5 second rule

Evolve, or die?

WHEN do you take something comfortable -- an attitude, a philosophy, a way of moving in the world -- and morph it into something new and scary? And risk spectacular failure? And become a beginner, again?

This question has consumed me for the past several days. It's a hummingbird, fluttering in place, diverting my attention from everything else around.

Each year I attend IACP, a professional conference that speeds my pulse and forces me to re-assess my career trajectory. Am I doing this stuff right? Making quick enough progress? Keeping up with what's new / what's hot / what's coming down the pike?

The answers rush forth: sort of, maybe, not really.

In a professional landscape where Pinterest, video, and co-branding are king, where does that leave the lonely writer, the one who used to get by with her keyboard, her tea, and her moments of quiet reflection? Is there a place for old-school, single-platform, words-on-a-screen content anymore? Do people still read, even? Or do they just clickety-clack, leaping online from one diversion to the next?

I've been told to mobilize. Not to get moving, which is what this word used to mean, but to make my work mobile-phone-friendly. Apparently you're all reading me on your cellphones now. Colin tells me next year everyone will be using Google Glass. (I think I just had a heart attack writing that sentence.) I need multimedia. Content-sharing. Corporate partners. Bells on top of whistles on top of bells on top of whistles. I need fewer words, more images, lots of podcasts, giveaways, co-branding relationships, and a coding team to optimize my bliggityblooblamblahblah if I'm ever going to survive in this field.

So I'm left with choices. Do I evolve? Risk-take? Fail, get up, try again, fail again, and maybe, just maybe, discover some wonderful new platform, ability, passion, proclivity I never knew I had? Or do I ignore it all, and just keep on keeping on, writing words, thinking thoughts, snapping photos, authoring books, cooking (for god's sake) and standing by as my audience defects to shinier, brighter, louder, more modern media forms that flash their perfect pearly teeth and seduce like snake charmers?

What's the answer?

Maybe we can work through this together.

You bring your advice. And I'll bring the cookies.

...

Recipe for Meyer Lemon Pistachio Chocolate Chip Cookies

Old-fashioned and newfangled, rooted in tradition and careening towards modernity, these cookies offer lots of lemon, a bit of coarse salt, and a heap of pistachios to keep up with the times. And yet, I can assure you: they never forget where they came from.

If you like these, you'll also love these. 

Makes about 45 cookies

1-1/2 cups all-purpose flour
3/4 cup old-fashioned rolled oats
1 teaspoon baking soda
1 teaspoon sea salt
2 sticks (8 ounces) unsalted butter, at room temperature
1/2 cup granulated sugar
1/2 cup brown sugar
2 eggs
1 teaspoon vanilla
Zest of 1 Meyer (or standard) lemon
1 cup unsalted pistachios
1 cup semi-sweet or dark chocolate chips
Additional lemon zest and crunchy fleur de sel, for sprinkling

Preheat the oven to 375°F. Line your baking sheets with parchment.

In a large mixing bowl, whisk the flour, oats, baking soda and salt.

In the bowl of a stand mixer fitted with the paddle attachment, cream the butter and two sugars until light and fluffy. Beat in the eggs, one at a time, and then the vanilla and lemon zest, beating until incorporated. Beat in the flour-oat mixture, in two additions. Fold in the nuts and chocolate.

Using a 1-1/2 inch scoop, divide the batter among parchment-lined baking sheets. Bake for about 14 minutes, until nicely browned. Cool. Just before serving, sprinkle each cookie with additional lemon zest and a scant pinch of fleur de sel.

printable pdf

C-cups, for dessert.

Consider the macaroon.

The density of the thing.

Nothing cupcakey about it.

A macaroon swaggers, all heft and chew and textural intrigue.

What's that in your teeth? A cat hair? A frayed shred of floss? Nah: it's a coconut thread, a happy memento of a just-downed macaroon. Ease it out, maybe set it on the mantel. It's a totem, an idol, an emblem of a life well-lived. 

