5 second rule

Flow

A poached egg teeters on the edge of two states: on the one hand, it's controlled and encapsulated, pregnant, and barely contained.  On the other, once it's pricked, it rushes forth so fast, and with such abandon, that any effort to stop its flow is utterly useless.  To me at least, it perfectly symbolizes how quickly life can change from one state to another.

I remember when my kids were much younger, back when the days were long, how I was never, ever alone.  Someone always needed feeding, or changing, tears needed to be wiped, fusses required shushing.  I would watch the clock, waiting for that magical moment when night would finally ease in, and Colin would cross through the door.

In those days, I used to relish the odd opportunity to drive somewhere, anywhere, in my car, when I was alone.  That solitude, so infrequent, had an electrifying effect: I felt free, and powerful; like myself, but with the volume cranked up.  Even a short drive -- to fetch eggs, or band-aids -- could make me giddy, and I'm quite sure if anyone saw me driving at those moments, my smile broad and half-crazy, the radio blaring, they'd assumed I'd just won an award, or something equally momentous.

In the past few years, though, there's been a reversal, and now solitude fills my days.  I drop the kids off at school, or at camp, and I spend the intervening hours, like many of you, working.  My co-workers are my laptop, and my kitchen appliances; my house, completely silent. No crazy, broad smiles overtake my face, and if I have to go out to fetch eggs, or berries, for a recipe I'm working on, I view the task for what it is: a chore, not a cause for celebration.

Then suddenly, the hours vanish, and it's time to pick up the boys.  And as they topple into the backseat, their energy, and jokes, and stories fill the car, and the silence lifts, and my brow unfurls.  We wind our way through traffic, the car abuzz with happy noise.  And I'm giddy, my smile broad and half-crazy, and I wonder: if anyone saw me driving, would they assume I'd just won an award?

The next morning, they're back at school, or at camp, and it's quiet again.  And I realize: the yolk has burst, and I can't stop its flow.

But it's okay, I guess.  It's good.

Roomba

My new friend Naomi just posted a picture of her Roomba on her Facebook page, and now all of a sudden, I find myself unable to think about anything but this little round vacuum that cleans your floors while you do other things like, for example, not clean your floors.  And given how much time I spend not cleaning my floors, I figure I could really, really use a Roomba.

So now I'm trying to concentrate on (Roomba) the scones up there (Roomba), and tell you about how lemony (Roomba) they are, and make you want to (Roombaroombaroomba) make them, but I can't.  I can't tell you about the scones at all, not even a little, because every single one of my brain cells is preoccupied with thoughts of a UFO-shaped vacuum I do not even own.

How does this happen, exactly?  How do people like myself, who used to be able to engage in intelligent discourse on current events, world affairs, and topics of cultural significance, suddenly become preoccupied with vacuum cleaners and their promises of a better, more organized life?  I'm not even talking about my friend here, but about myself.  Why can't I stop thinking about THE DAMN ROOMBA!  I WANNA ROOMBA!

ROOMBA!

Just think: I could throw a really fantastic brunch, and feed everyone these scones, and not dirty a single plate.  I could just hand the scones out, plateless, and say, "Relax, friends!  Just enjoy yourselves, and don't fret about the crumbs.  I'll take care of them later.  It's not a problem at all."  And then we'll hang out, eat scones, and make a godawful mess, leaving in our wake a sea of sticky, lemon-flavored crumbles. 

And then my friends will leave, and I will turn on my Roomba and put my feet up somewhere, and my crumbs, and my worries, and my many, many imperfections will all... simply... disappear.

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Recipe for Iced Lemon Scones

Most of my scones are rough adaptations of the base recipe in Lora Brody's Basic Baking.  This variation adds a lemony jolt thanks to lemon juice, zest, extract, and a punchy yet elegant lemon glaze.  I used Meyer lemons, but you're welcome to use standard lemons as well.

