5 second rule

What goes around comes around.

The car is hot.

The windows are down but the heat bangs through anyway. In a minute or two I'll get out of the car and join the other parents. We're all waiting for the bus carrying our kids back from a weeklong hiking trip.

I pinch my shirt between my thumb and forefinger, pulling the fabric in then out, trying to cool myself off. I should get out of the car. It's breezier out there, I can tell.

I close my eyes. I'm 10 minutes early. I know I won't miss the bus when it pulls in.

My mind swerves.

.

I'm back at summer camp, waiting for my parents. Soon, they'll walk across the soccer field with the other dads and moms, bags in their arms. The bags will be filled with the treats I requested: candy, gum, chips, cookies, maybe boring things, too, like extra socks or that sweatshirt I forgot to pack back in June. I wait for them, my heart bouncing like a superball, beating doubletime.

I spot my parents. I start to run. I can't help it. I know it's not cool, but I start to run because it's been a while, and I've missed them. I don't think about how they felt. I just think of myself. I'm the kid, I've been away from home, I'm out of my element, I'm homesick, I, I, I.

We reunite. I take the bags. I am happy.

.

I think I hear the bus, distant, but on approach. My heart bounces like a superball, beating doubletime. I've missed my kids. Turns out, I've missed them a lot. I join the other parents. How'd you do? Was your house quiet? Do you think they had fun?

My boys climb off the bus.

They're sweaty. They're dirty.

They see me now, and jog my way. 

I hug them.

I kiss them.

I take their backpacks.

We get in the car, and head on home.

...

Recipe for Sumac-Rubbed Butterflied Chicken

I knew my kids were eating boil-in-bag food they could carry in their packs all week, so I wanted to make them something homey, rustic, and comforting for their first night home. I'd been traveling, too, so I couldn't spend all day cooking (nor did I particularly want to).

Butterflying is a technique that speeds up the chicken-roasting process. By removing the backbone and flattening the bird with a firm palm, you're able to cook the white meat and dark meat more evenly, and in less time, than roasting a bird whole. A quick rub-down with sumac-butter added a rustic burnish and Middle Eastern flavor. (Don't have sumac? Try smoked or regular paprika instead. The flavor profile's wholly different -- sumac is sour and lemony -- but they all go beautifully with chicken.)

Serves 6 (leftovers are great)

One 4-1/2- to 5-pound whole chicken, preferably organic
2-3 tablespoons soft butter
2-3 teaspoons sumac (available in Middle Eastern markets)
Salt and pepper
Lemon halves and plain, whole milk yogurt, for serving

Prep the chicken at least 2 hours before roasting. Remove the goody bag from the chicken's cavity. (You can decide how to handle this.) Flip the bird breast-side down, back facing up. Using kitchen shears, cut along either side of the backbone from cavity to cavity. Remove the backbone and freeze for stock. Set the chicken breast-side-up now on a parchment-lined baking sheet, easing the now split-back slightly open. Pat very dry with paper towels. With the heel of your dominant hand, lean onto the chicken so it flattens.

In a small bowl, shmush the butter with the sumac. Season the butter liberally with salt and pepper. Sprinkle a generous five-fingerful of salt and pepper directly into the cavity as well. Now rub the chicken all over with the sumac butter. Loosen the skin over the breasts slightly and work your way onto the breast meat, too, rubbing with sumac butter as you go. Sprinkle the outside of the bird with coarse salt, if you like a bit of crunch and haven't already oversalted. Set the bird in the refrigerator for a few hours, uncovered. I find this sets the butter and makes for crisper skin once the bird hits the oven. 

When ready to roast, preheat the oven to 450°F with a rack in the upper third. Slide the chicken into the oven and roast for 10 minutes. Without opening the oven, reduce the heat to 375°F. Continue roasting until the meat is cooked through and the juices between the thigh and drumstick run clear, about 40 minutes longer. Let rest for 10 to 15 minutes before carving. (This is important!)

To carve, use a heavy knife to slice off the drumsticks, thighs, and wings. Slice the breast meat from the bone and cut crosswise. Serve with lemon and plain, whole milk yogurt, for dipping, if desired.

printable pdf 

 

Yogurt Wednesdays: A sneak peek up my wazoo.

