5 second rule

Cinnamon

I actually knew a girl named Cinnamon.  It wasn't a stage name; it was her real, honest-to-goodness name.  I think if I were to meet someone named Cinnamon today I'd assume she were a porn star or something, but at the time I just thought she was impossibly cool.  You can't be a loser with a name like Cinnamon.

According to my old friend Dara, whose memory is far sharper than my own, we met Cinnamon at the Bennington July Program.  It must have been the summer after 10th (9th?) grade.  It was a terrific month.  I took two "college" classes --  photography and intro psych.  The cabins were white.  There were lots of mountains.  Honestly, that's pretty much all I remember.  Oh wait!  For one of my photography assignments I think I had Dara wear a straw hat and gaze off in a field of tall grass.  Then I sepia toned the picture.  Was I trying to be artsy? 

Beats me.

Anyway, a few days ago I made brownies for my neighbors, doubling the recipe so my friend Jen could take some home to her husband in Boston.  I hewed closely to a recipe from Alice Medrich's new cookbook, Pure Dessert.  Her recipe sounded terrific as written, but I made two small additions: I added white chocolate chips.  And cinnamon. 

Cinnamon, I may not remember a whole lot about you, but your fabulous name lingers on.  This one's for you.

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Recipe for Cinnamon White Chocolate Chip Brownies

Here's a slightly edited version of the New Bittersweet Brownies recipe from Alice Medrich's excellent cookbook, Pure Dessert.  I've added cinnamon and white chocolate chips, but the rest of the recipe is decidedly hers.

Makes 16 two-inch brownies

8 ounces bittersweet chocolate, coarsely chopped
6 tablespoons butter, cut into pieces
3 large eggs
1 cup sugar
scant 1/4 teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
1/3 cup plus 1 tablespoon all-purpose  flour
1-1/2 teaspoons cinnamon
1 cup white chocolate chips

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees with a rack set in the lower third of the oven.  Line an 8" square baking pan with foil so it hangs over the sides.

Place the chocolate and butter in a heatproof bowl set over a saucepan of almost-simmering water.  Stir frequently with a heatproof spatula until the mixture is melted and smooth.  Remove the bowl from the pan and set aside.

Using an electric mixer, beat the eggs, sugar, salt, and vanilla on high speed until the eggs are very thick and light-colored, about 2 minutes.  Whisk in the warm chocolate.  Fold in the flour and cinnamon.  Stir in the white chocolate chips.

Scrape the batter into the lined pan and spread evenly.  Bake until a toothpick inserted in the center comes out clean, about 30 to 35 minutes.  Cool in the pan on a rack.

Invert the brownies and carefully peel off the foil.  Turn right side up on a cutting board and cut into small squares.

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Mine

Save me.  I'm going off the deep end here.  My camera has become an appendage, my wrists ache like a stenographer's, and I'm starting to see beauty in my Cheerios.  I'm a food blogger.  And I am happy.

There are thousands of us out there, and it's both invigorating and disheartening to be part of such a broad band of chroniclers.  Do people really care what I had for breakfast?  Probably -- no, certainly -- not.  So why do it?

For the fringe benefits. The cooking, for one.  I'd spent the past few years developing recipes for publication, and the joy of simply cooking for myself and my family got lost along the way.  In the deadlines.  In the work.  Even in the paycheck.  Cooking became a means to an end rather than a pleasure on its own.

But now I can literally make whatever I want.  I can put cinnamon in brownies, cherries in scones, and nuts in everything (snap peas, banana bread, carrot salad). 

Above is my breakfast. It's nothing fancy.  It's not even cooking.  But the fruit spilling off my counter begged to be served simply, untouched by heat, unsauced, unadorned.  So I married the dried cherries and fresh berries and nectarines to my Cheerios and marveled at how they nestled together in near-connubial bliss.  If it bores you, forgive me.  I thought it was really pretty, and it tasted sublime.  It tasted exactly like I wanted it to.  Like mine.

