In an exquisite feat of timing, my children fell ill this week in highly choreographed fashion. Gabriel went first, spiking a fever on Sunday evening. Sarah came home early from school on Monday, and Sacha woke up sick in the middle of the night. I thought this most considerate of them, as it means we'll get this round over with quickly, whereas if they'd staggered their sickness, I would be housebound for the better part of a week.
We had a very pleasant day, in part because the kids were too sick to be demanding, and spent the time alternating between napping and sitting in front of the television in a stupor. I did get breathed and coughed on a lot, however, which left me wondering how many days it will be until I fall ill.
And so when it came time to prepare dinner, I thought of garlic soup. I started making garlic soup years ago, inspired by a recipe in John Thorne's excellent Outlaw Cook. Research is beginning to confirm the folk wisdom that garlic may help ward off colds. I knew my kids would hate it, but as they had no appetite, I didn't have to worry about feeding them, so why not try to stack the odds against getting sick in my favor?
Garlic soup is quick and easy. You boil garlic in water, mash the garlic into a paste and return to the water, which is then enriched with eggs. Boiling the garlic tames its pungency into something delicate, while the eggs give the soup body. In all, it is a great demonstration of one of the most awesome things about soup, in that you can make something delicious from practically nothing.
Garlic Soup
serves 4
I serve this with bread or croutons, but plain boiled rice would also work.
6 cups water
12 cloves of garlic, peeled
bay leaf
a few sage leaves or sprigs of thyme, optional
salt and pepper
6 eggs
a few slices of crusty bread
1-2 tablespoons olive oil
Bring the water, garlic, bay leaf, herbs and a teaspoon of salt to a boil. When the water comes to a boil, turn it down to a simmer and cook until the garlic softens, 15-20 minutes. Remove garlic and mash to a paste in a mortar, or with the flat of a knife. Return garlic to the pot.
Beat the eggs in a bowl, and slowly add to this a ladle-full of the cooking liquid, whisking constantly. Whisk the eggs into the pot and stir over very low heat. If the soup comes to a boil, the eggs will curdle, which is not a tragedy. Adjust seasoning.
Meanwhile, broil or toast the bread, and drizzle with olive oil, salt and pepper, and place in the bottom of soup bowls. Ladle the soup over the bread, garnish with additional herbs and a drizzle of olive oil, or not.
Serve immediately.
Showing posts with label slinging hash. Show all posts
Showing posts with label slinging hash. Show all posts
28 October 2009
21 October 2009
slinging hash: potato gratin
Although there are thousands of ways to cook them, I am not very imaginative when it comes to potatoes. If I'm serving chicken, I make mashed potatoes; with beef, it's roasted or baked potatoes.
When I'm feeling frisky I switch it up by serving mashed potatoes with beef, and vice versa. Last Friday night, I made lamb, and by my logic, it called for an entirely different potato preparation. (If you're wondering, how about rice?, I have one word for you: Sacha. Rice doesn't always vacuum well, and it takes a long time to pick those grains up from the rug.)
And so I remembered potato gratin, and as I always do when I make one, I wondered, why don't I make this more often? Potato gratin is easy and delicious, and coming in somewhere between roasted and mashed, is the perfect fence straddler.
And for a slatternly cook like myself, a gratin has the advantage of coming together more by method than recipe. It is flexible and forgiving. If you have a lot of time — ha! — you can cook it longer on a lower heat. If you're in a hurry, you can raise the temperature, cook it at a higher temperature for a shorter period of time. You can make it with milk, half and half, or cream. Add garlic, or not, though I highly recommend it as there are few things that smell more heavenly than garlic warmed in milk. It is fashionable in the food pages to say that with a salad, potato gratin would make a great light supper, but in reality, I wouldn't bother with the salad. I'd be happy eating it all by itself.
Potato Gratin
serves 4-5
You can easily increase this; my general rule is one fewer potato than the number of people you are serving.
