give poaching a go, if nothing else in the name of finding a way to like that rascally apple drink.

        Enter fresh rosemary and sage.  Enter garlic and onions.  Enter bacon.  All chopped up on a cutting board, I declare there is nothing like the scent of fresh herbs...drinking in the air around a bunch of fresh rosemary is like a green aperitif.  And bacon, well the sheer suggestion of a thick slice, waiting to be cooked, waters the mouth and puts grumbles in the stomach.

        Manning the tongs, staring that bottle of wine in the eye, Russ took on the chicken while I cared for a side- a bit of butternut squash risotto thanks to Gourmet (if you're looking at the recipe we omitted the arugula).  With a pan, a bottle of olive oil and seasonings close by, it was a brush off the cutting board, a clip and toss of the tongs and voila, onions were sputtering and the bacon was on.  I love the smell of onions cooking; it smells of the start of so many delicious possibilities.

        Three juicy chicken breasts snuggled into the mix and it was time.  Streaming wine into the pan the aroma grew full almost instantly.  The heat, the herbs, the super-hero power of bacon...all smells pointed to yes, perhaps this merry melange was just what the bottle was meant for.  The wine bubbled around the chicken, a woodsy smelling bath, herbs and wine and bird all cooking contently together.

        We popped a lid on it, drank gin and tonics to our health, and for our health boiled a lovely, leafy pile of curly green kale (you're giving poaching a chance...now's the time, try boiled kale too!)  Even if you don't like eating dark leafies, I always find that it at least feels good to cook them.  

        One cocktail down, a pot of kale drained and a heaping bowl of risotto steaming on the back burner, it was a happy kitchen...and, time to test the chicken.  I reached for the lid...  Lifted it up...  Wafting, scented steam wrote the end of the story in fragrant loops through the air.  The heavy, sharp flavor of the wine was the perfect backdrop for the earthy-herbed, salt and peppered, bacon-bettered chicken breasts.  From gross to good god that smells great!  Spooning all the goodies from the pan over the chicken, it was decided that the apple wine had led to a triumphant plate indeed.

        And so I reconciled my feelings with that bottle.  Tasty things come in tricky packages.  Apple wine, things poached, even boiled greens (I'm serious...try them).  A meal like this doesn't just feed your hunger, it makes you hungry to find the next surprising feast.  I hope you like it.

        And no more secrets here, I promise.

Apple Wine Poached Chicken

2 T olive oil

2 tsp  fresh sage, finely chopped

2 sprigs fresh rosemary, picked

1/2  a medium sized red onion, roughly chopped

3 strips of bacon, chopped

1 clove garlic, thinly sliced

1/2 T butter

3 chicken breasts (roughly 1 1/2 pounds)

approx 1/2 bottle apple wine*

*if you can't find apple wine, a white wine such as a riesling will be equally delicious...add a 1/2 T or so of apple vinegar to imitate the fermented flavor of the apple wine.

1.  In a medium frying pan, over medium heat, sautee sage, rosemary, onions, bacon, and garlic (with salt and pepper to your liking) in olive oil until onions begin to sweat.

2.  In the same pan, sear chicken breasts on both sides.

3.  Add butter and stream the wine over the chicken.  You want the wine to come about half-way up the side of the chicken breasts (depending on the size of the pan you are using, you may use more or less than called for in the ingredient list).

4.  Put a lid over the pan, lower the heat and let the wine simmer around the chicken for 15-20 min, or until chicken is cooked through.

       

What Happened In Vermont...

        Fleeing Brooklyn's, no-sign-of-fall, fall streets, I recently snuck up to the North East of Vermont in order to drink cider and properly kick through colored leaves with true autumn-ish abandon.  I went to pick pumpkins, apples, to hike through Halloween-bare woods in the craggy mountains.  And I did.  I hiked and chomped on apples and everything was crisp and delicious and just as I'd hoped until something entirely unexpected happened.

