5 second rule

Temporary residence.

A few months ago, the doves that whined beneath the eaves and dropped calling card pellets beside the grill set up home. They built a nest and moved in.

We watched it happen. Bit by bit, twig by twig, they girded their fortress, furnished their lair, and became our unwitting tenants, without a contract, in deed or implied.

I wasn't thrilled. Mourning doves are rampant in this part of California. They're on the loud side, not terribly pretty, and when you look them in the eye, they appear cold and stonelike. We didn't bond.

But they stuck around, and each time I'd go out back they'd be there, bearing witness to my life, observing without judging. Their constancy softened me, and eventually, for reasons I can't explain, we became family.

The mother bird spent a lot of time in that nest. The dad would fly to and fro, and though, occasionally, they'd both leave together for a picnic or what have you, the mama was the more stable presence. My son said she was nesting. I thought she just liked my company.

Each morning, as summer approached and dawn broke earlier than the day before, I'd wake to their familiar trill.

Then one day, the birdsong got louder, and when we went downstairs and slid the door open there they were. Not the mama, not the papa, but two baby birds looking square in my eyes.

They were beautiful, just like their parents.

My older son humored me as I checked on them throughout the day. I'd greet them in singsong, ask after their kin, make sure they were happy. Together, we watched the parents come and go, but mostly we'd observe the hatchlings flutter their wings and grow bigger and bigger in a nest built for two.

"You know what's going to happen, don't you?" my son asked me.

My eyes widened. It really hadn't occurred to me.

.

Yesterday, I opened the door and all four of them were gone.

I stood there and stared, hurt and panicked. 

My son hugged me.

"They need to go off on their own," he said, and I knew he was right. 

 .

Later that day, they were back. The babies had learned to fly, but the nest is still home base and for now, at least, the family continues to whiz to and fro, commuting. They return at night for a rest and a meal. 

It's a good thing, too. I, for one, need a little more time to say goodbye.

Her name, of course, is Myth.

I arrive early, as vendors set up their stalls.

One lays out broccoli, carrots, and leeks.

Another stacks towers of tight English peas.

To my left, a florist fills cheap plastic buckets with blush-colored cosmos, their blossoms so vivid, they tint the fog pink.

Behind me, a blue-haired woman sells chicken from a truck.

I’m hungry for poultry.

It's 8:20 a.m.

I begin stacking my books, arranging them at an angle, aiming for something vaguely artistic. I lay out my cashbox, my log-sheet, my Sharpies. I’m ready to sell and sign. Sign and sell.

While my publisher, a big New York outfit, works its magic on large-scale distributors, bookstores, and Amazon, I hawk books author to reader, hand to hand.

I'm a gypsy. A floater. An indie of one. 

This morning at Fort Mason starts off cool. Shoppers stroll through, long-sleeved and closed shoed. The wind whips halfheartedly. Around 10, sunbeams puncture the city sky.

Early sales are fine, if not brisk. Lots of folks stop to chat, to flip through my books, to ask who I am. Others walk by, averting my gaze, then line up, instead, for chicken.

A little girl sucks a strawberry and flings a smile my way, her teeth fruity, her eyes bright.

Soon, it’s noon.

Midday shoppers wear less: Coats give way to shirt sleeves, boots to flip-flops.

One man ties his dog to a post.

Suddenly, the pup breaks free. Chaos ensues. Minutes later, the florist catches the dog, returns it to its grateful owner.

This is community. This, San Francisco.

Finally, the market's end nears. I’m about to pack up – I’ve sold well on this day -- and begin my drive home, when a woman stops by.

We chat about cookbooks and talk about yogurt. I work it, and though I’m tired and the day has been long, I manage to close the sale.

When I lift my pen to sign her book, I ask for her name.

“It’s Myth,” she says.

Of course it is.

Only in California.

...

{psssst: Come see what's going on over on Team Yogurt! If you haven't joined me there or visited the site in a while, now would be an excellent time.} 

Yogurt Culture Spring Book Tour Events

FRIENDS!

Just a super-quickie note from the road in case any of you are in the New York, Boston, Seattle, or San Francisco Bay areas. Now that Yogurt Culture is officially out, I've got some really wonderful book events coming up (very soon!) and would absolutely love to see you.

I'll be adding to this list over time, and keeping things extra current over on Team Yogurt on my Book page. Here's a direct link. Just click on Book Tour Events to see what's going on. (I'm working on a few possible LA events at the moment, too... once those settle into place I'll update them over on that page.)