I recognize that some (unhappy) people view coconut with derision, with barely concealed disdain. That to them, a macaroon is a blight on humanity's dessert buffet.

To those people I say: make like Dionne Warwick, and walk on by.

But for the macaroon aesthetes among you? Thanks for sticking around.

I've got something special in store.

...

Recipe for Coconut Macaroon Cups with assorted fillings

I wanted to create a twist on David Lebovitz's perfect coconut macaroon. If you've never made his recipe, you should. 

In this modified version, I've used as many forms of coconut as I could: sweetened flaked, unsweetened desiccated, coconut oil, coconut flour. These items make the cup "shells" dairy- and gluten-free, but if that's a non-issue for you and you don't want to buy the coconut oil and coconut flour in particular, go ahead and sub butter for the oil and all-purpose for the coconut flour, unless you're serving these for Passover. (Watch your fillings, too, if that's the case.)

When filling the cups, use a generous hand with the jam, chocolate, and fruit. Because the cups are less sweet and a bit sturdier (re: drier) than traditional macaroons, these shine brightest when filled with abandon.

Makes 12 filled coconut cups

1-1/2 tablespoons coconut oil, melted
1-1/4 cups sweetened, flaked coconut
2-1/4 cups unsweetened shredded coconut (medium-shred preferred)
Scant 1/3 cup coconut flour
6 egg whites
1 teaspoon salt
Finely grated zest of 1 small lemon (optional)
Heaping 1/3 cup granulated sugar
Fillings (quantities will vary depending on how many of each type of filling you make): melted chocolate, sliced fruit, preserves, (maybe even sorbet?)

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees. Generously brush the muffin cups with melted coconut oil.

In a large nonstick saucepan, combine all the remaining ingredients, except the fillings. Set over medium heat and cook, stirring constantly, for 5 to 7 minutes. The mixture will cohere into a mass, which you'll want to break up and move around the pan. The idea is to dry it out a bit before it bakes.

Use an ice cream scoop to divide evenly among the muffin cups. Coat the back of the scoop with nonstick spray, then make an indentation in each cup, packing the mounds down and creating hollows for the eventual fillings.

Bake for 15-17 minutes, until the tops of the cups are toasty brown. Let cool. Slide a sharp knife around each cup to loosen, then scoop out carefully with a spoon. Fill as desired.

printable pdf

One bowl chocolate cake, for emergencies or lazy people.

911. May I help you?

I have an emergency.

What is the nature of your emergency?

I want to make a Valentine's Day chocolate cake but I also have to clean it up all by myself.

So, basically, you're lazy and don't want to make a real cake with beaters and mixers and frostings and layers and sprinkles and buttercream roses? And you don't want so much cake that you'll be tempted to eat it for breakfast for the next 6 weeks?

Basically.

I'll send someone right over.

...

Hi.

I'm here for you.

This cake is for you, and for me, and for anyone who needs a chocolate something this week to please a family or a friend or a partner or a spouse or a Valentine of any denomination. It's quick, it's easy, it's real food, and it doesn't come from a box. It takes 10 minutes to put together (true story) and 30ish minutes to bake.

Yes, you can make a more complicated, traditional Valentine's dessert. You can make sea salt caramel truffles with organic lavendar petals and pipe hearts on top with a pastry bag and a Wilton tip. You can make a souffle or a tart or a roulade or a lava cake wrapped in hot pink fondant. You can muss, you can fuss, you can do all that if you want to. 

Or you can concentrate on other things, go about your life, do some work, read the mail, pay a bill, walk a dog, kiss your people, and then, after dinner, make this cake and have it on the table in 45 minutes.

It's up to you.

Happy Valentine's Day to-be, friends. I'd kiss you all if I could, and give you each a pastel-colored heart on which I'd write, in my finest, most sophisticated hand: Text Me and i ♥ u.

...