Let's not wait until 2015.

I've got yogurt coming out of my yogurt. I'm living it, breathing it, making it, straining it, mainlining it, and shooting it up. Just kidding. I'm not breathing it.

Basically, I have yogurt up the wazoo, and I don't want to wait two years before sharing it with you. It's too tasty, and I like you too much, and my wazoo is overflowing.

So with my editor's blessing, I'm going to start trickling out yogurt-related content on occasional Wednesdays. This won't replace normal 5SR content but will simply give you nibbles of what's going on in the yogurt space, both in my kitchen and in the world at large, every now and again. Think of it as a probiotic booster. A shot of calcium. A jolt of creamy goodness with live, active cultures. 

Here are some links to start us off:

• I've never had Dippin Dots (they scare me), but I would definitely make these frozen yogurt dots.
• Don't kill the messenger (me) but you can now get frozen yogurt for your dog.
• If you or someone you know is lactose-intolerant, you'll want to read this. 
• How do you feel about Red Velvet Cake Frozen Yogurt? Discuss.
• Yogurt can get lonely. Why not lap it up with some 3-Grain Fruit and Nut Muesli? Or some coconut quinoa granola?
• I'll be in New York soon, and after much time away, I can't tell you how excited I am to once again eat the frozen yogurt here. 

Now you deserve a treat. The recipe below (and pictured above) is flexible, beautiful, and takes just minutes to prepare.

We're casual here on Yogurt Wednesdays.

.

Make this!

Grilled Apricots with Greek Yogurt and blueberry-blackberry mash

Sprinkle a handful of blueberries and blackberries with a touch of sugar and a squeeze of lemon. Toss and set aside.

Halve and pit 4 apricots. Toss with 1/2 teaspoon neutral vegetable oil and 1/2 teaspoon honey. Grill the apricots on one side only (cut-sides down) on a preheated grill pan or outdoor grill just for 3-4 minutes, until dark marks appear and the apricots soften.

Mash the berries lightly. Serve the grilled apricots with dollops of whole milk Greek yogurt and the berry mash. Sprinkle with chopped almonds, if desired. 

printable pdf

Just remember this one thing.

Pull in close.

I need to tell you something.

Closer.

I'm not going to bite. Come closer...

It's the pasta water.

The magic, that is.

Sure, the pasta itself should be good, the pesto fresh, the peas just-plucked, the cheese creamy, the night young, the kids cute, the house clean(ish), the weather warm, the table set, the lights dimmed, the mood high. But even if all those things weren't true, even if the pasta were cheap, the pesto old, the peas frozen, the cheese meh, the hour late, the kids homely, the house dusty, the weather cold, the table a mess, even if all that were true, even if all you remembered to do was to salt and save your pasta water, you'd still have a mighty fine meal.

When I forget, there's trouble. See, after I dump the cooked gemelli or shells or spaghetti or penne in the colander, my boys always appear within seconds and pluck out tubes or squiggly corkscrews or long noodly strands and suck them down the way kids do, with noise and fanfare and beaming boy-faces. And then they declare: You remembered to salt the pasta water! or You forgot to salt the pasta water!

I try not to forget.

This magic-water is especially important when making pesto. 

I didn't always know how to maximize its impact. I was naive. I'd pour the pesto from the food processor into the pasta pot as the cooked noodles relaxed in the colander, spitting up billowy poufs of steam. I'd then thin the pesto with a few spoons of pasta water and dump the pasta back into the pot. And, you know, it was fine, but this tactic also kind of thinned the pesto and muted its flavor in a way that wasn't altogether satisfying. The pesto and the pasta water never sucked face.

This time, though, I added some pasta water -- just a little, mind you -- directly to the pesto as it spun and whizzed in the Cuisinart. The starchy, salty water became one with the arugula! the basil! the walnuts! the olive oil! It emulsified into a single fluid, cohesive pool of green, herbaceous loveliness.

And then I mounded the pesto on the pasta, scooped a little (okay, big) mountain of ricotta alongside, and buried it under a torrential Parmesan rain.

It's the pasta water.

That's the secret.

...