Bargain

Though my Marcona almond splurge may suggest otherwise, I'm a frugal person.  Not a die-hard bargain hunter exactly, but I appreciate a good deal as much as the next gal.  So when Donna the artichoke farmer was selling her wares at the farmers' market on Sunday, I did a double-take when I saw the price.  Baby artichokes were going for $1 a pound.  That's right: $1 a pound.  Now, I'm no dimwit.  Gas has suddenly surged to $4.29 a gallon, and if I could've filled my tank up with artichokes I would have.  Plus, my friend Jen would be visiting, and there's nothing that says, "Thanks for coming. Don't you wish you lived in California?"  like a platter of fried baby artichokes.

Frying them wasn't even my idea; it was Donna's.  Donna sells squash in the winter and artichokes in the spring, and I'm just dying to sit down with her and pick her brain.  I don't know her from Adam, but I have this urge to take her to lunch.  You know, chat her up. I've made up this whole story about her, probably because she's always smiling. I imagine her husband pouring her tea and helping her load artichokes into the truck for her pre-dawn drive from Castroville ("the artichoke center of the world") to San Jose.  She's definitely not a coffee drinker, that Donna.  I'm just sure she drinks tea.

I could always just ask her, I suppose, and as a food writer I could probably even invite myself to her farm and shadow her for a few hours.  And maybe one day I will.  For now, though, I'm content to remain her anonymous, but very loyal, customer. 



Recipe for Fried Baby Artichokes with Parmesan and Lemon

It's essential to use baby artichokes in this recipe, so I hope you can find them near you.  The prep work and frying take a little time, so find someone to keep you company. 

1/2 lemon
1 pound baby artichokes (about 10-12)
olive oil
1/2 cup flour
1 teaspoon salt, plus additional for sprinkling after frying
1/4 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
1 teaspoon garlic powder
Parmesan cheese and additional lemon wedges, for serving

Create a citrusy bath by squeezing the lemon half into a large bowl of cold water.

Trim the baby artichokes: Pull off and discard the green outer leaves.  Eventually you will come to a point where the leaves are tender and soft, half green and half yellow.  Use a sharp, heavy knife to cut off the top (green) portion of the vegetable, where the yellow meets the green.  Slice the stem level with the base and trim off any wayward leaves from the base.  Slice the artichoke in half lengthwise.  Use a small knife to remove any purplish leaves or any bits of fuzz.  Place the artichoke halves in the lemon water.

Repeat until you've prepped all the artichokes.

Heat 1/2-inch of olive oil in a medium saucepan over medium-high heat until very hot.

Meanwhile, combine the flour, 1 teaspoon of the salt, pepper, and garlic powder in a medium bowl.  Remove 3 or 4 of the artichoke halves from the lemon water and pat dry, then dredge in the flour mixture.

When the oil is hot, lower the artichokes into the saucepan and fry until golden brown, about 2 minutes per side, flipping once or twice as they bob so they cook evenly.  Remove with a slotted spoon to a paper towel-lined plate and immediately season with a little salt.

Repeat with remaining artichoke halves, adjusting the heat as necessary.

To serve, shower the fried artichokes with a generous mound of freshly grated Parmesan cheese and a good dose of lemon.  Serve immediately.

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Risk

photo by xersti, reprinted under a Creative Commons License

My husband and I knew a woman in college who used to drink coffeetea.  A whip-smart pre-med student, no one would ever have pegged her as a risk-taker or a rebel. She was simply a dedicated, academically-minded woman intent on defying her body's natural sleep cycles so she could ace her chemistry tests.  So on the nights before major exams, she'd brew herself a strong cup of black coffee, and instead of lightening it with milk or sweetening it with sugar, she'd stick a tea bag in it.  A few minutes later, she'd down the tar-black sludge and get the caffeine-induced buzz she needed to hit the books.  Let me also point out that she weighed about 90 pounds, so it didn't take long for the home-brewed serum to do its job.