Recipe for One Bowl Chocolate Sour Cream Cake with or without Quick Glaze

The very point of this cake is its ease: you don't need special equipment, fancy ingredients, or much time. Sour cream adds depth and tang, and mini chips bolster the chocolaty oomph. Go the unglazed route for maximum simplicity, or spoon a 5 minute ganache on top if you're desperate to wash another dish.

Deep thanks to my friend Jill for providing last minute technical advice. I'm saving my biggest slice for her.

Makes one 9-inch round, single-layer cake

1 cup all-purpose flour
1/4 cup unsweetened cocoa powder
3/4 cup granulated sugar
1 teaspoon baking powder
1/4 teaspoon baking soda
1/4 teaspoon salt
3 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted about halfway
3 tablespoons sour cream
1/2 cup milk
1 egg, at room temperature
1 teaspoon vanilla
1/4 cup mini chocolate chips

For the optional glaze:

2 ounces bittersweet chocolate, finely chopped
Scant 1/2 cup heavy cream 

Preheat the oven to 325 degrees. Grease a 9-inch round cake pan. Line with parchment.

Sift the flour, cocoa powder, sugar, baking powder, baking soda, and salt into a large bowl. Add the butter, sour cream, milk, egg, vanilla, and mini chips. Mix well with a wooden spoon or a rubber spatula. It's okay if the batter's a bit lumpy, but make sure there are no pockets of undissolved dry ingredients. Scrape into the prepared cake pan. Bake in the center of the oven for 30 to 35 minutes, until the cake is firm to the touch, a skewer withdraws clean, and the cake is just beginning to pull away from the sides.

Cool on a rack for a few minutes, then unmold to cool completely.

If making the glaze, wash and dry the bowl. Add the chopped chocolate. In a small saucepan, bring the cream up to a hard simmer. Pour the cream over the chocolate. Cover for a few minutes, then stir well. Refrigerate until slightly thickened. Spoon over the cake, or serve alongside.

printable pdf

(Need some Valentine's Day breakfast options? I recommend both the chocolate waffles and chocolate pancakes from the archives.)

 

Choose your own adventure.

As soon as April said the words, I felt the hairs on my arms sparkle.

And the irony is, April was talking about her daughter's cold. A cold! Is there anything more mundane, or less sparkle-inducing, than a January phone call about a kid's runny nose and scratchy throat?

But April and her family were visiting San Francisco from the east coast, and they were supposed to drive down to see us that day. She called to make sure it was still okay for them to come, kid sniffles and all.

Sure, I told her. It's totally fine with us. My boys are older, so I really don't worry about germs that much anymore. Really, though, you need to decide if you're okay coming down given how your daughter is feeling...

And that's when she said it. The sparklewords.

We'll come, she said. When given the choice, we always opt for adventure.

...

I hung up the phone. 

When given the choice, they always opt for adventure.

Opt for adventure. Opt-for-adventure. Optforadventure.

I've been thinking about this for days. 

Me? I opt for adventure, when someone incents me to. I opt for adventure, after hemming and hawing. I opt for adventure, when it's convenient, if you'll drive me, when I have to, or if the snacks on the docket tempt so hard my stomach punts me out the door and locks it behind me. In other words, I don't opt for adventure all that often, at least anymore. 

So I'm wrestling with this adventure non-opting tendency of mine, and thanks to April's inadvertent inspiration, I've decided to crush it. Baby steps at first. Getting out more on weekends, and at night. Taking myself up to San Francisco, which is so close, but where I never go. Modeling adventurous behavior for my kids. 

After April and her family visited for a few hours, and then left, my husband, boys, and I discussed what to do with our evening. Should we go out for dinner? Head somewhere fun?

Yes, of course we should.

That we stayed in, lit a fire, played Boggle, and made rice pudding in our pajamas instead is not necessarily something I'm proud of. But I'm not really ashamed of it either. It takes time to change, and I need to be patient.

The next morning, I warmed the leftover rice pudding, thinning it with a bit more milk. I tossed on a crush of pistachio and lemon, and ate this erstwhile dessert for breakfast. You know how that felt?

Adventurous.