Makes 12 scones

2 cups cake flour
1 tablespoon baking powder
1/4 cup granulated sugar
1/2 teaspoon salt
Zest of 1 Meyer lemon (about 1 tablespoon, firmly packed)
1/2 teaspoon lemon extract
1 1/3 cups cold heavy cream

1 tablespoon lemon juice
3/4 cup confectioners' sugar, sifted

Preheat the oven to 425 degrees.  Stack two baking sheets together (this helps prevent the bottoms from burning) and line the top sheet with parchment or a silicone mat.

Sift the flour, baking powder, sugar, and salt into a large bowl.  Stir in the lemon zest.  In a measuring cup, stir the lemon extract into the heavy cream, then dribble this mixture over the dry ingredients.  Stir with a wooden spoon until you have a shaggy dough.  Scrape the bottom to make sure you absorb all the dry bits into the dough mass.

Dump the dough onto a floured board.  Knead about 10 times, then pat into a 6" diameter disc about 3/4" thick.  Use a floured 2" round cutter to stamp out circles, and transfer them to the baking sheet.  Bake  in the center of the oven for 18 to 20 minutes, turning the baking sheet around back to front halfway through.

Meanwhile, make the glaze.  Drip half the lemon juice into a large bowl, then whisk in the powdered sugar.  If the glaze is too dry, add a little more lemon juice until you achieve a thick, opaque icing.  Press a sheet of plastic wrap directly on the surface until ready to use.

When scones are ready, let cool for a few minutes, then spread thickly with the glaze.  If you run out of glaze (you may), simply make up another partial batch as needed.  

printable pdf

Frozen

The counter has a bag of chips on it.  And baked cheesy things.  There's a cake and a galette for the book, there's homemade ice cream, there's non homemade ice cream, there are ice cream cones.  There's a lot of cereal, and tortillas, and homemade jam that's a little too sweet. There are cookies, and crackers, and yogurt.  There's pudding, both rice and chocolate.  There's cheese.

And my 11-year-old walks into the kitchen after returning from camp, and he can have the pick of the litter.  The pick of the litter!  And he heads straight to the freezer.  Opens the door, pulls out a bag, and starts plucking out the cherries and blueberries and bananas and raspberries that I've tossed in there over the past few days.  Into a bowl, pluck, pluck, pluck.  And once he starts eating, I join in, and we soon both have cherry juice mustaches.

Because sometimes, the best thing you make is the thing you don't make.  It's the fruit from the freezer, that you eat without thawing.  And it doesn't need ice cream or shortcakes or pie crust to make it special, cause it already is.  It already... is.

Have you ever eaten a frozen cherry?

If you haven't, there's still time.  You simply buy too much fruit.  And you eat it, nice and fresh.  And if there's still more, and it starts to soften, tuck it in the fridge, and when you fear there's not much time left, and the mold specter looms in the distance, you pull out the fruit, pluck out the pits, chunk it up, freeze it flat, then pop it into a bag.  All at once.  Just like that.  If you think too much about it, I'll give you an F. 

Here's your recipe.

...

Recipe for Frozen Fruit

Fruit

Buy. 
Pit. 
Chunk. 
Freeze.
DO NOT THAW.
Eat.

Compliments

I am not, nor have I ever been, mushy-gushy, touchy-feely.  I don't radiate effusiveness, and if you see me in a crowd, the likelihood you'll stop and breathlessly exclaim, "Now THERE'S a woman I just have to meet!" is slim to none.

But I do know how to give a compliment, and I think the giving of a well-earned compliment is something of a lost art.  (In the blogosphere, faux-complimenting is especially rampant: "This recipe looks so good I'm going to make it tonight!!!"  Really?  Are you really going to make it tonight?  Because I don't think you are.)

On the flip side, of course, are compliment misers, people who never offer compliments, perhaps believing, even subconsciously, that doing so somehow diminishes their own worth, their own value. 