Recipe for Pasta with Basil-Arugula Pesto, Peas, Ricotta, and Parmesan

This is a classic, quick-to-make weeknight meal. Do yourself a favor: don't make it more complicated than it is. Instead, when you finish making dinner, just celebrate your good luck, go outside, and stare at the horizon.

Serves about 8

1 pound gemelli, small shells, penne, or other mediumish pasta
1 cup (or more) fresh or frozen peas
Plenty of kosher or sea salt
1 cup (loosely packed) arugula leaves
1 cup (loosely packed) basil leaves
1/3 cup walnuts, toasted if you're feeling fancy
1-2 cloves garlic, smashed and rough-chopped
1/2 cup extra-virgin olive oil, plus more for drizzling
1/2 cup Parmesan cheese, plus more for grating on top
1/3 cup whole milk ricotta cheese

Cook the pasta in plenty of generously salted water according to package directions. About 3 minutes before it's ready, scoop out and reserve a cup of water (you won't need it all) and add the peas to the pot. Drain when ready.

Meanwhile, make the pesto. In a food processor fitted with the metal blade, whirl the arugula, basil, walnuts, garlic, 1/4 teaspoon salt, and a pinch of black pepper until finely minced, scraping down the sides of the workbowl if necessary. With the machine on, add about 3 tablespoons of the pasta cooking water through the feed tube, then slowly add the oil in a steady stream, again, stopping and scraping if needed. Your pesto should be loose and completely emulsified. 

Remove the blade and stir in the Parmesan.

Had I thought of it, I would have returned the pasta to the pot and tossed it with the pesto before serving, adding a few extra drips of reserved pasta water just if it needed loosening. Serve with the ricotta, a glistening stream of olive oil, and an indelicate amount of Parmesan cheese.

printable pdf

 

 

My arugula is better than your cats.

I've been 93 percent housebound for going on 10 days now (don't ask), which has given me plenty of time to reflect on things of extraordinary value. Things like my dryer's lint screen (how can something so simple work so well?), the inside of my bathrobe (so soft!), and why an out-of-print textbook I need for research costs $289 on Amazon (anyone?). 

Foodwise, I've alternated between two poles: cooking up a storm of comfort foods -- polenta, pot roast, eggs, rice, and noodles -- and inhaling reams of produce so vivid it's like a CSA set up shop in my colon. 

I've also had a chance to watch more food TV than anyone has a right to, and let me just say for the record that re-broadcasts of Nigella Bites from 2007, now on Cooking Channel, really are worth their salt. All Lawson has to do is call bagna cauda a "velvety gunge" (Party Girl episode), and I'm putty in her hands. Please don't take this as an endorsement of her role on the abomination otherwise known as The Taste, however, which just may be the worst TV show ever made. And I once saw Yes, Dear.

Amid the tumult, one constant in the past few days has been my obsessive compulsion to check the arugula plants growing outside my back door. My stepmother got them with me earlier this spring (she also bought me a FIG TREE), and she assured me that despite my questionable gardening history, they're easygoing plants that would certainly take. And you know what? She was right. I now have an arugula forest. I'm thinking of building a treehouse in one of the sturdier shoots.

Two, three, four times a day, I walk out back, feel the sun on my face, greet the gossipy doves nesting in the eaves, and pinch off a fistful of greens to shove in my mouth or toss more decorously into some semblance of a salad. 

And here's the weird part, which won't surprise gardening sophisticates but may stun those of you who, like me, still find gardening more magic than logic: the more arugula I pluck, the more arugula I get. Pluck, get, pluck, get. If I just keep plucking it, eventually I'll become one of those cat-ladies suffocating in her own home, but my cats will be Italianate green leaves with a bracing, peppery bite.

I could give you about 5 billion ideas for how to use this much arugula, but let's start with the one below. You can also weigh in with your favorite uses, if you've got pet arugulas lounging about at your home as well.

...

Recipe for Tangerine Arugula Salad with lightly pickled dates and pepitas

Hurry and make this salad soon, before tangerines disappear altogether. Or substitute another brightly-colored fruit. There's no reason why strawberries, cherries, or even apricots (when they appear) wouldn't be equally lovely here as well. I owe a debt of gratitude to Yotam Ottolenghi's Jerusalem, which taught me that splashing dates with vinegar delivers a flavorgift so sublime you'll want to smack yourself for not thinking of it sooner.

