5 second rule

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.

It's jewelry, for food.

I have a gift for you. Just a quick, drive-by gift.

I'll press it in your hand with a gentle squeeze. I'll leave it on your stoop, tied with twine. I'll tuck it in that book on your bedside table.

On second thought, I'll place it here, below, because this is where we gather, at least for now.

One of my favorite recipes from Ripe is the Green Beans with Smoky Pistachio Dust. I blanch the beans until they just barely give. I slotted-spoon them into ice water, drain them, pat them dry like a freshly-bathed child, and drizzle them with oil. Then I sprinkle them with pistachios I've pulverized with salt, pepper, and smoked paprika. This is the best, easiest condiment I created for the book, and one with so many uses I could spend eons dreaming up new ways to enjoy it.

So, make the dust. Keep it in a jar on your counter. And shake it on everything. Salads, eggs, potatoes, noodles, any kind of casserole, any grilled or marinated vegetable you can imagine (except lima beans), mushed up avocado, any kind of grain dish, fish fillets, pilafs, are you bored yet?

It's jewelry, for food. Make it. Use it. Love it.

One day, I shall retire to the countryside with my jars of pistachio dust and have little pistachio dust babies and take up needlepoint and smoke my own paprika.

Come visit.

...

In Seattle? I'll be there this weekend. Say hello.

 ...

Recipe for Beet and Frisee Salad with Ripe Smoky Pistachio Dust 

The smoky pistachio dust is adapted from Ripe: A Fresh Colorful Approach to Fruits and Vegetables by Cheryl Sternman Rule with photography by Paulette Phlipot (Running Press, a member of the Perseus Books Group, 2012) 

[Yes, that's me. I have to do that, though.]

For the smoky pistachio dust:

3/4 cup unsalted pistachios, toasted and cooled completely
1/2 teaspoon smoked paprika, or to taste
1/2 teaspoon (kosher) salt
1/8 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper

Grind all ingredients in a full-size food processor fitted with the metal blade for about 30 seconds, until dusty. Store in a tightly sealed jar on the counter, where you'll see it and use it often.

For the salad pictured above, I combined:

12 small chioggia beets, scrubbed clean
Olive oil
White wine vinegar
Sugar
Salt
Frisee, rough-chopped
Avocado, diced
Cucumber, unpeeled, diced

Roast the beets: Preheat the oven to 350 degrees. Cut the leafy tops from the beets, leaving 1/2-inch stem. (Saute the leaves like other greens if they're very fresh.) Rub the bulbs gently with a bit of olive oil. Place in a Pyrex baking dish, with some wiggle room between each one. Cover tightly with foil. (Alternately, roast the oil-slicked beets in a foil packet on a baking sheet.) Roast for 50 to 60 minutes, or until a skewer comes out with very little resistance. Cool completely. Wear an apron. Peel with a paring knife. Dice.

Toss the diced, cooled beets in a jar with a splash of white wine vinegar, 2 generous pinches of sugar, and a solid pinch of salt. (Beets be stored, tightly covered, in the fridge for a good week, or longer, depending. Or use right away.) 

Make the salad: Combine the frisee, avocado, cucumber, and some beets in a large salad bowl. Make a vinaigrette by whisking a few tablespoons of olive oil with about half as much of the beety vinegar from your jar (2 parts oil to 1 part vinegar). Season to taste.

Sprinkle the salad generously with pistachio dust. Eat.

printable pdf 

Remember the quiet.

It rained when I was in Maine.

Just briefly. Nothing torrential or dramatic or tree-downing, but it rained. And the world was quiet. And I sat in a chair and read a book. Writing Down the Bones, by Natalie Goldberg. It's dated, for sure, but several friends recommended it, so I'm giving it a go. 

So it was quiet, and I read, and it rained, and I took a walk. And all of this may seem very mundane, but I've got to tell you, it was momentous given the chaotic state of these past few weeks. Everything is good, wonderfully good, but that quiet hour fed me like a bowl of warm soup.

I'm home now, scrambling to catch up, and the hours slip and slide. Head down, keyboard out, shoes off, back hunched, I type until my wrists ache. I'm grateful, if addled, in this state of overwhelm, a state welcome and unnerving, familiar and exotic.

I close my eyes.

I hear birds.

I listen.

Remember the quiet, they trill, softly.

It will return.

And you'll wish, once again, for the thunder of today.

 ...

