5 second rule

Food aphorisms to close out your year.

The year’s almost up, and I have more to tell you.

*Butter is good. Brown butter is better. Burnt butter is bad. Burnt caramel (ice cream) is good. Salted caramel is good. Salted butter is bad, except when it’s good. Salted pasta water is good. Salt water taffy has never been good, and will therefore always be bad.

*You don’t need an avocado peeler, strawberry huller, corn cob scraper, corn silk remover, peach defuzzer, pineapple slicer, or herb mill. You do, however, need a fondue fork, if you’ve got dried wax in your menorah.

*The only reason not to make chicken stock after you’ve eaten a roast chicken is because you’re lazy, you’ll have to stay up late, and you’ll spill it when transferring it to smaller containers. Do it anyway, for your future self, who is a better person than you will ever be.

*An egg is a miracle. If you’re not a vegan, or allergic, or a chicken, learn to cook a proper egg.

*Call me if you run out of sundried tomatoes. In a moment of weakness, I bought a jar at Costco that’s bigger than Minnesota. 

*For a cool $7, you can buy a rubber mallet at the hardware store. Use it to tap your knife into hard squash (butternut, kabocha, carnival). This tip will save your knife, and possibly your digits. (Thanks, Elise.)

*If ricotta and honey had a baby, I would adopt it.

*Life is too short for bad tea, bad cheese, and bad bagels. Bad cake is okay, though.

*In a pinch, you can save a boring bowl of soup by blanketing it with Gruyère and blasting it with a kitchen torch. When you’re done, use the torch to make crème brûlée, preferably for me.

*Stale panko smells like a warehouse in a sketchy part of town. Throw it out.

*Cookies on a plate are dull. Cookies in a jar are better. Cookies in a bucket are adorable. You should not tie cookies up with ribbon, however, because if you’re that dexterous, you should apply your considerable talents to something more meaningful, like knitting a sweater for the poor, or unknotting the tangled necklaces in my jewelry box.

Happy New Year to you and those in your life. Let's hang out even more in 2012.

A spud can transcend, if you treat it right.

At my college, the annual Latke-Hamantaschen debate drew standing-room only crowds in the Sunken Lounge, a step-down space that cleaved our dining center in two. During the event, two philosophy professors held forth on the relative merits of these foods so central to Jewish tradition. (This is a real thing.)

At the time, I found the debate both comical and rhetorical. After all, it was patently obvious, to me at least, that hamantaschen would always be far superior. With tender, triangular pastry and sweet, peekaboo fillings, hamantaschen owned my heart in a way greasy fried latkes never could.

 

And here's why: In all my years of latke-eating, I’d never had one that was truly transcendent. They were either too thick, or pasty, or half-raw in the middle, or all of the above. They weren’t offensive, but they just weren’t good. Eating a mediocre latke is like eating a Fed Ex box that has spent the night in the rain.

 

Several years ago, when I met my friend Alison, things changed. A few families, including mine, gathered for what was the first of many Hanukkah parties we would share, often at our friend Julia's, but occasionally at my house, depending on the year. Alison would arrive early, bearing potatoes, onions, matzoh meal, and the kicker: her traditional latke recipe.

There was nothing earth-shattering about the recipe, but for a food that’s all about balance and proportion – the right amount of potato to onion, the right amount of binder, the right amount to dole out for each pancake – it did the trick. I also watched her squeeze the living daylights out of the vegetables before she added the other ingredients, a step about which many latke-makers are a bit too relaxed. You want to squeeze that mixture until it weeps its very soul into your paper towels.

 

The other secret?  I’ll tell you two. First, you need to watch your oil like a hawk. If it’s not hot enough, your latkes will absorb the oil and become flaccid. If it’s too hot, they’ll char. Tune that stove dial up and down like a radio knob, adjusting its volume until it’s pitch perfect. (When stove-top frying, oil will naturally rise and lower in temperature over time.)  Second, the moment you remove the latkes from the oil and set them on paper towels, salt those babies. If you wait until later to perform this crucial task, the salt will never become one with the latkes.

 

Happy Hanukkah. I hope your week is filled with light, and your platters overflow with crispy, transcendent latkes.

Wait, dessert! I don't make jelly doughnuts, so I tend to opt for non-traditional Hanukkah desserts that still fit the spirit of the holiday: fried apple rings, honey-drizzled banana fritters, or star-shaped chocolate cookies, all pictured above. I'm also crazy for noodle kugel with melted apples as a side, though between you and me, this dish really has nothing to do with Hanukkah. That said, no one will kick it off the table.

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Recipe for Alison's Famous Latkes

I've written about this classic, no-fail recipe before, but something this good bears repeating. Also, I don't screw around when it comes to latkes. Please keep your sweet potatoes to yourselves.