Serves 2

3 good-sized Medjool dates, pitted and slivered
1 tablespoon red wine vinegar
3 tablespoons raw, unsalted pepitas (pumpkin seeds)
1 tablespoon each lime juice and extra-virgin olive oil
1 generous handful arugula
4-6 tangerines, peel and pith removed, sliced
1/4 cup pea shoots or other tender spring herbs

Place dates cut-sides up in a small bowl. Splash with the vinegar. Set aside until the vinegar absorbs.

Meanwhile, toast the pepitas in a dry skillet with a pinch of salt and pepper until they darken slightly, about 3 minutes.

Shake the lime juice, the oil, and another pinch of salt and pepper in a covered jar, or whisk well.

Layer the arugula, pickled dates, and tangerines in two shallow bowls. Sprinkle with the toasted pepitas and pea shoots or herbs. Dress with the lime vinaigrette, and enjoy right away.

printable pdf

Today I was a fallow field.

Today I was a fallow field. 

Outside, undisturbed, I sat sun-drenched. Book open, eyes drifting. First I saw a printed page. Then, the inside of my eyelids.

I may have dozed.

Twice.

We always go, don't we? We wake, eat, scurry, work, greet -- (hello, goodbye) -- drive, cook, clean, read, kiss, yawn.

At night, for some of us, sleep doesn't come. Gears turn in endless loops, our tape-deck caught on autoreverse. Our off-button's cracked, our on-button jammed, stuck, locked into place.

We are plots forever planted.

Rain, sun, sprout, grow, tend, pluck, and then, before we look up, before we draw a single, cleansing breath, the cycle starts anew.

Except last week.

Last week everything screeched to a sudden, terrifying halt.

Trauma. Drama. Soul-crushing, horror-gazing, disbelieving, heart-searching, peace-rending, body-aching, car-chasing, fear-numbing halt.

And then.

A forced re-set.

(For us, the lucky ones.)

Today, for an hour, I sat in the sun. Listened to the sound of nothing. Didn't let my body move. Absorbed the rays of solace, peace, and warming calm. Told inner voices shhhhhhh.

Today I was a fallow field.

Tomorrow?

...

Recipe for Golden Frittata with potatoes, peas, and parmesan

I had in my head a frittata-vision, eggs sun-golden, peas emerald, potatoes ruby-red. So I made it, for you. This is perfectly lovely hot or warm, but it's especially outstanding at room temperature. This means you can make it ahead, and then go outside and forget about it, and everything else, for a good long while.

Serves 4

4 medium new potatoes, unpeeled, scrubbed
4 eggs
1 egg yolk
1 tablespoon heavy cream
1/8 teaspoon dry mustard
1/8 teaspoon turmeric
2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
1/3 cup fresh English peas
3 tablespoons freshly grated Parmesan cheese
Handful pea shoots or tender spring herbs, for scattering

Set the potatoes in a small pot of cool water. Bring up to a boil. Simmer until tender, about 10 minutes, give or take. Cool completely. Slice thickly.

Meanwhile, in a large bowl, whisk the eggs, yolk, cream, dry mustard, and turmeric. Season generously with salt and pepper. Flip on the broiler with a rack about 5 inches from the heat source.

Heat the olive oil in a 9-1/2 inch cast-iron skillet over medium-high heat. Add the potato slices, and crisp on both sides until nicely browned. Add the egg mixture, the peas, and the Parmesan. Cook, lifting up portions of the frittata as it sets, swirling a silicone spatula around the edges to keep everything nice and loose. You want the liquid eggs to flow towards the edges and then slip underneath so it begins to set first in portions, and then all around. After about 3 minutes on the stove, transfer the skillet to the broiler. Broil, watching carefully, until puffed, golden brown, and set, 1-1/2 to 2 minutes only.

Remove from the oven. Cool to room temperature, if desired. Add the pea shoots or herbs just before serving. (If they sit too long on a hot or even warm frittata, they'll wilt.) Cut into wedges.

printable pdf

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

A barely contained effervescence.

She bubbles.