Recipe for Avocado with kumquats and walnut oil

When I have no time to fix a proper meal, I fake it by combining two or three things. I take my plate outside and turn my face towards the sun. Just 5 minutes of peace, 5 minutes of fresh air, 5 minutes of sky, and I'm ready to return to my desk. 

1 avocado
Handful of kumquats, sliced
Walnut oil

Eat slowly, outside. 

... 

Come see me in June in California and Seattle. Here's where.

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

Your call will be answered in approximately 10 minutes.

Life is absurd.

Really, truly absurd.

In the past 2 weeks, several people have sought my advice. During the same period, I've reached out to several other people seeking their advice. I get off the phone after dissecting one friend's issues, and 10 minutes later I'm back on the horn yakking about my own tangled knots to someone else. It's a weird, twisted, and utterly inefficient triangle. I'm this advice-pod, with inputs coming in one end and outputs streaming from the other. But the inputs and outputs don't align, so as much as I'd like to, I can't just recuse myself, connect them to each other, and go out for ice cream. 

Instead, I'm sticking close to home, advising and being advised, strategizing and shoring up. During this incubation period, after which travel and mayhem take flight, I find some measure of solace at the market and by the stove.

On Sunday, I took my son out for breakfast, and during the hourlong wait for a table we hit the nearby farmers' market. We scooped up spring carrots with twirly strings and frilly tufts, and admired their non-conformity before dropping them in our bag. They're super-sweet, but weird-looking. (Any resemblance to persons real or imaginary is purely coincidental.)

When we got home later, the phone rang.

I touched two carrots together. Jammed them this way and that -- stem to stem, root to root, tuft to tuft, head to toe.

Nothing happened. Not a spark. Inputs/outputs unaligned.

So I took the call. Advised, and sought advice. Spoke up, and stayed quiet. And when it was over, this advice-pod, this info-portal, this giver and receiver, needer and provider, listener and listenee, we all sat down and ate.

...

Recipe for Spring Carrot Sauté with olives, garlic, and millet

The golden hue of this millet caught my eye, and with some advice from Maria Speck's wonderful cookbook Ancient Grains for Modern Meals, I learned how easy it is to cook. (Look for millet in the bulk bins at natural foods stores.) I used it here as a bed for garlicky sauteed carrots. The next day, I splashed broth over the leftovers, simmered it anew, and added a few shrimp for a speedy second meal.

Makes 4 servings

1 cup (dry) millet
3 tablespoons olive oil, plus more for drizzling
3 cloves garlic, peeled & smashed
1 pound slender spring carrots, scrubbed, halved lengthwise
1/4 cup pitted calamata olives, slivered
1/2 cup (packed) flat-leaf parsley
Salt and pepper, to taste
Optional add-ins/stir-throughs: cooked shrimp, cooked beans or lentils, peas, any leftover vegetables

First, cook the millet. Combine the millet with 1-3/4 cups cold water in a small saucepan, bring to a boil, then reduce heat, cover, and simmer until tender, 15 to 20 minutes. Remove from the heat. Keep covered.

Meanwhile, combine the 3 tablespoons olive oil with the garlic in a large skillet. Set over medium-low heat and allow to warm slowly, becoming fragrant, 5 to 10 minutes. Add the carrots and olives, crank the heat a bit, and saute until the carrots are tender but not mushy, 8 to 10 minutes, tossing frequently.  (Cook time will vary based on the carrots' freshness and thickness.)

Scrape the cooked millet into the carrots and give everything a good toss. Sprinkle with the parsley, drizzle generously with additional olive oil, and adjust the seasonings to taste. (Add optional stir-throughs, if desired.)

To re-warm leftovers, moisten first with a bit of vegetable broth, then simmer gently.

printable pdf 

Blow your salad to smithereens.

Just hack the whole thing up. 

Your goal with a chopped salad is essentially to do everything but pre-chew the leaves. You slice and dice and slice and dice and slice and dice, reducing all the greens and hard vegetables to miniaturized version of their former selves. Then you deal with whatever fruit or nut you may have in the house, toasting the nuts (or not) and resuscitating any shriveled dried fruits with a splash of vinegar or a dribble of boiling water. Then you tumble these ingredients into a large bowl, moisten with half the dressing, and heap the salad onto a platter. 

The very point of this exercise, an exercise that resembles traditional salad-making in function but not form, is to shake things up for yourself and any other diners who rely on you for sustenance, be they family, freeloaders, or an amalgam of the two.

