Just some ideas from the archives for your 4th of July weekend. What's on your menu? Share below, or via the Facebook page. (Accessing the page is now easier: just bookmark facebook.com/5secrule)
To go directly to the above recipes, just click the photos.
Have a safe and wonderful 4th of July.
Eat well.
Sometimes kismet touches down and kisses me lightly on the shoulder. That's what happened when I posted a status update on Facebook six months ago. I asked if anyone had leads on a summer house for rent on Cape Cod. Within minutes, a college friend replied: "No leads on the Cape, but my family and I own a house on Martha's Vineyard and we're looking to rent it in late June."
And just like that we landed a place on Martha's Vineyard for the last two weeks of Colin's sabbatical.
So here we are. The house is glorious -- wood beams, spiral staircase, wrap-around porch. Zillions of beach towels. Large loft for giddy children. It's secluded, too, in the woods down a bumpy dirt road, minutes from the beach.
A house like this is meant for sharing, so that's what we're doing; over the next two weeks, we're entertaining a bevy of friends and relatives, because there's nothing better for memory-making than having your loved ones close at hand.
We arrived first. Just the four of us.
Two days later, our friends the Fergusons drove down from New Brunswick, Canada. They endured a nine hour car trip followed by a ferry ride, with three kids in tow. That's dedication.
I could tell you so much about the Fergusons, but I don't have the space. Let's just say that my love for Canadians began with this family. Wendy and I met outside Boston when our firstborns were infants, born only four days apart. Less than two years later, we had our second sons, born five weeks apart. Our kids were like peas in a pod for years.
Then, in late 2003, Colin got a job offer in San Jose, and just like that, our families learned we'd be separated. Wendy also discovered she was pregnant with a little girl; her daughter was born just days before we moved.
So for them to join us on this trip, in this lovely house, by the beach, has been a true reunion, not only for the four boys, but for our entire families.
To herald their arrival, I baked. First, a cake. Then nectarine scones, Dutch babies...
... spaghetti with pesto and sausage, and chocolate chip pancakes. There's been black bean and vegetable soup, hamburgers and hot dogs, goat cheese toasts, and salads with watermelon, mint, and baby greens.
Wendy even helped me style some photos...
... in her pajamas.
So though I'm not posting often, I'm still trying to keep you in the loop.
If you were here, I'd offer you a scone. They've got fresh nectarines, and a sprinkle of nutmeg-sugar.
Pull up an Adirondack chair.
Join us.
...
Recipe for Nectarine Scones with Nutmeg Sugar
Scones are ideal for feeding overnight guests because they're very easy to make in advance and freeze. When everyone wakes up, all you have to do is brush the tops with cream, sprinkle them with sugar, and pop them directly in the oven, still frozen. Just bake up what you need, and keep the rest frozen for future use.
Makes 14 scones
1 cup diced nectarines, peel on
4 cups all-purpose flour
2 tablespoons baking powder
1/2 cup sugar
3/4 teaspoon nutmeg, divided
1 teaspoon salt
2-2/3 cup cold heavy cream, plus additional for brushing
1-1/2 tablespoons coarse sugar (or granulated)
Line a small tray with wax paper and spread the nectarines on it in a single layer. Pop in the freezer for 10 minutes.
In a large bowl, whisk together the flour, baking powder, 1/2 cup sugar, 1/2 teaspoon nutmeg, and salt. Drizzle in the cream, stirring with a wooden spoon until the dough comes together and the dry ingredients are evenly moistened. Don't neglect the bottom of the bowl, as flour particles tend to hide out there.
Turn half the dough out onto a floured board. Knead once or twice, then scatter half of the slightly frozen nectarine bits over the dough and knead until incorporated, about 8 to 10 more times. Use additional flour as necessary because the fruit will make the dough a bit wet and sticky in parts. Pat into a rough circle about 3/4-inch thick.
Use a floured cutter or floured drinking glass to stamp out 2" rounds. Transfer to the baking sheets. Repeat with the remaining dough and nectarines. (At this point, you can freeze them until hard and then transfer to freezer-safe resealable bags.)