And remember Jolt from the 1980s?  It was like soda on steroids.  All innocent-looking until WHAM, the caffeine hit you and you became all Robin Williams-esque, buzzing about talking nonsense, unable to sit still.  One of my high school friends used to drink it, and he was one of the smartest people I knew. Again, though, not a risk taker.

So this article yesterday fascinated me:

Health researchers have identified a surprising new predictor for risky behavior among teenagers and young adults: the energy drink.  Super-caffeinated energy drinks, with names like Red Bull, Monster, Full Throttle and Amp, have surged in popularity in the past decade.  About a third of 12- to 24-year-olds say they regularly down energy drinks, which account for more than $3 billion in annual sales in the United States...

It's scary enough that these drinks are selling like hotcakes, but what's most interesting is the correlation between their consumption and the risk profile of the imbibers.  (It's important to emphasize that we're talking correlation here, not causation.)  The article cites a March study that found a link between energy drinks, athletics, and risky, "toxic jock" behavior such as "unprotected sex, substance abuse and violence."

And, interestingly, it's not solely about the caffeine.  Apparently a 12-ounce brewed Starbucks coffee has 250 mg of caffeine and a 12-ounce Red Bull has 116 mg, or less than half.  One theory is that cold energy drinks are consumed more quickly and therefore may affect the system more intensely than a hot cup of coffee. 

College students are also starting to mix energy drinks with alcohol.  A separate study found "that students who mixed energy drinks with alcohol got drunk twice as often as those who consumed alcohol by itself and were far more likely to be injured or require medical treatment while drinking."  The combination of alcohol + caffeine may make people think they're less drunk than they actually are.

Is Red Bull the new gateway drug? Or is it just this generation's version of coffeetea?

Gratitude

Isn't funny how certain people can profoundly impact your life, or your direction, and they may never even know it?  Lora was such a person for me.  I haven't spoken with her in years, but I pulled one of her cookbooks off my shelf this weekend and immediately felt flooded with a sense of gratitude.

After my stressful bakery experience five years ago, I knew I wanted to continue cooking professionally, but not in a high-pressure production kitchen.  My good friend and culinary guru Jess had been working with a well-established cookbook author in Maine and spoke often about how much she'd learned.  I sought a similar experience, and through a combination of good timing and good luck I managed to connect with Lora Brody, a prolific cookbook author who lived 15 minutes away from my home in the Boston suburbs.

For several months, we tested recipes side by side in her kitchen.  She was a fount of creative energy -- bubbly, upbeat, and open in sharing the lessons of her career.  When I suffered a medical setback during our time together, she provided gentle comfort.  I remain grateful to this day for the sensitivity she offered me during that time.

Four months after I began testing recipes for The New England Table, my husband got a job offer in California.  It was one of those life-changing opportunities that would untether me from my familiar anchors.  I knew we'd have to move west; it would have been stupid not to.  But having to leave my friends and extended family, and to separate my young kids from the only place they'd ever known, wasn't easy. 

When I told Lora I was moving and would have to stop working for her, she understood completely.  She also gave me the name of a colleague in California, a woman with whom I eventually worked for more than two years.  Through that simple act of generosity, Lora continued to propel my career forward. I'm not sure I ever told her how much I appreciated it.

Thank you, Lora.

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Recipe for Cherry Cream Scones

This recipe is an adaptation of the Classic Scones in Lora Brody's baking primer, Basic Baking, with the addition of a little white whole wheat flour and some fresh cherries.  I'm providing a double recipe here because the baked scones freeze so beautifully.  Wrap them individually in plastic wrap and store them in freezer-safe ziplocs.  Pull them out 15 minutes before you want to eat them and let them defrost on the counter.  One more thing: if your baking sheets are exceptionally thin, plan to double them up.  You don't want the bottoms of your scones to burn.