Too often we -- and by we, I mean I -- do the same things over and over. We serve big leafy salads in gargantuan bowls, we plop a jar of dressing haphazardly on the table, and we forget -- we forget! -- that salad-making is a craft second only to papier-mâché. It is an art, but we overlook this fact in our rush to get something green in front of our families. We're so proud that we're not ripping the bodice from a bag of tater tots that we neglect to make sure the salad is appealing in color, flavor, and texture.

I am not talking about being fancy, or spending a lot of money, or plucking greens from the kale tree in your yard.* I'm simply talking about spending an extra two minutes on your salad so that the people at the table actually want to eat it. And the easiest way to do this is to chop the hell out of the thing if your normal M.O. is to serve leaves the size of pillowcases.

Of course, if you serve chopped salads all the time, please ignore everything I've written, grab your needle, thread, and a good-sized roll of scotch tape, and get to work piecing your chopped up leaves back together. Always go for the element of surprise.

*My son just asked me if kale grew on trees, and I assured him it does not and that you all would know this was a joke. He wasn't so sure.

...

Recipe for Winter Chopped Salad with sesame-ginger vinaigrette

This salad is as flexible as they come. My flavor choices below were inspired by a salad I ate recently at Lyfe Kitchen, a terrific new restaurant near me that I hope to learn more about, and write more about, soon. Their version included edamame, red pepper, broccolini, basil, and lime -- and mine doesn't -- but I tip my hat to them for the inspiration. A note on tomatoes: I can get beautiful local cherry tomatoes here in California, even in January, so I tossed them in. Please leave them out (as well as anything else) if the options near you are less appealing.

Serves 6

For the salad:

1/2 head napa cabbage, finely chopped
Big handful radicchio leaves, finely chopped
Big handful Russian kale, or other purple or red kale, stemmed, leaves finally chopped 
8 small tomatoes, quartered (optional)
1/4 cup dried cherries (if plump, toss them in; if dried out, soak for a few minutes in vinegar or boiling water) 
1/4 cup pomegranate arils
4 to 6 scallions, white and green parts, chopped
1 cup toasted, unsalted cashews
A few leaves of fresh mint, chopped

For the vinaigrette:

2 tablespoons neutral vegetable oil
2 tablespoons rice vinegar
1 teaspoon sesame oil
1 teaspoon fresh minced ginger root
1 teaspoon brown sugar
1 tablespoon toasted sesame seeds
Salt and pepper, to taste

Combine all the salad ingredients in a large mixing bowl. Combine all the vinaigrette ingredients in a small, covered jar; shake well. Pour half the vinaigrette over the salad; toss through with tongs to distribute evenly. Heap the salad onto a large platter. Serve, passing remaining vinaigrette alongside.

(This salad, even once dressed, will keep for 2 days, covered, in the fridge, so long as you use sturdy greens like kale and cabbage. You'll enjoy less longevity with frillier, more tender varieties.)

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.

...

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

Eating paste.

Sometimes, an ingredient elbows its way into the center of your consciousness, and no matter how hard you try to ignore it, it keeps popping up. And this is cute, at first, and then it becomes maddening. The only way you can stop it from breakdancing on your hippocampus or your thalamus (or wherever) is to look it square in the eye and say, "Fine. We'll do this your way."

And then you'll rip open the almond paste.

Pinching it into nubbins, rolling them into marbles, you'll stick a few in your mouth to show them who's boss.

Be brave, steadfast, and strong.

Almond paste has gotten expensive. Maybe it has always been pricey, and I just didn't notice because I didn't have a relationship with it, but now that we're having a tumultuous affair I'm telling you -- this stuff may be the financial end of me. The grocery store variety runs about $6.50 for a 7-ounce tube, and that's no chump change. But honestly, stopping the hippocampus-dancing has got to be worth something, and $6.50 seems just about right.

The paste gives these cookies a chew and subtle almond flavor that's a bit marzipanny, but just for a second. Then they become chocolate chip cookies again and you're like, hmm, what was that delightful experience I just had? And then your teeth hit the toasted almonds, and your tongue tastes the almond extract, and the whole almond trio -- paste, nuts, extract -- crescendos in a way that's undeniably thrilling.

Keep in mind that you won't need a full tube of paste for these cookies. Wrap what's left over securely in foil, and speak up. If this ingredient resonates with you, I'll kick my next almond paste recipe further up the queue. Hint: it's involves cake.

May you, your thalamus, and your hippocampus all have a wonderful week.

...