For those of you in the NY and Boston areas especially, I'm coming this week!

Monday, May 4 (6p-8p)

>Free + Open to the Public!<
Get Cultured! Yogurt Tasting + Talk + Book Signing
Greene Grape Annex, 753 Fulton Street, Brooklyn, NY 11217
Description: Please join award-winning author Cheryl Sternman Rule and local yogurt makers Homa Dashtaki (White Moustache) and Angela and John Fout (Sohha Savory Yogurt) for a conversation and tasting at Greene Grape Annex, moderated by New York Times food columnist Melissa Clark. Come learn more about this original superfood, sample some of Brooklyn's best yogurt, and purchase a signed copy of Yogurt Culture. The event itself is free!

Tuesday, May 5, 2015 (6p-8p)

Farm & Fable
Boston, Massachusetts
Talk + Tastings Provided by Formaggio Kitchen + Signing
Event is free but you may pre-order your book to guarantee availability. Full details here.

Thursday, May 7, 2015 (7:30p to 9:30p)

>ticketed event!<
Sofra Bakery and Cafe
1 Belmont Street, Cambridge, Massachusetts
Yogurt Culture Signing & Meet-and-Greet with Cheryl, with dishes from the book prepared by award-winning Executive Chef and Owner Ana Sortun. Tickets (which include food, wine, a cooking demo by Chef Sortun, and a signed copy of the cookbook) cost $85 and are now available. Space is limited! Details are here. And to register: https://www.eventbrite.com/e/yogurt-culture-tickets-16418656644

Then I'll be back in the Bay Area:

May 17, 2015 from 9a to 1:30p
Blossom Hill Farmers Market
San Jose, California
Signing | Books available for purchase + inscription

May 20, 2015 
The Reading Bug
San Carlos, California
Two events!
3p Kids’ Make Your Own Yogurt Parfait (ages 3 to 12) -- $3 materials fee is waived if you purchase a book (sign up!)
7p Signing | Tasting | Book Talk for adults. Details here. (sign up!)

May 23, 2015 from 9a to 1p
Saratoga Farmers Market
Saratoga, California
Signing | Books available for purchase + inscription

JUNE 2015

June 13, 2015 from 9a to 1p
Morgan Hill Farmers Market
Morgan Hill, California
Signing | Books available for purchase + inscription

Then on to Seattle!

June 24, 2015 from 7p-9p
Gay City
Seattle, Washington
Signing, talk, and tasting (including samples of Ellenos Yogurt!)
I will be donating $5 from the sale of each book to this important nonprofit. (The event is free, but please RSVP: to emily@gaycity.org)

June 25, 2015 at 6:30p
Book Larder
Seattle, Washington
Signing & Tasting, in conversation with Megan Gordon

Hope to see you all, truly. Please introduce yourselves and plan to eat a lot of supremely tasty yogurt!

***********************************************************************************************************************

p.s. I wrote a recent feature about yogurt for The Washington Post. Take a look!

p.p.s. I'm running a new giveaway over on Team Yogurt. Details here.

Here's a no-brainer timesaver.

I can't tell you what's revolutionary for you. Maybe it's a new mascara (?), a new route to work, a book on string theory. I have no idea. But one thing has been revolutionary for me.

It's the rimmed sheet pan.

And it's not cause I'm cooking full meals on it. (Though sometimes I do.)

And it's not cause I'm making flat tarts and cakes. (Though I do that, too.)

It's cause they have raised sides and four walls and their very design, their very nature, tricks my brain into feeling calm, organized, and contained.

That containment's important.

Whatever chaos crashes in my head, whatever deadlines loom, whatever stresses snicker, and smirk, and jockey for position, the sight of that sheet pan in the corner of my kitchen gives me a sense of serenity and calm.

Here's why.

As soon as I know what I'm making for dinner at night -- sometimes I know this in the morning, sometimes 10 minutes before I start cooking -- I pull out all the dry ingredients I'll need. We're talking onions or garlic, pasta or rice, beans, salt, nuts, vinegar. All the nonperishable food that will go into whatever I'm making comes out of its home and finds a spot right on that baking sheet. I pull down a second sheet if I have to. 