Makes approximately 40 latkes, give or take

10 russet potatoes
4 yellow onions, peeled and halved
4 eggs
1/2 cup matzoh meal (roughly)
Canola oil
Kosher salt
Sour cream and apple sauce, for serving

Preheat the oven to 250 degrees.

Peel the potatoes and plunge them in a large bowl with cold water.  Either cut them into large chunks, and then shred them and the onions in a food processor, OR keep the potatoes and onions whole and grate them on the large holes of a box grater.  

In a large bowl, beat the eggs lightly and set aside.Transfer a few handfuls of shredded potatoes and onions to a double-thickness of paper towels, and squeeze out as much liquid as you can muster.  Place in the bowl with the eggs and repeat with remaining potatoes and onions.  You'll use quite a few paper towels, so be prepared.

Stir in the matzoh meal and season generously with salt and pepper.  Mix well with a fork, making sure to distribute the eggs thoroughly.

Heat a few glugs of oil in a large heavy skillet (you'll use about 1/4 cup oil at first, but you'll keep adding more) over medium-high heat.  To see if the oil is ready, put in a pinch of potato mixture; if it sizzles and turns golden in about 10 seconds, the oil is ready.  Use an ice cream scoop or 1/4 cup measure to form the latkes; drop in the oil and flatten gingerly with a spatula.  Cook until golden brown, about 2 minutes per side.  As you proceed, the pan will get hotter and the oil will need to be replenished.  Adjust the heat and add new oil as necessary.  Carefully remove any burnt particles.

When latkes are done, transfer to a paper towel-lined plate and sprinkle immediately with salt. Transfer to a rimmed baking sheet and keep hot in the oven.  Repeat until you've cooked all the latkes.

Serve hot, with apple sauce and sour cream.

printable pdf

 

If you'd eaten this cake, you might have married my husband.

The first time I tasted this cake was the first time I celebrated a real Christmas. The year was 1992. I know this because I have a picture of myself from that December, and I look 19 years younger than I do today. 

Until that point, the idea of Christmas had always been vague. A tree would be involved, and I guessed there would be stockings. And gifts. But beyond that, this New York Jew was pretty much in the dark.

That year, I flew to Dallas with Colin to spend the holiday with his family. I'd met his parents a few months earlier, in the summertime. Back then, we were just boyfriend-girlfriend, but Colin's mom kept introducing me to people as her son's fiancée. This unsettled me, largely because we weren't engaged. I'd remind her time and again that she was jumping the gun, but she paid me no heed.

That October, Colin slipped a ring on my finger.

The base of the Rules' Christmas tree was heaped with presents, and the stockings, the twinkling lights, the music, the whole Christmas thing just about knocked me over with its foreignness. I remember thinking, "OK, wait, what?" And then I had another glass of eggnog.

Several times that week, Colin's mom baked up a date nut cake. I say "several times" because we kept polishing the cake off, and then magically, within hours, another one would appear in its place. A serrated knife held court at the cake's side, and anytime anyone walked by, they'd lift the glass dome, grab the knife, saw off a cake hunk, and go about their business. In that family, walking around at Christmastime with a fistful of date nut cake was, and continues to be, the most natural thing in the world. 

I already knew that Colin was the man for me. But was I sure about his family?

I'd had a good feeling about them that June, and by late December, with all those disappearing and reappearing date nut cakes, it became pretty clear that, indeed, I'd found the right in-laws as well.

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Recipe for Clifton's Date Nut Cake

My adoration of the date/nut combo preceded my introduction to the Rules by many years. I grew up eating date nut bread (not cake). Whereas date nut bread is gentle and tender, this date nut cake is heavy, dense, and could be employed, if needed, as a weapon against an unwelcome intruder.

You can use any kind of chopped, pitted dates here. I've pictured Medjools above, which produce a moister result, but you can also use commercially packaged chopped dates. If using moist dates, halve them, pit them, and then toss them with a teaspoon or two of flour to make them easier to chop.

Finally: this is definitely a breakfast cake or snack cake. I wouldn't serve it for dessert.

Serves 8 to 10, or more, depending

4 large eggs, separated 
1 pound chopped, pitted dates
1 pound pecans
1 cup all-purpose flour
1 cup granulated sugar
4 teaspoons baking powder
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon vanilla

Position a rack in the lower part third of the oven and preheat to 325 degrees. Generously coat an angel food cake pan with nonstick spray. Line the bottom with a donut-shaped piece of parchment for easier removal.

In one bowl, whisk the egg whites until stiff. Set aside.

In a separate, very large mixing bowl, stir together the dates, pecans, flour, sugar, and baking powder. 

In a third bowl, add the salt and vanilla to the egg yolks. Beat on high speed for several minutes, until thick and pale. Fold the yolk mixture into the date mixture. Mix well. Then fold in the egg whites thoroughly, so no white streaks show. The batter will be very heavy and tough to mix.