        It began here:

        I'll explain.  Close your eyes and picture the food that horrifies and disgusts you, so much, yet so irrationally you rarely admit your aversion.  That thing for which you've perfected excuses why, "No thank you, you wouldn't care for any," at parties or dinners where everyone around you just loves it.  Maybe it's chocolate, peaches, oysters.  For me, it's cheese.

        After a near 24-year stretch of complete and passionately committed aversion, I now so occasionally nibble at it, and only the mildest of what's out there at that, all the while still amazed that I am actually putting cheese into my body.

        Which I hope now paints a new picture of that fated aisle.

        "Let's get some cheese and wine," my travel partner and main squeeze, Russ, proposed as we grazed through a local food grocery in Burlington.

        "Okay," I say.  Just like that.  It is entirely possible I was distracted by how nice he looked in plaid against the New England background.  Whatever the glitch, before I knew it I was cradling three wedges in the crook of my arm while we stood in line to pay.  I was holding cheese.  I was going to spend an afternoon eating cheese.

        Back at the B&B, beside a fire, with a crossword puzzle, some local honey and Vermont-produced apple wine, I sat in that cozy nook and my friends, did I eat cheese.

        I started sensibly; a thick slice of Vermont Ayr, a raw cow's milk cheese produced on Crawford Family Farm.  Milky, smooth and...sweet, I think to myself.  Another slice with honey on top, then another with a piece of apple underneath.  I felt no reason to stop there and, well, I was happily seizing that sense of adventure.

        The next, an alpine cheese, Tarentaise, from Thistle Hill Farm.  Yum yum.  Made from the organic milk of happy grass-fed cows, it was firm with a slightly salty, very  nutty and completely delicious soft flavor.  At this point, an on-looker may have commented that I appeared to have gone wild.  Though I will not admit it, it is said that I ate almost the entire little block right there, right then...

        In between all the munching, we sipped on North River Winery's Northern Spy Dry Apple Wine; to me, a very novice sipper, the wine exploded oaky with strange and surprising olive flavors.  Peculiar and somewhat tasty though not the easiest to drink, I kept on with the cheese.

        The shocking finale, and perhaps especially helpful if you happen to be a cheese newbie and ready to face the great big bleu...spread the news, an amazing discovery.  Our final choice, a blue cleverly named "Gore Dawn Zola," after one of the cheese makers at Green Mountain Blue Cheese Co., I ate, enjoyed and went back for seconds (it's true!) for the surprisingly mild and gently tangy blue striped cheese.

        My stomach ached an hour later. I wondered, without the country air blowing leaves and a too-perfect crackling fireplace and a handsome man in plaid sitting beside me on a dark leather couch, would this ever happen again?

        What happened in Vermont may stay in Vermont, though I did bring a few wedges home, just in case.

What's At The Bottom Of This Cup?

        Welcome readers!  Snackers!  Picky eaters and proud omnivores! True chefs and those who burn toast! I'm so glad you've found your way here to my corner of the web.

        Sit down, get comfy. What can I offer you? I'd love to hand you a plate of molasses cookies, or ladle you soup from the stove.  If for some sort of Wonka-web, I'd reach out and hand you a mug, dropping marshmallows into your thick cocoa.

        So we'll talk food instead.  If I were to brew you coffee, the grounds at the bottom may read that you've found a place where stories of daily life and food fancies mix into sometimes humorous, occasionally helpful, hopefully entertaining tales from my Brooklyn kitchen.  If I steeped you a cup of tea, the leaves at the bottom would spell that you've found a place from which to take recipes that I hope will feed and please you as they do me.  Along the course of my great scone adventure I want your ideas on what makes the ideal breakfast goodie.  I hope that in your search for the perfect sick-day soup recipe I can help you find your happy bowl.

        Curious, hungry, and ready to share stomach-rumbling yarns both long and short, cheers, courage; to cooking and cocoa and all things delicious.

Bottoms up!