4-5 medium potatoes
2-3 cloves of garlic
whole milk, half and half or cream
salt and pepper
butter, for greasing dish
Preheat the oven to 400 degrees fahrenheit.
Scrub the potatoes, and peel them or not, according to your mood and their level of filth. Slice potatoes about 1/8 inch thick.
Slice the garlic into thin slivers.
Butter an 8" square or gratin dish. Place a layer of potatoes on the bottom of the dish, scatter a few slivers of garlic, sprinkle with salt and pepper. Repeat with remaining potatoes and garlic. Slowly pour in milk, half and half or cream to reach the top layer of potatoes, leaving them exposed. Gently press the potatoes down to submerge them a bit; you don't want the potatoes to be completely covered, as they will bake down as they cook.
Bake 40-60 minutes, checking after 40 minutes. Gratin is done when the top layer is nicely browned, and potatoes can be easily pierced with a knife.
When I'm feeling frisky I switch it up by serving mashed potatoes with beef, and vice versa. Last Friday night, I made lamb, and by my logic, it called for an entirely different potato preparation. (If you're wondering, how about rice?, I have one word for you: Sacha. Rice doesn't always vacuum well, and it takes a long time to pick those grains up from the rug.)
And so I remembered potato gratin, and as I always do when I make one, I wondered, why don't I make this more often? Potato gratin is easy and delicious, and coming in somewhere between roasted and mashed, is the perfect fence straddler.
And for a slatternly cook like myself, a gratin has the advantage of coming together more by method than recipe. It is flexible and forgiving. If you have a lot of time — ha! — you can cook it longer on a lower heat. If you're in a hurry, you can raise the temperature, cook it at a higher temperature for a shorter period of time. You can make it with milk, half and half, or cream. Add garlic, or not, though I highly recommend it as there are few things that smell more heavenly than garlic warmed in milk. It is fashionable in the food pages to say that with a salad, potato gratin would make a great light supper, but in reality, I wouldn't bother with the salad. I'd be happy eating it all by itself.
Potato Gratin
serves 4-5
You can easily increase this; my general rule is one fewer potato than the number of people you are serving.
4-5 medium potatoes
2-3 cloves of garlic
whole milk, half and half or cream
salt and pepper
butter, for greasing dish
Preheat the oven to 400 degrees fahrenheit.
Scrub the potatoes, and peel them or not, according to your mood and their level of filth. Slice potatoes about 1/8 inch thick.
Slice the garlic into thin slivers.
Butter an 8" square or gratin dish. Place a layer of potatoes on the bottom of the dish, scatter a few slivers of garlic, sprinkle with salt and pepper. Repeat with remaining potatoes and garlic. Slowly pour in milk, half and half or cream to reach the top layer of potatoes, leaving them exposed. Gently press the potatoes down to submerge them a bit; you don't want the potatoes to be completely covered, as they will bake down as they cook.
Bake 40-60 minutes, checking after 40 minutes. Gratin is done when the top layer is nicely browned, and potatoes can be easily pierced with a knife.
14 October 2009
slinging hash: corn chowder
I don't know what my children have against soup. Aside from miso or the occasional bowl of chicken noodle, the mere suggestion of soup leaves them mortally offended. But because hope springs eternal, I am thick-headed, and I just like making soup, I persevere.
Last week I had a hankering for corn chowder when a recipe for Cheddar Corn Chowder in the Barefoot Contessa Cookbook caught my eye. I began to get my hopes up. My children like corn; they like potatoes. Maybe this will be the soup that wins them over. And that was foolish of me, because in child rearing, as with many human pursuits, logic does not prevail.
I would make a terrible recipe tester, because I am incapable of following a recipe to the letter. Except when it comes to baking, for me, a recipe is more of an idea than a blueprint. You should not necessarily trust me if I tell you I made something from so-and-so's book and it was awful, because in reality, I am not that good at following the directions. But this is the beauty of soup; it is easy, and takes well to improvisation. You saute some aromatics, add vegetables, liquid, herbs, spices, or other flavorings, and simmer away.