I'll get there eventually, to a more adventure-filled life.

I'm just taking it one spoonful at a time.

...

Simplest Rice Pudding with lemon-pistachio crush

Last week, my friend Emma and I traded books. I went home with her copy of Sophie Dahl's lovely Very Fond of Food (Ten Speed, 2011), and Emma adopted my extra copy of Ruth Reichl's Comfort Me with Apples (Random House, 2001/2010).

This rice pudding originated with Dahl's recipe for Rice Pudding Cake. While making it, though, the rice took so long to absorb the milk that I got impatient, changed tacks, screwed the cake, and we all just ate warm, sweet, milky rice for dessert instead. There was a bit left over.

The next morning, the budding adventurer in me decided that if oatmeal qualifies as breakfast, then you know what? Rice pudding should, too.

Makes 4 servings

4 cups milk (I used 2%), plus extra for breakfast
3/4 cup Arborio rice
2 lemons (Meyers are lovely if you have them), divided
2 tablespoons superfine sugar, plus more (to taste) 
Handful of lightly toasted (unsalted) pistachios

Combine the milk, rice, and zest of 1 lemon in a medium saucepan over low heat. (Refrigerate the zested lemon, wrapped well in plastic, for another use.) Cook gently, whisking occasionally, until the rice absorbs about 85 percent of the liquid. This will happen quite slowly at first, so you can play Boggle and pop in just to give it a quick whisk every now and again. After about 20 minutes, though, you'll want to stay close and scrape the saucepan with your whisk more frequently. This can take anywhere from 40 to 60 minutes, so clear your schedule. You don't want the milk to scorch.

When the pudding is ready, stir in the sugar and give a taste. If it's not sweet enough, add additional sugar, just a bit at a time, until you're happy. Cool ever so slightly.

Serve warm, right away, or cool completely and refrigerate overnight.

In the morning, thin the leftover pudding with additional milk until it's creamy and fluid, like a loose porridge. Reheat gently. Zest the second lemon onto a cutting board. Lay the pistachios on top. Chop the pistachios into the zest, then sprinkle this bright topping over your {cough} cereal.

printable pdf

 

Make it a good one.

Each fingernail sported a different color.

That's the first thing I noticed. One sparkly blue, one goldish, one pink, and so on. She wore frayed jeans and cowboy boots. She had rings on her thumbs. But I noticed her nails first.

Then I saw her phone.

It sat on her purse, shoved under the seat in front of her. When we reached elevation, she bent over to fetch it. This teenage girl, right across from me, in seat 10B, now clutched her phone.

What I'd noticed before, while the phone lay beyond reach, now became clear. Her phone was wrapped with a thick band of masking tape emblazoned with these words:

HEALTHY 
{gym, food, don't bite nails} 

It was a private note, in public view, penned in thick Sharpie. A reminder to hold herself accountable. A teen girl's checklist, and aspirations, in 6 words flat.

I didn't know this girl, this fellow passenger on a short-haul flight. But she moved me. With her long hair, her stylish clothes, her painted nails, her pretty face, this teenager -- maybe 16? 17 years old? -- moved me with her imperfection, and her desire for betterment. 

I wanted to talk to her.

To tell her she was doing a good job.

That her nails looked great, and long. 

That her body looked fit, and strong.

That she was doing everything right.

But then I'd add one thing. Just a small tip. That despite her hard work, and her determination, and her goals, and her masking tape, she could still, on occasion, indulge -- if she felt like it.

A cookie's okay, every now and then.

Just make it a good one.

...

Recipe for Chocolate Chip Cookies with currants, allspice, and fleur de sel

You'll see Tollhouse's influence here. That said, I've doused these cookies with allspice, speckled them with currants, reduced the sugars, and blended in oats. Because I needed a ton of cookies for a potluck and various gifts, this recipe yields a lot. Please make the full quantity of batter, and freeze most in balls after scooping, or else cut the recipe in half. Just don't forgo the fleur de sel on top.