When ready to bake, preheat the oven to 425 degrees. Combine 1-1/2 tablespoons sugar and 1/4 teaspoon nutmeg in a small bowl. Line two baking sheets with parchment or silpat.
Divide the (fresh or frozen) scones between the baking sheets. Lightly brush the top of each scone with heavy cream and sprinkle with the nutmeg-sugar. Bake in the middle of the oven (not on the bottom) for about 20 minutes, or until nicely browned. Serve warm.
I used to watch cooking shows while working out at the gym. This was a Very Long Time Ago, back when I could touch my toes without bending my knees. I'd time my workouts around a PBS series with two British women who cooked Italian food at London's River Cafe.
They weren't the least bit glamorous, these chefs, but their food had panache, culinary cleavage. With stunning, close-up photography and a clean, bright palette, the series showcased Rose Gray and Ruth Rogers' cooking and made their creations both accessible and aspirational. I bought two of their cookbooks in quick succession.
Several weeks ago, as our Europe trip approached, I reserved a table for four at the River Cafe. On the online reservation form, I noted that my party would include "two very well behaved young children."
When we entered the restaurant, the hostess greeted us: "Welcome to The River Cafe. It looks like you've come with two very well behaved young children!" I'd forgotten about my note but laughed when I realized why she'd chosen those words.
She showed us to our table.
The waiter arrived a few moments later. "May I get you a drink?" he asked.
He added, smiling, "Your children look very well behaved."
This time I chuckled louder.
A long, seafoam-colored counter extended the length of the brightly lit room, chefs working quietly behind. The space twinkled. It glowed, really. Couples clinked glasses. At our table, we toasted Colin's sabbatical, my birthday, and our kids.
Dinner was beyond lovely. There was prosciutto-wrapped cantaloupe, hearth-roasted langoustines, pillowy pasta with pesto, lamb with salsa verde, and a perfect almond tart with fresh strawberries.
As we were leaving, a diner beckoned me over to his table. "Excuse me, ma'am, but I just wanted to tell you that your children were very well behaved."
Now wait, was he in on the joke, too?
I used to think graffiti was a public nuisance, until this trip...
"Destiny is not written,
It's what one makes of it."
(scribbled on a wall in Paris)
Sometimes it's even magical...
"If you stand here
Something
Amazing will
happen."
(chalked on the pavement in London)
That's what I call good graffiti.
If you think we spent our entire trip visiting bakeries, you'd be wrong. We took a break from the sugar to scarf meat, cheese, falafel, and carrot foam.
On our first night, we craved a light, healthy dinner: cheese fondue at Alexandre. Our son Alex got a kick out it for obvious reasons. Plus, it faces a Canadian bookstore, so I popped in to say hello to Dana's, Charmian's, Denise's, Eagranie's and Cheryl A.'s compatriots.
The next day, we lunched at L'As du Falafel. While eating falafel in Paris may strike you as odd, my sister and brother had both raved about this place, and with good reason. We also enjoyed strolling through the Marais, taking in all the Jewish businesses and men wearing yarmulkes.
We dined that night at Le Comptoir, a restaurant that, like the 2000 feuilles, was recommended to me by Michael Steinberger. I would like to announce that Alex pilfered half the roasted shrimp with eggplant puree from my plate. I will also note that the boys finished their dinner first, so when I saw the waiter bring a crème brûlée to the table next to ours, I ordered one for the boys as well. Only after they were nearly done did Colin remark on the custard's color; one spoonful confirmed the presence of copious amounts of coffee. Two boys + coffee = kids bouncing around Paris like hyperactive pinballs.
Next up: Mansouria, a lovely Moroccan restaurant where I inhaled fluffy couscous and Colin nibbled a tagine. The boys got to lounge on a pillow-piled couch and eat a powdered sugar-covered b'stilla.
And finally, we dined at the Basque Chez L'Ami Jean, recommended, too, by my sister and brother. Americans sat on either side of us, normally a Very Bad Sign (read: tourist trap), but not this time. We enjoyed beef cooked for 7 hours with carrot foam, some of the moistest chicken that's ever passed my lips, and a bowl of "grandma's rice pudding" so big it could have fed all the patrons in the restaurant, plus the staff. And that was just Colin's dessert. Mine was a boozy, red wine-spiked cherry soup that reduced me to a fit of giggles.