Next, my tools: any tool that dish will require. Like you (perhaps?), I've got a tool drawer that's a reflection of, well, me: not pristine, but functional. Not perfect, but practical. So unearthing the carrot peeler, the microplane, the fish tweezers (I always lose those), the offset spatula... this takes time, and when I've got sauce simmering or onions sauteeing or a roast roasting and I need a tool quickly, I don't need to screw around in that drawer trying to find the meat thermometer. Because I already thought it through. I already took it out.

Then, pots and pans. 

My pots and pans -- separated from their lids, nestled on top of / in stacks of / underneath / wedged between one another -- all live in two slide-out drawers they call home. The one I need is always, without exception, the one at the bottom of the heap, the one I can only get by removing 3, 4, 5 other pans from the drawer. Getting the right pan during food prep is a chore. It results in dropped lids and a string of blue words.

Getting it a few hours, even a few minutes before I cook? Problem solved.

Finally, a post-it. A quick morning scribble of which fresh ingredients I'll need from the fridge allows me to grab them later on autopilot, no thinking required. 

Look, I didn't make up the idea of mise en place. And this is a far cry from a true mise en place anyway. I'm hardly doing all my slicing and dicing ahead of time or setting my prepped ingredients out in pretty little bowls. I'm just getting partway there. I'm setting myself up for success.

And success, it turns out, tastes really, really good.

Introducing Team Yogurt.

E-books aside, books have covers.

They have front covers and back covers, and in between they've got content.

And while content is king, those covers are crucial, too. They keep the pages from spilling all over the kitchen, the sidewalk, the subway, your feet. The binding, and those covers, keep this content in place so it doesn't fly around like napkins in the wind.

The fact that books are bound means something else, too: It means they don't just have a beginning, but also an end. At some point, after one year, or two, the author, the editor, the designer, and the production team all have to say, with a collective sigh of relief, Enough! 

And then it’s finished. 

So, I want to introduce you to Team Yogurt, which launches... right this second.

Team Yogurt is my refusal to be finished.

Yogurt Culture, so beautiful between its two hardbound covers, is coming out on April 28. You’ll definitely love it. (And you should totally pre-order it.)

But I'm no less interested in yogurt than I was two years ago when I started researching it.

As a food, it's about as rich a subject as any: it's historical, global, and steeped in tradition. It’s made in the smallest, most remote villages and in the biggest, most industrialized cities. It's healthy, it tastes amazing, and it’s versatile beyond belief.

Team Yogurt lets me bring you into this world, a world I hope we’ll all hang out in together. It lets me keep the party going.

Finally, 5 Second Rule isn't going anywhere. This isn't an either / or situation. It's an and / and.

Welcome to my next and.

I know a place where everything's amazing.

I don't care how well-traveled you are, when you're ensconced in your own culture, you tend to stop noticing things.

I've been to lots of places: Europe. Africa. Mexico. The Middle East. I know what it means to see the world through foreign eyes, to feel my skin tingle when my plane touches down and new sights, sounds, and smells bombard my head. I know that excitement, that honor, of witnessing life somewhere else, and feeling my pulse quicken at everything, and nothing at all.

But when I'm home, I forget to apply the same sense of wonder to my own world, my own surroundings.

Everything's familiar, with softened edges. Colors look nice, but don't really sparkle. Smells can be good, but they don't intoxicate. It's just... home. And while I love home, and the world around me, I'm rarely thrust outside myself and forced to see it anew.

I had this chance a few weeks ago, and it changed everything.

A teenager from a small Swiss town joined our family for 2 weeks as part of an exchange program. At 6"3 and 17-years-old, this was no young child. But it was his first time in the U.S., so everything about this place was new to him.

He marveled at the size of the airport. The width of the highway. The tanker trucks whizzing by.

Couldn't believe the enormity of our refrigerator, and took a photo to remember.

When we ate out, he was utterly wowed by the free tap water in every restaurant, and each time a waiter filled his glass, he broke out in a huge, gleaming smile. "We have to pay for this in Switzerland," he explained. "It's incredible!"

He ate his first grilled cheese, his first sweet potato fries, his first true American hamburger.

We were on vacation for a few days, and so we drove him down the California coast, playing tourist alongside him. At the house we rented, we found an old record player and a beat-up Monopoly game. My kids taught him the rules (buy Boardwalk if you can, always collect your $200) while my husband slipped a Stevie Wonder LP on the turntable.

Can you imagine hearing Stevie Wonder for the very first time? The sheer joy of that man's inimitable sound?