Makes 110 cookies

2 cups (dried) currants
3 cups all-purpose flour
1-3/4 cups old fashioned rolled oats, pulsed a few times in a food processor (do not turn to flour) 
5 teaspoons ground allspice (I used Jamaican) 
2 teaspoons baking soda
1-1/2 teaspoons sea salt
1 pound unsalted butter, at room temperature 
1 cup granulated sugar
1-1/4 cups brown sugar
2-1/2 teaspoons vanilla
4 eggs, at room temperature
3 cups semi-sweet morsels 
Fleur de sel, for sprinkling 

Preheat the oven to 375 degrees. Line several rimmed baking sheets with parchment or silicone liners.

Bring a kettle of water to a boil.

Place the currants in a small bowl. Cover with boiling water. Let stand while you prepare the batter.

In a large mixing bowl, whisk the flour, oats, allspice, baking soda, and sea salt.

In the bowl of a stand mixer fitted with the paddle attachment, beat the butter, two sugars, and vanilla until creamy. Beat in the eggs, one at a time, until fully incorporated. 

With the mixer on low speed, beat in the flour/oat mixture in three additions. Remove the mixing bowl from its apparatus. 

Drain the currants and pat dry with paper towels. Fold the currants and chocolate chips into the batter, sweeping the bottom of the mixing bowl to ensure you've incorporated any floury bits.

Using a 1-1/2 inch scoop, divide the batter among the prepared baking sheets. (Bake as many as you want. Freeze the remaining scooped, unbaked dough until hard. Then transfer to a freezer-safe bag and keep frozen until ready to bake.)

Bake in the upper two thirds of the oven (not on the bottom rack!) for about 12 minutes, until golden brown, reversing the baking sheets halfway through. Sprinkle with fleur de sel while still warm.

printable pdf

Along life's crooked divide.

Last week cleaved my life in two.

It wasn’t as violent as it sounds. But things of enormous significance happened to people in my world, and the confluence of events in a short span of time startled me with their lack of subtlety. Life hit me upside the head, then blared a foghorn in my face.  I paid attention.

First, my son, under Jewish tradition, became an adult. Now 13, this formerly shy child of mine commanded the bima at our temple with authority, confidence, and grace. He read fluidly in another language, beautifully moderating the highs and lows of his voice, a voice near-complete in its transition.

Wasn’t I just on that bima myself, reading Torah, looking out on the faces of my own parents and grandparents, a 13-year-old girl in an ill-fitting dress?

But no, that was long ago.

When I offered the tallit to my son, he said a blessing, then swung the prayer shawl around his shoulders. I stepped off the bima.

I ceded more than the stage in that moment. I passed him a torch, and afterwards, I took more than my seat. I took my first tentative steps across an unmistakable divide. It felt good in that instant, but my throat catches now when I think about it. 

The next day, a dear friend’s father died. Cancer of the pancreas. 

The day after that, two close friends – utterly disconnected from each other, but both so important to me -- had babies. I got the news of one, then the other, in quick succession. Daughters.

Life split in half last week: birth on the left, death on the right, and me, straddling the crooked divide.

...

Recipe for Tender Whole Wheat Zucchini Bread (updated)

I’ve gently reworked this zucchini bread recipe from 2008. It’s not so different from my earlier version, but it’s better, and therefore worth sharing in its new and improved form. The center will crack, cleaving the cake partly in two. That’s just the natural order of things.

Makes one loaf.

1-1/2 cups white whole wheat flour
1/2 cup almond meal
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon baking powder
1 teaspoon cinnamon
Pinch nutmeg
1/2 teaspoon salt
2 eggs
1/2 cup plus 2 tablespoons vegetable oil
3/4 cup (packed) dark brown sugar
1-3/4 cup grated, unpeeled zucchini (use the smallest holes on a box grater and pack lightly into the measuring cups)

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees. Coat a 9x5 inch loaf pan with nonstick spray.

In a medium bowl, whisk the flour, almond meal, baking soda, baking powder, cinnamon, nutmeg, and salt.