Recipe for Almond Paste & Toasted Almond Chocolate Chip Cookies

This recipe begins at the beginning: with the classic Tollhouse recipe on the back of the yellow bag. Then things veer off the rails, with an almond triumvirate adding chew, crunch, and a mellow almond flavor that makes you want to grab the cookie jar, hug it close, and hide under a table in a far-off room. Dipping them in milk = a fine idea.

Makes about 30 cookies

1 cup plus 2 tablespoons all-purpose flour
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/2 cup (1 stick) unsalted butter, at room temperature
1/4 cup granulated sugar
1/4 cup brown sugar
1 egg
1/2 teaspoon almond extract
2/3 cup mini chocolate chips
3/4 cup toasted whole almonds, chopped (or more, or less)
2 ounces almond paste (eyeball it: it's a bit less than a third of a 7-oz tube)

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

In a medium bowl, whisk the flour, soda, and salt.

In the bowl of an electric mixer, cream the butter and two sugars. Add the egg, then the almond extract, beating well. Add the flour mixture in two additions, beating just until incorporated.  Remove the bowl from the mixer. Fold in the mini chips and chopped nuts.

Pinch off bits of almond paste and roll them into balls. See the above photo for a visual, but you can make the balls as large as you like. Gently fold them through the batter.

I like these cookies small, so I use a 1-1/2 inch scoop to dole out the dough. Bake for 10-14 minutes, rotating the sheet pans halfway though, and checking the undersides carefully to ensure they don't burn. (For best texture, consider under-baking them rather than the alternative.) Stored airtight, they'll keep a good 5 days.

printable pdf

For when you need a sophisticated accessory.

Don't put an onion ring near me. Just don't do it. Onion rings make me feel like I have to take a shower in really hot water, and that's not very good for my skin.

French fries are okay.

Potato skins are very TGI Friday's circa 1989.

Jalapeno poppers -- I honestly can't tell you what these are.

Popcorn shrimp -- if I had to, I would, but I generally don't have to, so I don't.

Fried mozzarella sticks -- see Potato Skins, above.

Fried zucchini -- why?

Fried okra -- let's please not go here.

Fried chicken? Yes, thanks.

Fried calamari -- I'll take a double order, extra lemon. (They never bring you enough lemon.)

Fried apple rings.

I said, FRIED APPLE RINGS.

I'd wear them on every finger and toe, if I could. I'd bling myself out. As earrings. Through my belt loops. One in each button hole, and a few dangling from the drawstring of my hoodie. Then I'd go dancing.

Trend alert.

American Apparel: call me.

 ...

Recipe for Fried Apple Rings, with icing

These are essentially ring-shaped, batter-dipped apple fritters. Fry up one or two, taste them, and then add more spices to the batter at that point, to your liking. Eat them hot or they will soften, and then your heart will sink to your feet.

Makes 18 to 24 rings, depending on the size of your apples

For the apple rings:

Plenty of vegetable oil, for frying
1-1/4 cups all-purpose flour
1-1/2 teaspoons baking powder
1/4 teaspoon salt
3/4 teaspoon cardamom
1 teaspoon cinnamon
1/2 teaspoon pumpkin pie spice (or more cinnamon/cardamom, or a little nutmeg/ginger/clove)
2 tablespoons turbinado sugar (or granulated sugar, or brown sugar)
1 cup milk (whole preferable, or 2%)
1 whole egg plus 1 egg yolk
1/2 teaspoon almond extract (or vanilla)
3 Fuji apples, peeled, cored, sliced into 1/4" thick rings

For the icing:

1 cup confectioners' sugar, sifted
1 teaspoon amaretto (or other liqueur of your choice, or more extract)
1-2 tablespoons milk

To make the apple rings: Affix a candy thermometer to the side of a deep saucepan. Fill with 1 to 1-1/2 inches oil, set over medium-high heat, and bring the oil up to 375 degrees while you make the batter.

Set out a large sheet of wax paper. Sift the flour, baking powder, salt, and all the spices onto the paper. If using turbinado or brown sugar, fluff it in with your fingers. If using granulated sugar, you can sift that with the other ingredients, or fluff it in afterwards.

In a large bowl, whisk the milk, the whole egg, the yolk, and the extract. Gather the edges of the wax paper and slide the dry ingredients into the wet. Fold everything together with a rubber spatula, being sure to moisten any bits at the bottom of the bowl. Drop in 4 or 5 apple rings and turn to coat.