When my children asked what was for dinner, and I brightly replied, "Corn chowder!" I was met with the predictable mix of skepticism and disdain, although Sacha won a prize for originality when he shook his head and said, "I don't like corn showers."
Did they eat it? Of course not. But seeing as David and I enjoyed it, and I got a week's worth of lunches for about 45 minutes of effort, it was worth it.
Corn Chowder
serves 6-8
In keeping with my improvisatory nature, this recipe, and the directions are a little loose. I'm sorry if it drives you crazy. But soup is very forgiving, and subject to individual taste. Measurements for half and half and cheese are approximate; truthfully, I don't pay that close attention. My motto is start with less, add more as you go. You can always add more of something, but you can't take it away.
Ina Garten's recipe calls for bacon. As Jews, we are generally not people of the pig, so I omitted it. But since little is not improved by bacon, you can saute some and serve as a garnish.
People often think you need stock to make a decent soup, which is not true. Stock gives soup a different quality, but is not at all necessary; most of the time, I use water. When I use stock, I like Better Than Bouillon. I don't reconstitute it before using, but instead, stir the paste into the onions, and then add water.
1 tablespoon olive oil
1 tablespoon butter
2 chopped yellow onions
1 teaspoon kosher salt
1/2 teaspoon black pepper
1/4 teaspoon tumeric
3 cups (2-3 medium sized) potatoes, cut in medium-dice
6 cups chicken stock or water
2 bags of frozen corn kernels
1/2-1 cup half and half
8 ounces (approximately 2 cups) grated cheddar or cheddar jack cheese, optional
Heat butter and olive oil in a stockpot or saute pan on medium high heat.
Add onions, salt and pepper, and saute until onions are translucent.
[True confession: often, I walk away at this point, to put in a load of laundry, or some such, and come back to find my onions not quite burnt, but well past translucent. C'est la vie; it still tastes good.]
Add water or stock, and potatoes, and bring to a boil. Reduce heat to medium, and simmer uncovered for 15-20 minutes, until potatoes are tender. How long this takes will depend on how small you cut your potatoes. When the potatoes are tender, mash some against the side of the pot, and incorporate, to add body to the soup.
Add corn, half and half and cheese, if using. Cook about five minutes more, until cheese is melted.
Adjust seasoning before serving.
Last week I had a hankering for corn chowder when a recipe for Cheddar Corn Chowder in the Barefoot Contessa Cookbook caught my eye. I began to get my hopes up. My children like corn; they like potatoes. Maybe this will be the soup that wins them over. And that was foolish of me, because in child rearing, as with many human pursuits, logic does not prevail.
I would make a terrible recipe tester, because I am incapable of following a recipe to the letter. Except when it comes to baking, for me, a recipe is more of an idea than a blueprint. You should not necessarily trust me if I tell you I made something from so-and-so's book and it was awful, because in reality, I am not that good at following the directions. But this is the beauty of soup; it is easy, and takes well to improvisation. You saute some aromatics, add vegetables, liquid, herbs, spices, or other flavorings, and simmer away.
When my children asked what was for dinner, and I brightly replied, "Corn chowder!" I was met with the predictable mix of skepticism and disdain, although Sacha won a prize for originality when he shook his head and said, "I don't like corn showers."
Did they eat it? Of course not. But seeing as David and I enjoyed it, and I got a week's worth of lunches for about 45 minutes of effort, it was worth it.
Corn Chowder
serves 6-8
In keeping with my improvisatory nature, this recipe, and the directions are a little loose. I'm sorry if it drives you crazy. But soup is very forgiving, and subject to individual taste. Measurements for half and half and cheese are approximate; truthfully, I don't pay that close attention. My motto is start with less, add more as you go. You can always add more of something, but you can't take it away.
Ina Garten's recipe calls for bacon. As Jews, we are generally not people of the pig, so I omitted it. But since little is not improved by bacon, you can saute some and serve as a garnish.