In the bowl of a stand mixer fitted with the paddle attachment, beat the eggs on medium-high speed for 5 minutes. Turn off the mixer, add the oil and brown sugar, and beat slowly for 1 minute. Add the zucchini. Beat on low speed for 1 minute longer. Dump in the dry ingredients. Beat just until combined.

Remove the bowl from the mixer. Give the sides and bottom of the bowl a good, solid sweep with a rubber spatula, making sure all the floury bits are incorporated. Scrape into the prepared loaf pan.

Bake for about 55 minutes, until a skewer inserted in the center comes out clean. Cool for 15 minutes, then turn out and finish cooling on a wire rack. Don't attempt to slice until the bread is fully cool.

printable pdf

...

This Sunday, 8/26/12, I'll be signing books from 12p-2p at New Seasons Market (Sellwood) in Portland, Oregon. I'd love to meet you.

 

Cars are made for snacking.

"So, if you think about books as an extension of ourselves, we are totally about to meet."

This is how I came to know Alana Chernila, and she came to know me. Not through a chance meeting at a conference, or a sweaty run-in at the gym I keep paying for but never attend. 

We met through our books. I ordered Alana's, she ordered mine, and they each arrived at our respective homes, in our respective states, on the same day. Thank you, United States Postal Service.

Alana's younger than me, this mother of two girls, a woman whose prose flows so naturally I want to drink from its tap. Never overwrought, always relatable, her stories of humble foods -- yogurt, bread, mayonnaise, granola -- will spur you to tie on an apron and get flour in your hair. You'll dream, suddenly, of making cream cheese, putting up tomatoes, rolling your own fruit leather.

Alana doesn't take herself too seriously, and for this reason, I want to hug her hard. The recipe titles in her book, The Homemade Pantry, reveal the simple truths of her life, and ours. Car Snack 1, Car Snack 2, and Car Snack 3 are three variations on cereal bars -- you'll want to make them, then hand them to your kids on routine drives to the library, the grocery store, the beach. 

But, listen. If you're the type of person who doesn't let your kids snack in the car, this may not be the book for you. 

Because it's all about the beautiful mess of real life --  a life where oats litter backseats, and there can never be too much strawberry ice cream.

...

Recipe for Strawberry Ice Cream 

Excerpted with permission from The Homemade Pantry by Alana Chernila (Clarkson Potter, 2012) 

{{from Cheryl}} I've made several recipes from Alana Chernila's The Homemade Pantry, including her granola, chai, and buttermilk ranch dressing. But her strawberry ice cream is stunning. The sugar-dusted strawberries macerate and weep their jammy juices, then get churned into a fruit-forward, creamy treat. Any left over ice cream can be whipped into a strawberry milkshake with nothing more than a blender, some milk, and a thirst for happiness. 

Makes 1 quart

3 large egg yolks
3/4 cup half-and-half
1/2 cup sugar
3/4 cup heavy cream
2 pints strawberries, washed, dried, and hulled
1 teaspoon Vanilla Extract, homemade or store-bought
1⁄8 teaspoon of salt
Optional: 2 teaspoons kirsch liqueur

In a small bowl, whisk the egg yolks.

Place the half-and-half and 1/4 cup of the sugar in a medium heavy-bottomed pot. Heat it over medium heat without letting it boil, and stir occasionally until the sugar is dissolved, 5 to 8 minutes. In the meantime, set a fine-meshed sieve over a large heatproof bowl.

When the half-and-half mixture is hot, whisk a little of it into the egg yolks to warm them. Then whisk all of the warm egg yolks into the hot cream. Stir constantly with a wooden spoon or heatproof spatula as you heat the mixture over medium heat—keep scraping the bottom and stirring until the mixture thickens and you get a good coating on the spoon. Again, do not let it boil. Remove from the heat and pour through the strainer over the bowl. Add the heavy cream to the mixture and stir to combine. Cover and chill in the refrigerator for at least 30 minutes.