For more photos from our trip, visit the 5SR Facebook page here and click the photos tab.
Resources
Alexandre: 24, rue de la parcheminiere, latin quarter (plus other locations), ph: 01-43-26-49-66
L'As du Fallafel: 34, rue des rosiers, le marais, ph: 01-48-87-63-60
Le Comptoir: 9 Carrefour de l'Odeon, 6th arr., ph: 01-43-27-07-50
Mansouria: 11 rue Faidherbe, 11 arr., ph: 01-43-71-00-16
Chez L'Ami Jean: 27 rue Malar, 7th arr., ph: 01-47-05-86-89
It should come as no surprise that with yesterday’s post titled Pastry (1), today’s would be called
Once I stepped inside the shop, though, two pastries stopped me cold. All of a sudden, I was back in 1987. I’d spent that summer in France with the Experiment in International Living, and in addition to visiting champagne caves, eating tripe for the first time, and listening to an endless loop of mixed tapes from my high school boyfriend, I'd also had my first encounter with a Réligieuse (pâte à choux, chocolate pastry cream, and chocolate icing) and a St. Honoré (puff pastry, pâte à choux, vanilla pastry cream, whipped cream, and caramel).
I'd thought, at the tender age of 17, that I pretty much knew everything there was to know about life and its pleasures, but when I put those elaborate cream puffs in my mouth, the universe widened fifty-fold. Like the first time I got eyeglasses in fourth grade. Like, “Oh, now I get what I've been missing this whole time."
Paris is the City of Lights. Of high fashion, high heels, and high culture. Architecture, beauty, history.
And pastry.
It was never my goal to come here and wear out the soles of my shoes in single-minded pursuit of cream puffs, chocolate, and caramel. And yet, once on the cobblestone Parisian streets, I became laserlike in my focus on butter and sugar, unswerving in my devotion to my family's next sweet treat.
And neither my sons nor my husband stopped me. Haven't you seen Intervention? It's not like they couldn't.
I also blame Michael Steinberger, a journalist whose new book Au Revoir to All That (Bloomsbury, 2009) describes one particular pastry -- the 2000 feuilles -- in such gorgeous detail that I threatened to hurl myself into the Seine if I didn't get my hands on one. The first evening, we arrived at the patisserie Pierre Hermé too late, and they'd already sold out. Zut!
We had to choose alternatives, which elicited few complaints from my fellow travelers:
Above photo, from top right (clockwise). Alex's choice: the Ispahan, a rose-flavored macaron cookie (not be to confused with American macaroons) with fresh raspberries, litchis, and rose petal cream.
Bottom right. Andrew's choice: the Plénitude, a half-sphere filled with chocolate mousse and salted caramel, covered with shards of dark and white chocolate.
Bottom left (in clear bag). My (temporary, alternate) choice: pistache & griottine macarons, vanilla cookies filled with pistachio and cinnamon cream, studded with brandied Morello cherries.
The next day, eureka! We got to Pierre Hermé earlier, and bought not one, but two 2000 feuilles, which, I suppose, means we got 4000 feuilles, or 1000 feuilles for each of us. That's a lot of feuilles.
Top left. My new obsession, Colin's favorite pastry of the trip, and Michael Steinberger's passion: the 2000 feuilles: caramelized puff pastry, crushed hazelnuts, and praline mousseline cream.
Bon appetit.
Yogurt has always been considered a health food in the U.S. It promotes digestion, boasts plenty of calcium, and serves as a natural partner to fresh fruit of all kinds. The overly sweetened containers of chocolate mousse flavored or key lime cheesecake flavored yogurts always struck me as laughable, because if you're going to eat yogurt, it should taste like yogurt, not like some chemically flavored reincarnation of a different dessert. If you want cheesecake so badly, why on earth would you buy yogurt?
I make an exception for many things in France. I drink my morning tea from a giant cafe-au-lait style bowl, because it's always amused me that the French drink coffee from the tiniest imaginable espresso cups throughout the day, except in the morning, when they drink it from bowls as big as swimming pools. And I'll happily eat pastries for breakfast, mostly because I'm here for less than a week and it would be stupid to eat cereal when I could be eating pain au chocolate.