I don't know how else to express it, but my friend Jess Goldman Foung bubbles and bounces, her energy so all-consuming, and so contagious, that after I meet up with her I feel buzzed. Do you know people like this?  People whose very being shines so bright they make the air a few degrees warmer? She's a lit match, a jolt of caffeine, a prism that shoots rainbows through a room.

And the thing is, the crazy thing is, Jess was really sick, way before I met her. When she was a 21-year-old student at Stanford, she landed in the hospital with a Lupus diagnosis so severe her kidneys had basically shut down. As a college senior, while her friends were studying and going to parties, she was in full-on renal failure. 

Jess writes in her new cookbook:

"I could have functioned as a 21-year-old, on dialysis, waiting on the transplant list. But that wasn't the life I wanted to live. I was attached to machines every three days for three to four hours at a time, and while I was happy to be alive, I longed to be free."

So, what did she do?

In addition to receiving excellent medical care from her team at Stanford Hospital, Jess chose to radically change her diet. She cut out sodium from all non-natural (processed) sources and slashed her intake of foods whose natural sodium levels were simply too high. She focused on reversing her destiny. She got educated, and she started educating others.

Sodium Girl's Limitless Low-Sodium Cookbook barely contains Jess's bubbly personality. I feel her energy on every page, and I marvel at how she has created low-sodium recipes that are fun, joyful, and celebratory.

The balsamic blueberry steak sauce I've made twice now (pictured above) is a perfect case in point. I don't eat much steak, so I paired the sauce with some middle eastern lamb meatballs, fragrant with cinnamon, cumin, clove, and allspice -- like kofte, but round. I left out the salt to be true to Jess's spirit, and because I wanted to see if the sauce would be boldly-flavored enough to compensate for what I worried might be bland, no-salt-added meatballs.

With balsamic vinegar, molasses, brown sugar, and blueberries, the sauce had flavor to spare.

My boys swept those meatballs through that sauce, swirling them around and around, then licked the platter clean. Robust, brightly-hued, balanced, beautiful, the sauce filled our bellies and lifted our spirits.

It was Jess on a plate.

...

If you or anyone you know must follow a reduced-sodium diet, please check out this cookbook. The recipes make over high-sodium favorites (ketchup, green bean casserole, buffalo wings, bloody marys, French onion soup) and also offer modern, new dishes (like pistachio and broccoli pesto-crusted salmon, beet carpaccio towers, ricotta with pumpkin crumbs) as well.

If you don't (yet) actively limit your sodium consumption (I don't, generally) but you do have any other health or dietary challenges, I also recommend it. Jess's voice will empower you and lift you up.

Jess also publishes the Sodium Girl blog, which offers free recipes, tips, and practical information on low-sodium living. (She just gave away a Vitamix; alas, I missed the deadline to encourage you to enter, so I basically owe you all a Vitamix.) There are also links to several other recipes from or inspired by the book, including this post about Jess on Foodie Crush, which is completely adorable.

Finally, it bears mentioning that Jess is only 30 years old. While she writes about a dietary lifestyle more often associated with older adults, her youthful perspective truly sets this book apart.

...

Recipe for Balsamic Blueberry Sauce

This is a very close adaptation of Jessica Goldman Foung's balsamic blueberry steak sauce from Sodium Girl's Limitless Low-Sodium Cookbook (Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, 2013). All ingredients and quantities are hers; I've simply adapted the technique and hit it with some lemon.

This sauce partners beautifully with lamb meatballs (or kofte), or any kind of cheeseless meatball for that matter. (Jess has a pork and quinoa meatball in her book that looks great.)

Makes 1- to 1-1/2 cups sauce

1 teaspoon olive oil
2 garlic cloves, minced
1/4 onion, diced (she uses Vidalia; I used a yellow Spanish onion)
6 tablespoons balsamic (not the fancy kind)
2 tablespoons dark brown sugar
4 teaspoons honey
2 teaspoons molasses
2 cups blueberries (I used frozen, unthawed)
Lemon juice, to brighten at the end 

In a small saucepan, saute the garlic and onion over medium heat until softened, about 5 minutes. Stir in all the remaining ingredients. 