When we hit the pier later that day and stopped at a gift shop, I pointed out his name on a mini California license plate, the kind sold on key chains in every American city, every tourist spot coast to coast.

Think about it: You've seen these things a million times. They're... chintzy. But to someone who has never seen his name on a mini-license plate, I'm telling you, his reaction was priceless.

When we returned to the Bay Area, we took him to San Francisco. Spent a few hours on Alcatraz, and ate a good lunch. Then we boarded a double-decker tour bus to circle the city.

The day was warm, and unseasonably calm. We settled in open-air seats up on top, felt the sun kiss our cheeks.

We expected the tour to take two hours, three max, but traffic snarled midway through, and the bus started crawling. One hour turned to two, two to three, and, finally, three turned to four. Deep in that fourth hour, we crossed the Golden Gate Bridge. The sun dipped low, the wind whipped high. Behind us, the city glowed pink. 

I looked at this young man, and I apologized. It had been a long day, and I was eager to get us all home. I knew he must be cold, and hungry, and exhausted. I certainly was.

"I'm so sorry," I said, more than once.

He smiled the first time I said it, but the second time he spoke up.

"I'm in San Francisco!" he blurted. "In California! In America! The Golden Gate Bridge is behind me, and the sunset is incredible. It's amazing!"

I relaxed. 

He was right.

It really was amazing.

 The next day, he and the boys were looking for something to do.

"Have you ever had lemonade?" I asked him.

"No," he answered. "What's that?"

"Go pick some lemons from the tree out front," I said. 

And he did.

I got down the citrus juicer.

And we showed him how to make his first lemonade.

We took a sip, and this time we all agreed:

It really was amazing.

The march of time, oh Valentine.

 

 

I'm standing in line at a craft store waiting to pay for a posterboard.

The store's a glittery explosion of pinks and reds, hearts and balloons, stickers and lip-shaped decals. I grab my one item, hoof it to the checkout, and breathe in slowly but deliberately, trying not to sip too much commercialized air. 

The woman in front of me turns to her young daughter.

Oh! she says, remembering. Don't you need Valentines for your class this week?

Her daughter widens her eyes and nods. Yeah, I do. 

The mom smiles one of those exasperated smiles we mothers know too well. The one that means of course you do and how did we not discuss this earlier and were you ever going to tell me?

She's not mad, not really, but as the two of them step out of line to hunt down pink paper, kiss me stickers, and whatever else they might need, I'm feeling pretty smug that I'm now one slot closer to the checkout. I'm years past folding Valentines for my kids' classmates.

.

Over the last few weeks, I've noticed something.

As I wait in the curbside line to pick up my high school son, every fifth car or so follows the same routine: a student approaches a car, tosses a backpack in the trunk, then walks to the driver's side. The parent gets out, the student slips behind the wheel, the parent walks round to the passenger door. It's a quick, wordless encounter, a change of places both literal and symbolic for these permit-holding students and their parents. The student pulls the car out and drives them both home.

I startle as my older son opens the door. 

He tosses his backpack in, then slips in the passenger side.

I drive us both home.

For now, for a few months longer.

Until he too gets his permit and takes my place behind the wheel.

.

There comes a time when your parental role shifts. It happens without fanfare, without warning; as the to-dos lessen, the spaces between them lengthen. 

When you no longer need stickers, or lip-shaped decals, or pastel hearts with text me or sweet talk or all mine for everyone in class.

When time itself -- that fickle maiden, that crafty, slippery, unstoppable force -- will be all yours and yours alone.

When your child gets in your seat and you in his, and as he drives you both home, your heart asks simply:

So soon? But how?

...

Recipe for Chocolate Disks with Toasted Almonds, Candied Fennel, and Barberries

I'm all for chocolate treats on Valentine's day, the easier the better. Chocolate pancakes, chocolate waffles, and this one-bowl chocolate sour cream cake are perennial favorites. This year's offering, though, is the unfussiest of all. Slap together these fruit-and-nut topped disks in minutes, then let them harden and set.

Barberries are wonderfully tart, currant-sized fruits available in Middle Eastern markets. Substitute minced cranberries, raisins, or whatever dried fruit you can get your paws on. And I used candied fennel here (I love it), but you can just use sprinkles, if you like.

Makes 8 disks

4 ounces dark or bittersweet chocolate, finely chopped
1/3 cup toasted almonds
2 teaspoons candied fennel seeds 
1-1/2 tablespoons barberries

Line a baking sheet with parchment or a silicone mat.