Scrape the batter into the prepared cake pan. Bake for about 75 minutes, or until nicely browned and a tester comes out clean. (Check after one hour and cover lightly with foil if it's getting too dark.) Cool thoroughly in the pan. Run a knife along the inside and outside edge, then invert onto a rack. The cake should pop out.

printable pdf

Stuff it.

Spending time online has real hazards. You can get spammed, hacked, unfriended, and cyber-stalked, all in a single afternoon. And that's just on the regular internet. On the food internet, you might encounter something far scarier: an endless barrage of photos showing foods shoved unceremoniously inside other foods.

I suppose it all started with the turducken, but soon even that became tired. Like, really, is a chicken stuffed inside a duck stuffed inside a turkey all you've got? The internet responded by wrapping the turducken in bacon, creating the turbaconducken.  Because that's what we as a society apparently needed. We needed a turbaconducken. 

Let's also not forget the Cherpumple -- a three-layer cake stuffed with an apple pie, cherry pie, and pumpkin pie. For those who need a sweet nibble after finishing their turbaconducken.

The problem is, since those illustrious items were invented, the bar has been reset quite high, and now people everywhere are trying to scale it. Apparently no food makes sense anymore unless it's cooked inside the cavity of another food. This is where we now find ourselves.

Happily, major food companies are right on trend. Kraft, for example, offers up a recipe on its website for an Oreo baked inside a cupcake. Why? I have no idea. Can't we just eat a cupcake, and THEN eat an Oreo, and then go about our business? Can't we carboload sequentially?

No, we can't. Fortunately, when we get bored with that -- it will happen! -- we can then enjoy Oreos crammed inside chocolate chip cookies or hidden inside peanut butter blondies. For some reason, Oreos are prime candidates for being thrust inside other edibles.

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Honestly, I was going to end this diatribe with a plea for my fellow citizens to get back to eating foods consecutively, or at least side-by-side. But then, just for kicks, I stuffed a roasted squash half with some leftover chili, sprinkled it with cheese, and broiled it until bubbly.

And you know what? 

Right. It was awesome.

Suddenly, things look different. I get it now. There's a beautiful efficiency to eating a food and its vessel simultaneously. It just feels good.

I challenge you all to predict the next big stuffed thing.

Obviously, it has to include Oreos.

...

Recipe for Chili-Stuffed Carnival Squash

First off, people tend to have a favorite chili recipe, so I encourage you to use whatever recipe you like.* And second, I'm not giving specific quantities for the remaining ingredients as they’re completely flexible.  Scale up or down, depending on how many you’re serving. Serve with cornbread. 

A few Carnival squashes (count on 1/2 to 1 whole squash per person)
Vegetable oil
Salt and pepper
Your favorite chili, prepared to your liking*
Cheddar cheese
Cilantro 

Preheat the oven to 400 degrees. Line a rimmed baking sheet with foil.

Carefully slice each squash end to end. (Use caution.) Scrape out the seeds and strings. Rub the cut sides and cavities with a bit of vegetable oil. Season the flesh with salt and pepper.

Roast cut-side down until tender and nicely browned, about 40 to 50 minutes, or longer, depending on the size and weight. 

Fill the cavity with your favorite chili. Sprinkle with cheese. Return to the baking sheet and broil, face-up, and watching carefully, until the cheese melts and bubbles. Garnish with chopped cilantro, and serve.

*For this recipe, I made the Beefed Up Bean Chili from Almost Meatless, which continues to be one of my favorite cookbooks. It was terrific. If you don't have the book, or a chili recipe in your repertoire, I'd suggest trying Susan Russo's boozy beef chili (for you meat-eaters) or this vegetarian chili from my archive.

printable pdf

Breakfast among friends?

They arrive at dawn. On foot, in cars, by bike. The littlest ones are stroller-bound, knobby knees draped with tattered blankets. No one knocks; they don't have to. They come in, brew coffee, pour juice, grab milk from the fridge. They warm it in a pot to ease its chill.

Someone finds the kettle, sets it on high, sprinkles tea leaves in a small, mesh basket.

I come down the stairs, sleepy-eyed, and smile at those gathered. I'm handed a mug. I pull my robe close and give thanks for wool slippers. The sun ascends, just barely.

Soon, the air grows warm. Blankets fall off, steam wafts. Friends begin to cook in stockinged feet. The toaster ticks. Saucepans clatter. A skillet shimmers with glugs of mild oil. Garlic softens, chard sautés, salt and pepper rain. Out come the eggs, the bacon, the toast.

A late tomato appears. 

Then a bird calls.

And I startle.

And blink.

The house, so full?, is silent.

I read the paper. Sip my tea. Wonder how one prepares for the quiet years.

Will I still work alone, when I have no one to fetch at the end of each day?

Hours later, I drive to school. I pick up my boys.

We return, and the house is warm again. 

One does homework. The other plays trumpet. I prep dinner. 

Colin comes home, with smiles for us all. 

The doorbell rings.

A package!

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