Those envelopes up there are compliment envelopes.  As part of my volunteer work at my kids' school, I led Alex's classroom in an anti-bullying program last year, with lessons that revolved around boosting kids' self-esteem and teaching them how to communicate respectfully.  At the end of the year, one of moms who'd led the program before suggested having all the kids write something nice to everyone else in the class. So I did this activity, and on the last day of school, each child took home an envelope with 23 separate compliments. 

Anyway, I've decided we need to collectively offer up some food compliments to the world.  I'll start us off, and you can add to the list.  The fact that I won't know who you're talking about is immaterial.

1.  Dad, thanks for making me skirt steak and creamed corn when I was a kid.  Even though creamed corn is totally nasty, I recently rediscovered a love for skirt steak, and, upon reflection, I think you made it really well.  Nice job.

2.  Lisa, I was really impressed when you made hamburger buns from scratch.  I've never done that before, and I probably never will, so I think that's really cool.  Also, I like your challah.

3. Melissa, that cake you brought me last week totally cheered me up.  Also, it was delicious.  Also, I like that you wear purple eyeshadow sometimes.  I couldn't get away with ever wearing purple eyeshadow, but I did just paint my toenails blue.  Does that count?

4. Jill, we all loved that chocolate cake you gave us in San Diego, even though it had mayonnaise in it.  While I kind of wish I didn't know it had mayonnaise in it, I still loved it.  Also, you bring really excellent hostess gifts when you come for dinner.  This is a skill of which to be proud, and I'm proud of you.  I do not, however, possess this same skill, as my hostess gifts are generally lame, when I remember to bring them at all.

5.  Heather, you are very, very funny, and I like that you make such innovative birthday cakes for your kids.  Also, your intense love for coconut proves you possess a superior palate.

6.

7.

8.

Caprese

I have this recurring nightmare where I'm strangled by my cherry tomato plant.  It creeps through my window in the morning's wee hours, while my children doze peacefully in the next room.  During one of their hot, breathy exhales, the vine curls around my neck and plugs my nostrils with two perfect, sunset-colored tomatoes.  And then it leaves, like, a million more tomatoes all over my dead body as a calling card, like the Barefoot Bandit, but without the chalk footprints, or all the media attention.

Heh heh.

Seriously, though, my backyard tomato plant is going gangbusters, and trying to keep up with it is like trying to chase a toddler around the mall.  As soon as I pluck the ripe ones, 17 more turn from green to orange in about 6 seconds.  I swear I caught it giving me the finger just yesterday.

So, I'm punishing it by eating as many as I can in short order. This omelet is an excellent way to dispense with a few handfuls at once, Caprese-style.

Now, I'm a fan of a well-made Caprese salad, with big, juicy tomatoes, unblemished basil and hunks of milky mozzarella.  But too often these salads are woefully uninspired, and I really feel like they need to bring something new to the table in order to continue capturing my imagination.  So I've thrown a few eggs at the problem.

Here's a really quick flat omelet that is exactly what it seems, only better.  The omelet is prettier than a traditional omelet, for one, because you can actually see the filling, which, I fully admit, is more of a topping than a filling if we're being technical.  I cook it in, and finish it with, a generous stream of olive oil to continue the Caprese theme.  And I finish it under the broiler to crisp the edges and fully melt the cheese.  The whole thing takes about 5 minutes to make, and if you can overlook the fact that the tomatoes just tried to murder you in your sleep, I'd say you'll be quite pleased with the results.

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Recipe for Caprese Flat Omelet

Use an 8 1/2" nonstick skillet with an ovenproof handle to make this simple summer omelet.  (If the handle isn't ovenproof, wrap it with heavy duty aluminum foil.)  It serves one hungry person, or, if serving toast and fruit alongside, it just may serve two.  Sharing is friendly.

1 tablespoon extra-virgin olive oil, plus additional for drizzling, if desired
2 large eggs, beaten with a fork
1 1/2 ounces mozzarella, cut into 5 or 6 thin slices
1/2 cup cherry tomatoes (mixed colors), halved
Small fresh basil leaves and coarse salt, for serving

Heat skillet over medium heat.  Add the olive oil and allow to warm for one full minute, swirling the pan to coat.  Add the eggs.