Gently melt the chocolate in a double boiler until smooth, stirring a few times as it melts. Spoon it into 8 equal rounds on the prepared sheet. Sprinkle with the nuts, candied fennel, and fruit. Set aside to harden at room temperature for about 2 hours.

Store airtight.

Bless this mess.

Let me introduce you to my desk.

It's a cherry slab with a deep gouge. It weighs a ton. It dates back to my grad school days in Somerville, Massachusetts. Today, and every day, it's littered with papers, with news clippings, with stacks of fluorescent post-its. I neaten it often, but within seconds, it reverts to its natural state. One can only do so much.

An ornate, hand-blown glass holds my scissors, my Sharpies, my Uniball pens. A funky thing with serpentine feet, it was a gift from a stranger, a man who stopped at my table when I sold Ripe at farmers markets in 2012. He'd chatted me up for a good, long while, told tales of his art and his teenage daughter. He wasn't my standard book-buyer. Single dad, tattooed, leather-clad, he was rough-looking, but kind.

He left without a cookbook. That's okay, I thought. It's fine. 

The next week he came to a reading I gave at the library. This time he'd brought his daughter. Hello, he said. Do you remember me? And I did. 

He bought her my book, and gave me the glass. A gift, for no reason. I made this, he said, and thought you might like it. Though it sits on my desk day in and day out, I'd forgotten the story of that glass until now. I'm glad it came up. Thank you for that.

Above my desk is a small ledge with a bunch of bric-a-brac: a pile of gift cards no one remembers, a teetering stapler that falls on my laptop, a set of small baskets. One holds a double A battery, 2 binder clips, 3 rubber bands. Another has safety pins, stamps, and a USB key shaped like a strawberry.

Behind it are three photos: one each of my two boys and a third of my mother and grandmother. That third one is upside down, always. The wire frame that holds it is bent, so each time I straighten the photo it swings upside down again. I've stopped fixing it. My mother and grandma, long gone now, are perpetually upside down on my desk. But they're there. They're there.

While everyone else is cleansing and purifying and resolving and generally doing what they do in January, I'm like my desk: a jumble of this and that, all frenetic energy, disorganization, and riotous chaos. I'm the weird glass vessel, the wayward battery, the upside-down photo.

And it's great.

It's real.

Let others approach the year with reverence, restraint, with rigorous calm.

I'm living in color, moving full-throttle, seeking the shiny and bright, the slightly askew.

...

Recipe for Avocado, Persimmon, and Pomegranate Salad

A brash jumble of bright hues, variable textures, and contrasting flavors, this salad makes a perfect snack for one. Scale things up as high as you like.

Serves 1

1/2 Fuyu persimmon, thinly sliced (or substitute a ripe red pear)
1/2 avocado, sliced
1 tablespoon crumbled cheese (feta, ricotta salata, blue)
1 tablespoon salted pepitas or sunflower seeds (or nuts)
A sprinkling of pomegranate arils
A drizzle of pomegranate molasses
A drizzle of olive oil

Combine in a bowl and enjoy.

printable pdf

...

I'm making tons of behind-the-scenes progress on Team Yogurt. Go ahead and sign up!

It's a bird, it's a plane, it's Yogurt Culture.

So, yeah, not much is going on here.

Just chilling. Scribbling stuff. Making food. 

Just kidding!

I coughed up a book! It's the world's most delicious hairball!

Learning about yogurt -- studying it, eating it, drinking it, making it -- was an incredible two-year journey. And not just because I love writing cookbooks, but because I believe deeply in yogurt as a food -- in its flavor, its healthfulness, its versatility in the kitchen.

My research was expansive:

I interviewed a Mongolian MD/PhD.

I spoke with an Afghan, and a Serb, and an Eritrean mother-daughter. I learned from Turks, and Israelis, and experts on Persian cuisine. 

I toured factories.

Poured through health studies.

Questioned academics.

I went to Greece -- first to one island, then another, then a third.

I watched while a friend, who's married to one of my husband's hallmates from college (are you with me?), taught me how to make shahi korma, a rich, fragrant, totally luxurious Pakistani stew.

I stood in the kitchen of a tech exec -- observing, notetaking -- as she stirred up raita, whizzed up lassi, and simmered up the best chicken curry that I've ever had.

And during breaks in observing, and learning, and traveling, and writing, I anchored myself in the kitchen, and I cooked.