Put the strawberries in a large bowl and mash them a bit with a potato masher. Then add the remaining ¼ cup sugar. Let the strawberries macerate in their own juices, stirring occasionally until the sugar has melted, 10 to 15 minutes. Add the berries to the cream mixture. Then add the vanilla, salt, and kirsch, if using. Chill, covered, in the refrigerator for at least 30 minutes, but up to 2 days.

Freeze according to your ice cream maker’s instructions.

printable pdf

Ripe Party at the Rustic Garden Bistro

Join us.

Outside.

In the garden.

Under the stars.

We will be serving a complete, 5 course meal from Ripe, followed by a potluck dessert buffet. 

We will drink festive libations. Talk about fruit. Commune with vegetables. Discuss life. Get to know each other. Share stories while we share a meal. Then I will do a reading and sign some books with the neatest handwriting I can muster. But please: make sure I don't drink more than one glass of wine. I am a Notorious Lightweight. Note the capital N and capital L. Now imagine them highlighted. And in 34 point.

Many thanks to my friend Kim Burnell, hostess for the evening. She's the owner of a home with what I understand to be a stunning edible garden in Orange County, California. And she's generously opening her garden for this special event on Saturday, July 21. 

If you live in the LA / Orange County area, or know folks who do, please pass along this invitation. While anyone may attend, you get first dibs. Bring a friend, or three.

Click the EventBrite link to get all the details and snag your ticket before they're gone. (Space is limited.) http://ripeinthegarden.eventbrite.com/

And if you don't live in Southern California, but you do like the idea of hosting a Ripe party sometime in the future, please let me know. I'm game to exploring similar parties in other cities. 

Let's talk.

Yes, it counts.

A few weeks ago, I was talking with a friend about how I got started as a food writer. I was going through my whole wacky, completely nonlinear career -- the philosophy degree; the years in the Justice Department; my time as a nanny in Paris when I had to watch Beauty and the Beast every single day; my Peace Corps service; grad school; and on and on. None of it made sense, not from any angle. There was no cohesion, no logic, no way to pretend point A influenced point B influenced point C. Frankly, it didn't. My career to that point was a happy mess, a colossal grab bag of experiences whose contents, while colorful and lively, were disconnected from one another in every conceivable way.

And that was all pre-1998. Then came the tenure research, and the babies, and the early years of motherhood during which I struggled to find my place as an at-home mom who yearned to be two places at once -- in a career, and on the floor with my boys. I wanted to be home, but more than that, I wanted to WANT to be home, and that part was the hardest. Because those years were tough. They were tough not in spite of, but precisely because of the relentless activity in that preceding decade. I also felt that, while some women could successfully navigate domesticity as a full-time gig, I, perhaps, might suddenly be out of my league.

I would ask myself, looking at my boys, does this count? Can I actually do this and have it count, not just to them, but to the outside world? Am I fulfilling the role I set out to fulfill, or failing, somehow, to achieve some nebulous goal? I would reflect back on the bosses from my earliest jobs and wonder: would they be disappointed to learn that I'd stepped off the career-track, even though the track I'd been on was shaped like a curly fry?

Let me just say this: I loved those years. I questioned every little possible thing, and I second-guessed often, and deeply, but I loved those years, and I would not for a second grab Father Time's hair and yank him around so I could re-do it. No way. I treasure those years at home with my boys. But they were hard, dude. They were hard.

I spoke with a young woman recently. She's 24, and uncertain about how to fulfill her ambition. She knows she wants to be successful, but her path is shrouded in mystery. Well, yes, of course it is. Hello, young me. There's fog ahead, I hear you, but you just step into it, find your fulcrum, and do your best to wade on through. The fog will lift, eventually, so take your time. The years you spend tiptoeing, then leaping, first left, then right, watching Beauty and the Beast, staying home, changing diapers, feeling scared and unsure and uncertain that what you're doing is the right thing for you, those years count. They count.

The fog will lift. 

And you'll have that journey.

And be grateful for it, too.

...