Makes 22 scones

3 cups all-purpose flour
1 cup white whole wheat flour
2 tablespoons baking powder
1/2 cup granulated sugar
1 teaspoon salt
2-2/3 cup chilled heavy cream, plus 2 tablespoons for glaze
1 cup fresh cherries, pitted, cut into smallish pieces (I used kitchen scissors)
1/4 cup coarse sugar, such as demerara

Preheat the oven to 425 degrees.  Line 3 baking sheets with silpats or parchment. (Or bake them in stages if you only have 1-2 baking sheets.)

Sift together both flours, baking powder, sugar, and salt a large bowl.  Slowly add the cream, stirring gently with a wooden spoon until the dough comes together.

Flour a work surface and scrape out half of the dough.  Begin to knead, incorporating half of the cherries little by little as you do.  Knead a total of about 10 times, adding more flour if it feels too wet.  (It will feel a little mushy -- don't be alarmed -- just dust with flour.  The cherries will definitely give off juice as you work so try to be quick.)

Pat the dough into a rough circle about 3/4-inch thick.  Use a bench scraper or knife to cut the circle in half.  Then form about 5-6 wedges from each half circle.  Place on prepared baking sheet.

Brush the top of each scone with a little cream, then top with a sprinkling of course sugar.

Repeat with the remaining dough.

Bake for 20-25 minutes, reversing the position of the baking sheets halfway through baking.  The scones will be golden brown on the tops and bottoms, and dry-ish looking, when done.  Serve warm.

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Confessional

Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.  Last week I spent $12.72 on a small tub of Marcona almonds.  From Whole Foods, no less.  At a time when gasoline tops $4.00 a gallon, maple syrup fetches $6.79 a bottle, and the price of milk and eggs causes me searing pain, expending wads of cash on Spanish nuts feels recklessly profligate.

The payoff, though, is great.  These nuts -- so oily, rich, salty, sublime -- inspire my culinary creativity like few other foods.  I have so many ideas for how to use them I'm practically hyperventilating.

First up: a ridiculously easy side dish.  At the farmers' market, sugar snap peas called out to me like emerald temptresses.  Into my sack they went.  At home, I dug out my coarse sea salt, a small bottle of almond oil,  and the Marconas.

It took all of 3 minutes to put the ingredients together. And they were worth every perfect, costly bite.

Penance forthcoming.
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Recipe for Bank-Breaking Almond Snap Peas

The simplicity of this recipe belies its enormous flavor impact.  The almond oil, Marcona almonds, and coarse salt are key ingredients, but you can always swap in olive oil, regular almonds, and plain salt if you must.  I can almost guarantee, however, that the result will pale in comparison.

2 teaspoons almond oil
2 cups very fresh sugar snap peas
1/4 cup Marcona almonds
coarse sea salt

Heat oil in a large skillet over medium-high heat until very hot.  Add snap peas and sauté for 2 minutes, or until shiny and hot, but still quite crisp.  Sprinkle with almonds and coarse sea salt.  Serve immediately.

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Fire

I walked outside this morning and it smelled like Memorial Day.  Like a barbecue.  And given the calendar this should come as no surprise.  But it was only 7:50 a.m., a tender hour when no one's slapping burgers on the grill.

Thirty miles south of me, wildfires burn.

Our walk to school was eerie.  The sky hazy, gray.  The kids were all chattering about the fires, making gagging faces, and spouting oh-my-god-do-you-smell-that-smoke-it-smells-so-gross run-on sentences.  I wonder if they'll have recess outside.

Thankfully, my lifetime experience with fire has been limited.  As a kid I watched tv shows where they'd break for commercials and occasionally run one of those quick how-to segments.  Like how to get sand out of your eye (fold the top lid over the bottom) or how to freeze orange juice into popsicles or how to cook something shockingly simple. If you were a kid in the 70s and know what I'm talking about, please speak up.  (In googling around, I did find this list of Saturday morning kids' shows broadcast in 1977.)