I also go gaga over French yogurt, and make an exception to my no-flavored yogurt rule for this coconut stuff I found in a tiny nondescript grocery store. It's just a generic brand, I believe, but it comes in these lovely little glass pots that just slay me. I've threatened to wash them out and pack them in my suitcase to re-use as bud vases or earring holders when I get home. Maybe because everything in the U.S. is now plasticized, the idea of yogurt in glass pots strikes me as retro-chic and completely charming. And I swear, it makes the yogurt taste better.
If I lead a movement to bring glass pots of yogurt to the U.S., will anyone join me? I promise they'll be recyclable...
There's something about revisiting a scene from your past, like the first time you return to your elementary school as an adult. No longer 5, or 7, or 9 years old, you can't believe how low the ceilings suddenly seem. The formerly enormous building, with its labyrinth of hallways and cavernous classrooms, appears to have shrunk by a factor of 10.
So I wondered what it would be like to go back to Paris, where Colin and I lived in 1994-1995. This week, we decided to find out. We've taken the boys and rented a minuscule apartment in the 5th arrondissement, around the corner from Notre Dame and one block from our old studio. And though I'm sure to Parisians much about their city has changed, to my decidedly foreign eyes things seem very much the same. People still smoke like chimneys. The croissants are still buttery, the baguettes shockingly fresh. With my children in tow this time, I do notice things that may not have caught my attention so vividly before, like the couples making out everywhere we look or the giant vagina painting in the Musée d'Orsay.
Last night: fondue. Today: croissants, croques-monsieurs, crêpes.
Tomorrow?
...
[I'll be regularly adding photos from my travels to the 5 Second Rule page on Facebook here.]
I'm thinking of buying my grill a leotard and leg warmers cause it's getting such a workout. In 4 weeks I've gone through a tank and a half of propane, burned the bejeezus out of my hand, and emitted enough carcinogens to kill a small country. I should know better. After all, I wrote an article about safe grilling for EatingWell two years ago. You should take a look.
I should take a look, too.
Part of this grillapalooza stems from the appliance's new location; we moved it from way across the yard to right outside the kitchen's back door. So now it's basically as close as the oven. I'm grilling everything from apricots to chicken to artichokes. Maybe I'll throw spaghetti on there next.
Grilling gives the artichokes a subtle smokiness, though you do have to boil them first to soften them up. You'll also need a bowl for the chewed up leaves, a towering wad of napkins, and, ideally, a bib. The lemon vinaigrette clings to the thistles, but it also does a number on a cute white T.
What's your favorite vegetable to toss on the grill? Enlighten me.
...
Recipe for Grilled Artichokes
Donna from my farmers' market knows everything about artichokes, and she hasn't steered me wrong yet. This is a close variation on her recipe. As with steamed or boiled artichokes, you eat the leaves by scraping the tender ends against your teeth and discarding the remains. For this recipe, choose baby artichokes, or the smallest ones you can find.
1 whole lemon, halved
4 baby or small artichokes
3 tablespoons fresh lemon juice
6 tablespoons olive oil
Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper
Serves 4
Bring a large pot of water to a boil and light the grill for direct medium-high heat.
Squeeze the juice from the lemon into a large bowl of cold water. Cut off the stem from one artichoke. Use a heavy knife to slice off the top 1/4 of the artichoke, then use a scissors to trim off any spiky points that remain. Slice in half lengthwise and use a grapefruit spoon to scrape out any inner purplish leaves. (You may scrape out the fuzzy choke now or after boiling.) Toss the artichoke in the lemon water and repeat with remaining artichokes.
Boil the artichokes for about 10 minutes, then drain and pat dry. (Remove the fuzzy choke if you haven't already done so.) Whisk the olive oil, lemon juice, salt and pepper in a small bowl or measuring cup, and brush both sides of each artichoke with the vinaigrette.
Grill about 4 minutes per side, or until grill marks appear. Drizzle artichokes with remaining vinaigrette. May be served warm, cold, or at room temperature. Don't forget to put out a bowl for the leaves.