I fermented large pots of yogurt, whisked it smooth, strained it thick.

I sweetened it, salted it, spiced it. I rolled it into balls.

I used it every way I could think of, and when I feared I might run out of ideas, friends and colleagues and experts and chefs inspired me anew. 115 recipes in all.

Then the most generous band of lovely folks tested all the recipes, buffing them till they shined.

And that was just year one.

The following year, the one that just ended, my editor Rux Martin and her team at Houghton Mifflin Harcourt whipped the book into shape. Shaped it up. Got straight. Went forward. Moved ahead. Tried to detect it. It's not too late. To whip it. Whip it good.

And photographer Ellen Silverman shot extraordinary pictures.

Basically, I AM VERY EXCITED FOR YOU TO SEE THIS BOOK.

Yogurt Culture, which is my second cookbook, comes out on April 28, 2015, but you can pre-order it now from your favorite independent bookseller, or online from Amazon, Indie Bound, Barnes + Noble, or even Amazon Canada. (You can also join Team Yogurt.)

You can also read a more formal description -- without the hairball or Devo references -- and see the blurbs by clicking over to my portfolio website.

Happy new year, everyone. Thanks, in advance, for your early support!

Eggnog proves beneficial for muscle tone.

Don't over-think this one.

Get a sifter, a bowl, a whisk. 

Combine dry ingredients, then wet. Mix together. Heat oil. Fry in small mounds.

Drizzle with honey 'til you can drizzle no more, then drizzle more, and more, until fingers stick and lips shine.

Kiss someone.

Kiss someone else.

You'd better stop kissing people.

Some of you have told me in the past that you're afraid to fry. Not fly, which I'd understand, but fry.

So every year when Hanukkah comes around, I need to nudge you to put fear aside and to get out the oil. There are so many excellent, worthwhile, truly terrifying things to be afraid of, but frying isn't one of them.

Eggnog seems so Christmas-y that using it in a Hanukkah fritter borders on the ridiculous, but I just looked it up, and I'm safe. In the Food Lover's Companion, the late Sharon Tyler Herbst wrote: "Liquor-free eggnog has long been served to convalescents and growing children as a tonic."

No mention of Christmas. And also...

As a tonic!

You know what a tonic is, right? 

I just asked an authority (i.e. Siri), and she says tonic means: "of or relating to or producing normal tone in muscles or tissue."

You want to know how irresponsible media headlines happen?

Exactly like this. 

EGGNOG PROVES BENEFICIAL FOR MUSCLE TONE.

... 

{{p.s. I've got something up my sleeve for the new year. Go to Team Yogurt to sign up and be among the first to know.}}

..

Recipe for Eggnog Fritters with Nutmeg Honey 

Fritter batter is always easy to whisk together, and starting with eggnog makes it easier still. The nutmeg honey really brings out the eggnog flavor, so don't skip it. (In fact, you may want to double it.) Not Jewish? Totally irrelevant. Make these for Hanukkah, or Christmas, or any time you need a tonic. 

Makes 25 fritters

1-1/4 cups all-purpose flour
1/4 cup malted milk powder
3 tablespoons sugar
1-1/2 teaspoons baking powder
1/2 teaspoon nutmeg
1/4 teaspoon kosher salt
1 cup eggnog
1 egg
Plenty of vegetable oil, for frying

1/4 cup good honey + 1/4 teaspoon nutmeg, for drizzling (or more)

For the fritters: In a large bowl, sift together the flour, malted milk powder, sugar, baking powder, nutmeg, and salt. In a medium bowl, whisk the eggnog and egg. Pour the wet ingredients into the dry and whisk to combine. (Make sure to moisten any dry bits at the bottom of the bowl.) Set aside to rest while you heat up the oil.

Affix a candy thermometer to the side of a deep saucepan. Fill with 1 to 1-1/2 inches oil, set over medium-high heat, and bring the oil up to between 350°F and 375°F.

When the oil has reached the target range, drop 1 heaping tablespoon of batter for each fritter into the oil. Work in batches (I make 4 at a time), and do not crowd the saucepan. Fry for 1 to 3 minutes per side, flipping gently once. Remove with a slotted spoon to a paper towel-lined plate.

For the Nutmeg Honey: Combine the nutmeg and honey in a small microwaveable bowl. Heat very gently at 50% power for about 15 seconds, just to loosen. Drizzle over the fritters and serve, making an additional batch of nutmeg honey if desired.

printable pdf