When the oil has reached 375 degrees (you'll need to maintain this temperature throughout frying, so keep an eye on the thermometer), use a fork to lift each apple ring and let the excess batter drip back into the bowl. Set the apples in the oil and fry for 1 to 3 minutes, until golden brown, flipping carefully once or twice. Use a spider, slotted spoon, or a clean fork to lift the fried rings onto a paper-towel lined plate, and repeat with the remaining apples and batter.

To make the icing: Whisk the confectioners' sugar, liqueur, and enough milk to make a pourable but thick-ish glaze. Drizzle the glaze over the apple rings. Serve immediately.

printable pdf

Some things of which I am ashamed.

 
I buy canned broth. I do. I make my own stock in the winter when I'm feeling especially homesteady, but I also buy cartons and cans. Sorry. BPA and everything, and the environment. Plus, Mother Earth. I am occasionally a bad person, and the canned broth admission is really just the tip of the iceberg.

I don't make my own bacon, and I do occasionally, well, EAT bacon, so that's kind of a dual mea culpa right there. Saying things like this, here, is going to make me somewhat unpopular in certain circles, but you know what? That's okay. I also eat carbs. Probably too many carbs. And I drive places. And I watch stupid TV at 4am when I can't sleep. And I once put snail bait beneath my lemon tree because there were so many snails going at it in there, just eating all the leaves and having major festivals around all my beautiful lemons that I just wanted them to go away as quickly as possible. That was probably Wrong with a capital W, but I swear I only did it once.

On the plus side, I make my own energy bars. I wrote about this a few months ago when I made these little goji nibby nuggets, which were very directly inspired by the Lemon Date Bars my friend Tracy made. And I do love them, still. But I also wanted to make more flavors, more varieties, more, more, more, because I am grabby that way, so go ahead and add Grabby to the list of qualities I am somewhat but not completely ashamed of. Also, Impatient.

The Middle Eastern market near me has all kinds of treasures, and each time I wander in there I find more stuff. This place is smaller than the one where I found the za'atar, but it's right next to the farmers' market so I pop in there most Sundays. They've got three kinds of feta (from France, Bulgaria, and Greece), great flatbreads, and -- I just discovered -- date paste. I know. It's date PASTE. It's like a block of shmushed up dates just ready to be used for whatever. You don't have to pit the dates because they've already been pounded into a paste! I'm Excited with a capital E.

So I made more energy bars. Cocoa-y ones this time, with seeds. And these I keep in the freezer, individually wrapped in a bit of wax paper or parchment, and tucked into a freezer-bag, and then I just pull one out when I'm going to pick up my kids, or running out to a meeting. They'll crack your teeth if you try to bite into them right away, but after about 10 minutes they're the ideal texture and make an absolutely perfect, all-natural snack for adults or kids. They also cost relatively little, because two pounds of this paste set me back less than $4, which is ridiculous.

Go to your nearest Middle Eastern market. I'm not kidding. This is my good deed for the day, so please, do it for me. I need the brownie points.

...

Recipe for Chocolate Date Energy Bars

If you have a food processor, these come together very quickly. (If not, they're impossible.) Be sure to let these firm up in the fridge for several hours before cutting them into neat bars. Then wrap each one individually in parchment or wax paper, and store in the freezer. Defrost for 10 to 15 minutes at room temperature.

My inspiration for this version came from both Shutterbean and Foodie with Family.

Makes 16 to 20, depending on how big you cut them

2 cups date paste (about 20 ounces, or 572 grams -- substitute pitted dates if you need to)*
2 cups whole almonds
1/4 cup cocoa powder
5 tablespoons seeds (I used equal parts toasted sesame seeds and hemp seeds, but I bet you could substitute flax if you like)
Pinch salt

Line a 9" square baking pan with enough wax paper so it hangs over the left and right edges.

Topple all ingredients into a sturdy, full-size food processor fitted with the metal blade. Pulse about 10 times in one-second bursts. Then turn the processor on and let it whirl for a few minutes, stopping the machine now and again and scraping down the sides. Eventually, the mixture will come together in one big clump.

Transfer the mass to the square pan and, using wet fingers, press it into an even layer. Use the excess wax paper to gently cover the bars, then refrigerate for several hours, or overnight, until firm enough to cut. Invert onto a cutting board, peel off the paper, and cut into bars. Freeze individually as directed above.

*If substituting pitted dates, aim for moist ones, and use your judgment about whether to add a bit of liquid (hot water, nut butter) to bind the ingredients. You can also try making your own date paste, as I did in this date nut bread recipe.

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