Bring the sauce to a boil. Reduce heat to very low, cover partly, and simmer gently for about 10 minutes. Uncover, raise heat, and let bubble vigorously until the sauce just starts to thicken and the berries are easy to mash with a potato masher, about 12 minutes, stirring frequently so the sauce doesn't scorch. Remove from the heat.

At this point, I squeezed in a few drops of fresh lemon juice to brighten all the flavors. I also pureed the sauce right in the pot with an immersion blender. Do this very carefully. (Depending on the size of your pot, the sauce level may be too low for you to do this successfully and safely.) Please do not let it splash on you.

Allow the sauce to cool for a good 15 minutes, or longer, before serving. As it cools, it sets up and jells, much like a jam. Then you can enjoy it at warm room temperature. Otherwise, refrigerate, covered, for a few hours to thicken further.

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

 

Winding roads and brown sugar kisses.

The road curves this way and that.

I wind right, careen left, and bank the steering wheel along a good 20 minute stretch of highway.

The route's a pain. The rocks jut up and the traffic slows and if you stop paying attention for even a minute, you'll have to stomp on your brakes, shortening the distance between you and the car in front, landing so close you can whisper and the other driver will feel your breath on his cheek. 

But we're orchard-bound, and the day is bright. When we arrive, and I park horribly -- really, you'd be embarrassed for me -- I relax. We spend a good hour picking apples, ringing a silvery windchime, and swinging on a bench suspended from a tree. Then we eat apple turnovers warmed in a toaster by the check-out.

Only Fujis are available for picking on this day, but that's okay. What the small family orchard lacks in variety -- no Cortlands, Empires, Macs, or Pippins, no gourds, no scarecrows, no hayrides here -- it makes up for in friendly folk, fresh pastry, and cool, clean air. That the all-organic apples are riddled with cosmetic imperfections makes them taste better, somehow.

Driving home (swerve, careen, left, right) is simpler. As the radio blares, I get lost in plans: apple butter, apple sauce, apple galette, apple rings, even fresh apple cake. I taste them all in my head while cruising the curlicue road.

We make it home.

I bake a cake.

And that first bite tastes just like fall, cloaked in a tender, sweet, brown sugar kiss.

...

I've started pinning apple recipes, including those mentioned above, to this board.

...

Recipe for Fresh Apple Cake with Crumb Topping

There are three things you should always have in your freezer: peas, ice, and crumb topping. I make big batches of these crumbs and pull out handfuls whenever I need them. You should, too.

For this dessert, I started with Emily Luchetti's Fifty-Year Apple Cake in her wonderful cookbook, A Passion for Desserts. My goal was to shove as many apples in there as possible, so I took out the raisins and nuts and threw in more apples. And then more still. I left their skins on for texture and subbed in some brown sugar, which gave the cake a caramellike chew. If you make the crumb topping ahead, and store it in your freezer, this will be one of the simplest, no-need-for-a-mixer fresh apple cakes you'll ever make.

Makes 20 squares

2 eggs
1 cup granulated sugar
1 cup (packed) brown sugar
2 teaspoons cinnamon
1/2 cup vegetable oil
4 medium Fuji apples (1-1/2 pounds total weight), or other variety you fancy, peels on, chopped (5-6 cups chopped apple)
2 cups all-purpose flour
2 teaspoons baking soda
1 teaspoon salt
1 cup cold (or even frozen) crumb topping 
Powdered sugar, for sifting over (totally for show, totally optional) 

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees. Grease the sides and corners of a 9x13-inch rectangular cake pan and line the bottom with parchment.

In a large mixing bowl, whisk the eggs, two sugars, cinnamon, and oil. Fold in the apples. In a separate bowl, sift the flour, baking soda, and salt. Stir the dry ingredients into the wet, folding and mixing until all the white, floury bits are completely incorporated. The batter will be extremely thick. Carry on.

Scrape the batter into the prepared pan, using a small offset spatula to work it into the corners. Sprinkle with the crumb topping. 

Bake in the center of the oven for 45 minutes, until a skewer comes out clean. For neat slices, let cool for as long as you can stand it before cutting. If desired, sift over a little powdered sugar, but go easy -- the cake's plenty sweet.

(I found cutting it with a metal bench scraper made the neatest squares. After 24 hours, store any leftover cake in the refrigerator.)

printable pdf