Anyway, one of these in-between segments inspired me to cook when I was too young to be trusted alone in the kitchen.  I thought, toast with butter is delicious.  And Home Pride Butter-Topped Bread has the butter already in it, and it's so darn good, but my mom never buys it, so how cool would it be if I tried to make it myself?  Genius, right? 

I buttered a slice of bread. Put it in the toaster.  Two minutes later, flames erupted. (For my younger readers, dripping butter + electrical coils = fire, not Home Pride Butter-Topped bread.)

In the intervening 30 years I've learned to deal with controlled fires, though they still make me a little leery.  I have embraced the grill, though.  And last night, when the dinner hour sneaked up on me faster than usual, I channeled all my superpowers and thought, What would Wonder Woman do if she had 10 minutes to cook?  And then it came to me.

Recipe for Super-Quick Grilled Naan Pizzas

This is essentially a riff on that beloved classic, the pizza bagel, with Trader Joe's naan standing in for the bagel.  I bet you could use pita bread or even French bread if you don't have any naan hanging around.

Makes 4 pizzas

4 whole wheat naan or doughy flatbreads of your choice
olive oil
pizza sauce or marinara
shredded mozzarella
a few slivers torn fresh basil
freshly ground black pepper

Preheat the grill to medium high. 

When hot, brush the naan with olive oil and place face down on the grill.  When grill marks appear, flip the naan and brush the other side with oil.  Now flip it once more.

Top each naan with a little pizza sauce and some shredded mozzarella.  Close the grill and allow the cheese to melt, about 3 to 4 minutes.  You may need to move the pizzas to a cooler part of the grill to prevent the bottoms from scorching.

Garnish with a little torn basil and a sprinkling of freshly ground black pepper.

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Comeuppance

Strawberries may be perfect summer specimens, but for me they're fraught.  Five years ago K handed me three flats of berries in the bakery where I worked after culinary school.  "Cut the strawberries for the fruit tarts."  It wasn't a request.  It was an order.

Uh, okay.

I took the paring knife, carefully separated the stem from each berry, and sliced perfect, even slivers.  I was concentrating, mind you, because even though this was a bakery and not a surgical suite it had been made clear that mistakes simply weren't tolerated.  If the strawberries didn't look pretty, the fruit tarts wouldn't look pretty, and then, I guess, people wouldn't buy them.  Or something.

See, this was my problem:  I'd spent time in a war-ravaged country.  I'd birthed two children.  I'd recently lost my mother.  I just didn't have the mindset to really focus on the details necessary to be a slam-dunk, no-holds-barred, take-no-prisoners pastry chef.  In other words, I lacked the killer instinct.  And, apparently, it showed.

So I sliced.  And sliced. And sliced.  I was pretty proud of myself, actually.  The strawberries were coming along nicely. 

K approached.  "Have you finished?"

Uh, no.  But I've done eight strawberries, and they look pretty great, I think.  They'll do the tarts proud.

Disgusted look.  I mean, she really gave me the stink-eye as she pulled the knife away.  "You're not too quick with the knife," she hissed, yanking the blade from my fingers. In about 35 seconds, chop chop chop, she proceeded to finish the three flats herself.

I wasn't long for that bakery.

And it's a good thing, too.  Because I'm quicker with a keyboard.

Type type type.  Blog blog blog.

How do you like me now, K?

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Recipe for Oatmeal Pancakes with Imperfectly Sliced Strawberries

The whole grain flour gives these quick and easy pancakes a delicious, wheaty tang.  If this scares you, go the wimpy route and use half all-purpose flour and half white whole wheat instead.

Makes 8 pancakes

1/2 cup oats
1/2 cup plus 1 tablespoon white whole wheat flour
2 tablespoons brown sugar, packed
3/4 teaspoon baking soda
1/4 teaspoon salt
1 cup buttermilk
1 egg, lightly beaten
1-1/2 tablespoons canola oil
strawberries, butter, and maple syrup, for serving

In a large bowl, whisk together the oats, flour, brown sugar, baking soda, and salt.