Recipe for Ouzo-Steeped Calimyrna Figs

I recently had a few couples over (my first dinner party since the Stone Age), and I wanted to put out something simple to accompany the baklava I knew a friend was bringing for dessert. I didn't want to compete with her, or to make the meal end on a heavy note. A few hours before the gathering, I filled a few glasses with ouzo and dropped in some Calimyrna figs. I decided it counted, even though it took about 6 seconds to prepare. By the time the meal was finished, the figs were nicely drunk, and plump, and crazy, crazy good.

Dried figs, preferably Calimyrna
Ouzo

Fill a few glasses with ouzo and drop in some dried figs. Let steep for several hours. Serve, passing around skewers or fondue forks so guests can fish out the fruit.

Refrigerate leftovers, covered, in glass jars, topped off with additional ouzo to cover. These will taste terrific for days. 

printable pdf

Rectangular pumpkin pie (for me and you and everyone we know).

Last year, when I riffed on the pumpkin pie recipe from Nancie McDermott's book Southern Pies, I believe I wrote something like: "[This is] the best [expletive] pumpkin pie I've ever made." And it was. And it is.

So this year, I'm offering you another riff on Nancie's pumpkin pie, but this time more of it, to feed a crowd, and to guarantee plenty of leftovers. This Thanksgiving, after the last guests leave, and you're stuck washing dishes, and you're cursing the decision to use the fancy cloth napkins because, of course, now you're going to have to iron them, you can drown your sorrows in a giant square of pumpkin pie because there will be extra just for you.

This pumpkin pie gets baked in a 9 x 13 inch rectangular baking pan. It's a pan you probably own and use to make large birthday cakes, or brownies, or lemon bars, or bread pudding. (Here's mine.)

When you eat your second slice -- after everyone has gone to bed and your hands are still sudsy and you're scraping dried gravy off the chipped wedding china -- you will give thanks. Not just for family, and friends, and good health, but for pumpkins, and Nancie, and pie in all shapes and sizes.

I, for one, am thankful for each and every one of you.

May next week go smoothly for you and your loved ones.

...

Recipe for Thanksgiving Pumpkin Pie, rectangular version for a crowd (inspired by Nancie McDermott)

These may look like bars, or squares, or trapezoids (if your knife skills are poor), but it's pumpkin pie through-and-through. I encourage you to make it one day ahead of serving. After cooling completely, store in the refrigerator, covered.

Makes one 13 x 9 inch rectangular pie, serving 16-ish people

Your favorite pie dough for two 9-inch, single crust pies, unbaked 
1-1/2 cups sugar
2 teaspoons cinnamon
1 teaspoon ginger
1/2 teaspoon cardamom
1/2 teaspoon nutmeg
1/4 teaspoon cloves
1 teaspoon salt
One 28-ounce can pure pumpkin
1-1/4 cups evaporated milk (from one 12-ounce can -- you'll have a bit left over)
4 large eggs, beaten
Scant 1/2 cup good honey
Freshly whipped heavy cream with a pinch of nutmeg, for serving

Preheat the oven to 450 with the rack in the lowest position. 

Line the bottom and sides of a 13 x 9 inch metal baking pan with pie dough. (Use a rolling pin, and roll your dough. Do half at a time if it's unwieldy.) Trim any overhang. Refrigerate while you make the filling.

In a medium bowl, whisk the sugar, spices, and salt.  In a large bowl, whisk the pumpkin, evaporated milk, eggs, and honey.  Whisk in the sugar mixture and combine very well until smooth.  Pour the filling into the dough-lined baking pan and place in the oven on the bottom rack.

Bake for 10 minutes at 450 degrees, then reduce the heat to 325 degrees and bake until set, about 1 hour more. Turn off the heat and let the pie hang out in the oven for another 30-45 minutes, if desired. (I think this produces the best texture.)

Remove from the oven.  Cool completely on a rack.  Serve with generous dollops of whipped cream, or refrigerate until cold, and then serve with generous dollops of whipped cream.

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