Swirl the pan above the heat a few times.  As the eggs begin to set, lift up one side of the omelet with a small heatproof spatula and allow the oozy eggs to run underneath.  After about two minutes, when only a bit of jiggle remains, scatter the cheese slices and tomato halves (cut side up) atop the eggs.  Cook 1 minute longer.

Slip the eggs under a hot broiler for 2 to 3 minutes, until the cheese melts, the eggs turn golden brown in the center, and the edges crisp.  Remove from the oven and sprinkle with fresh basil leaves and coarse salt.  Drizzle with a thin stream of additional olive oil, if desired.

printable pdf

Kim

You might remember my freakish enthusiasm several months ago when I wrote this post about muesli.  I'll give you a minute to click back over, because it's important background for today's profile.

(waiting)

(I know some of you aren't clicking back, and that's really annoying.  I'm giving you just ONE more minute.)

Anyway, I'd gotten the book Good to the Grain from the publisher, having never heard of it nor its author, Kim Boyce, before.  After making several recipes, though, I sort of developed a crush on Kim.  It started because of her chocolate chip cookies, and then it continued as I made her muesli, then the buttermilk pancakes, then the honey amaranth waffles, then the graham crackers, and then the flatbreads. Oh my sweet god, those flatbreads. 

So the long and the short of it is, I became moderately obsessed with this book, and I decided to interview Kim for iVillage.  We chatted for a good hour by phone, then discovered we were going to be at a conference together two weeks later.  And then we ended up sitting next to each other on a 6 hour bus tour around Portland.  I snapped the above photo on a street corner.

So here's the good news, the why-the-hell-should-I-care news.  Because iVillage is a big site, bigger than, say, 5 Second Rule, they were able to work with Kim's publisher to put up some of the recipes from her book, including the chocolate chip cookies, the graham crackers, and the coconut cookies.  And if there's one thing I think you need to do, it's try these recipes, and now you can.

Here are some links to point you in the right direction:

Read my full interview with Kim Boyce on iVillage here (you'll see the recipes there, too)

If you develop an obsession (sorry, but it's possible), you may want to consider purchasing Good to the Grain here.

For more related reads, also check out:

Heidi Swanson's post on 101 Cookbooks (with a figgy buckwheat scone recipe)

Sam Fromartz's post on Chews Wise

Megan Gordon's book review on Bay Area Bites and her post on A Sweet Spoonful

Follow Kim Boyce on Twitter here and check out her website here

Happy weekend.  If you're not inspired to bake something after reading all this, we've got big problems.

Iconoclast

Did you guys read Elizabeth Weil's article in Sunday's New York Times Magazine about the Humphry Slocombe ice cream shop in San Francisco?  I did, and I reacted with equal parts fascination and revulsion.  Fascination, because ice cream flavors like Malted Milk Chocolate, Candied Ginger, Cinnamon Brittle, and Brown Butter sound so good that I seriously considered hopping in my car and driving up to San Francisco to try them.

(Okay, that was a total lie.  I loathe that drive.)

But then I kept reading, and I learned that the owner and mad scientist behind the shop also makes prosciutto flavored ice cream, foie gras-gingersnap ice cream sandwiches, and a coconut caramel sorbet with candy cap mushrooms. 

I said mushrooms. 

Now I love mushrooms more than the average person.  In fact, I sliced up a fat portobello last night and topped it with a knot of spaghetti.  What I did not do, however, was churn that fungus into a creamy, iced, dairy dessert. 

But Jake Godby of Humphry Slocombe did, and does, apparently do such things with mushrooms, and jalapenos, and cheese, and pork. And, according to the NYT article, he's both despised and beloved for this barrier-breaking artistry, and his chutzpah.  Godby didn't appear out of nowhere, either, simply to shock. He honed his pastry chops at some of San Francisco's most revered, high-end restaurants.