In a 2-cup capacity measuring cup (or a small bowl), whisk together the buttermilk, egg, and oil.  Pour the wet ingredients over the dry and whisk to combine.  Let stand 3 minutes while you preheat the griddle.

Spray a griddle or nonstick skillet with cooking spray.  When hot, scoop 1/4 cup batter onto griddle.  Cook 2 minutes on first side, flip, and cook about a minute longer on the second side.

Serve with strawberries, butter, and maple syrup.

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Dichotomy

photo by midorisyu, reprinted under a Creative Commons License

Seems that each time I pick up the paper or read an online news blurb one of two opposing trends predominates: either a) we've all gone locavore, giving the finger to agribusiness and placing the small local farmer on a shiny, gilded pedestal; OR b) we've just discovered some new high-tech instrument/machine/gadget that moves us further away from any human connection to the food chain.  How these two trends play out simultaneously makes it increasingly difficult to forge a coherent understanding of 2008 food culture.

You can't open a food magazine today without reading about farmers' markets -- about how the food is fresher, tastier, more nutritious, and better for both the environment and the local economy.  People who've never gardened before are suddenly constructing raised beds, buying EarthBoxes, and planting urban gardens in vacant parking lots.  We're in a farm bill frenzy, we're abandoning corporate jobs to milk goats, we're joining Slow Food.  We have, in sum, embraced Mother Earth in all her glory and are all but suckling at her bosom.

At the same time, however, we continue to mechanize and to use technology to get our food ever faster, ever more efficiently.  I already wrote about HyperActive Bob and biometrics.  Yesterday, alert reader Andrew Pearlman sent me this link from Gizmodo.com, which shows just how far in the high-tech direction we're headed.  If you watch the video, produced by ABC News, you'll see a pasta vending machine.  That's right: pop in your quarters, and the machine will cook fresh spaghetti for you in 90 seconds.  Then you get a little plastic ketchup-sized pack of sauce that you can squeeze over the top.

Is this genius, or idiocy?  It must be one or the other.  Dichotomy.

Chicagoans had better watch out: now that the foie gras ban has been repealed, a foie vending machine can't be far behind.

Reading, Writing, 'rithmetic, and the Ongoing Drama of School Food

 

I've gotten a reputation.  Not like the slutty girls in high school but the effect may be the same.  People talk.  Spread gossip.  Rumors.  Assume that if you don't want your kids eating cafeteria food for lunch, where frozen Hot Pockets are de rigeur, that you shouldn't be offered a cupcake at the neighbor's birthday party.  ("I just assumed that you didn't eat sugar!")  I'm sorry, but not everyone who cares about the issue of school food is an extremist who doesn't pop the occasional maraschino cherry, red dye #40 be damned. 

The landscape out there is pretty bleak, and the more I look into what most schools are serving, the more overwhelming the issue seems.  But, happily, the media is now starting to cover best practices with greater frequency, and every now and then there's a ray of light.  Just today I read an article about an Arizona school offering healthy options from a snack cart, and the students are literally eating them up.  ("They can't keep edamame in this place.")

For the moment I've decided to work within the system rather than against it.  I've joined the district's wellness committee.  I've offered to spend a good bit of my summer researching healthy alternatives to the current menu items.  And I'm exploring successful models at other local schools.  I've also joined Better School Food, a a nonprofit that has served as a terrific resource so far. 

[For what it's worth, I've also profiled Ann Cooper, a leader in the school food community, and have passed around copies of her book, Lunch Lessons: Changing the Way We Feed Our Children.  I'm quite aware of all the success she's had in the Berkeley Unified School District, but it's not the same everywhere in California.]

For me, the issue remains: will my local community, my actual school community, be behind me and agree that we can do better, or not?  Stay tuned.