Since I haven't eaten there, though, let's broaden the discussion to one about originality, and whether, and how much, you and your palate like to experiment.  I mean, do you essentially make the same 10 or 15 dishes over the course of a month?  Do you eat at the same restaurants over and over?  When you hit the cereal aisle, do you, or do you not, always reach for the same familiar box?

Maybe we'd all be better off if we shook things up a little. 

Given the list of ice creams at Godby's shop, tell me which 2 or 3 you'd order, and which 2 or 3 you would, quite simply, not, even if offered large sums of cash money.  Be honest now.

As for my profiteroles above, I won't tell you what kind of ice cream I tucked inside.  Use your imagination.

(Maybe it's Vanilla Motor Oil.)

Summer

10 best, and 10 worst, things about summer

BEST

1. Blackberries that don't taste like battery acid.

2. Daily popsicles, you know, for hydration.

3. Inviting friends to the beach, then eating their snacks.

4. Backyard barbecues, followed by s'mores around the firepit.

5.  Cobbler, buckle, crisp, betty, veronica.

6.  Lemonade, iced tea, Arnold Palmer.

7. Agreeing to accept your friend Liz's CSA share when she's in Europe, especially when the strawberries taste like candy (score) and she gets the optional flower subscription (double score).

8a.  Tomatoes/gazpacho/salsa.

8b.  Corn.

8c. Watermelon.

9.  Realizing that ultrapasteurized cream, while less revered in certain culinary circles, actually lasts far beyond its expiry date, and makes perfectly good banana pudding when your son announces he wants banana pudding instead of cake for his birthday.  Oh wait, that really has nothing to do with summer. 

10.  Getting to the farmers' market late and buying a huge flat of organic strawberries for $5.

WORST

1.  Finding blackberry juice on your shirt.

2.  Acknowledging that the popsicle molds you buy every year completely suck, even though every magazine and website extols the virtues of creatively-flavored "adult" and "gourmet" popsicles.  If someone has found good popsicle molds, leave a link below with the manufacturer/details.  If I buy them, but hate them, I'm sending you a bill.  (No, I'm actually serious.  I'm invoicing you.)

3. Inviting friends to the beach, and not bringing anything homemade because you don't think it's worth the effort, and then finding your friend Stacy made chocolate chip cookies and everyone just goes on and on about how great they are, and you're like, I totally should have made cookies, too, but instead all I brought were peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and tortilla chips, and no one's impressed in the least.

4.  Gathering around the firepit after a backyard barbecue only to realize the only marshmallows you have in the house are mini ones.  Who ate all the damn normal-sized marshmallows?

5.  Waiting for the cobbler, buckle, betty, veronica to cool before digging in, losing patience, eating it anyway, and singeing the roof of your mouth with molten peach pulp.

6.  Suffering a pounding iced-tea-withdrawal-headache 24 hours after a 5-glass bender.

7.  Bringing home your friend Liz's CSA share only to discover you never ate the bok choy from last week, and the produce drawer is so full you can't jimmy it open anyway.

8a.  Realizing that heirloom tomatoes are really expensive, but you can't resist them, so now you're poor.

8b.  Realizing that the corn guy at the market is funny, but kind of arrogant and annoying.

8c.  Realizing that watermelon is unbelievably good when it's good, and a horrorshow when it's mealy. 

9.  Discovering that if you forget to shake your expired ultrapasteurized cream before pouring it into your recipe, it's chunky.  Also, the thick cream that sticks to the side of the carton smells kind of bad.  Also, people will judge you for using ultrapasteurized cream, not to mention expired ultrapasteurized cream, and you could really do without all the negative judgments thank you very much.  What did I ever do to you?

10.  Getting to the farmers' market late, and finding that all that's left are spent corn husks, bruised cherries, squished apricots, and hot, man-handled plums.  There are very few things that are worse than hot man-handled plums.  Cold man-handled plums can possibly be forgiven, if you're feeling magnanimous, but not hot ones.

And that's just the way it is.