People often think you need stock to make a decent soup, which is not true. Stock gives soup a different quality, but is not at all necessary; most of the time, I use water. When I use stock, I like Better Than Bouillon. I don't reconstitute it before using, but instead, stir the paste into the onions, and then add water.
1 tablespoon olive oil
1 tablespoon butter
2 chopped yellow onions
1 teaspoon kosher salt
1/2 teaspoon black pepper
1/4 teaspoon tumeric
3 cups (2-3 medium sized) potatoes, cut in medium-dice
6 cups chicken stock or water
2 bags of frozen corn kernels
1/2-1 cup half and half
8 ounces (approximately 2 cups) grated cheddar or cheddar jack cheese, optional
Heat butter and olive oil in a stockpot or saute pan on medium high heat.
Add onions, salt and pepper, and saute until onions are translucent.
[True confession: often, I walk away at this point, to put in a load of laundry, or some such, and come back to find my onions not quite burnt, but well past translucent. C'est la vie; it still tastes good.]
Add water or stock, and potatoes, and bring to a boil. Reduce heat to medium, and simmer uncovered for 15-20 minutes, until potatoes are tender. How long this takes will depend on how small you cut your potatoes. When the potatoes are tender, mash some against the side of the pot, and incorporate, to add body to the soup.
Add corn, half and half and cheese, if using. Cook about five minutes more, until cheese is melted.
Adjust seasoning before serving.
07 October 2009
slinging hash: bloody mary
I have always had a fondness for the breakfast cocktail. I wouldn't want to make a habit of it, but sometimes, on special occasions, it can be just the thing. Champagne cocktails are lovely, as is the Ramos Gin Fizz. But I have an especially soft spot for the Bloody Mary, which got David and myself through some fraught family gatherings early in our marriage. In keeping with this tradition, on the mornings of both Gabriel's and Sacha's brit milot, when extra fortification seemed like a good idea, we started the day with a Bloody Mary, our own breakfast of champions.
My affection for the Bloody Mary may be in part why Prune is one of my favorite restaurants, as their brunch menu is not only delicious, but features no less than ten different Bloody Marys, including my personal favorite, the Danish, made with aquavit and garnished with a marinated white anchovy.
A gussied-up Bloody Mary is a nice treat, but the original formula needs no tampering. Once, while mixing up a few drinks, I accidentally added two shots of vodka to once glass, and discovered that extra vodka makes a Bloody Mary even more delicious.
One of the hallmarks of the drink is a bit of heat, usually in the form of Tabasco sauce. I'm not partial to Tabasco, which to me tastes too much of vinegar, and chemicals. And so, I've experimented with different brands of hot sauce, as well as cayenne pepper, wasabi powder, and my current favorite, sriracha sauce.
I have to say, I like this current incarnation quite a lot.
Bloody Mary
Makes one drink
2 ounces vodka
6 ounces tomato juice
juice of 1/2 lemon
generous pinch of celery salt
pinch of kosher salt
dash of Lea & Perrins Worcestershire sauce
squirt of sriracha sauce
Stir all ingredients together in a cocktail shaker or glass. Serve over ice, or not.
My affection for the Bloody Mary may be in part why Prune is one of my favorite restaurants, as their brunch menu is not only delicious, but features no less than ten different Bloody Marys, including my personal favorite, the Danish, made with aquavit and garnished with a marinated white anchovy.
A gussied-up Bloody Mary is a nice treat, but the original formula needs no tampering. Once, while mixing up a few drinks, I accidentally added two shots of vodka to once glass, and discovered that extra vodka makes a Bloody Mary even more delicious.
One of the hallmarks of the drink is a bit of heat, usually in the form of Tabasco sauce. I'm not partial to Tabasco, which to me tastes too much of vinegar, and chemicals. And so, I've experimented with different brands of hot sauce, as well as cayenne pepper, wasabi powder, and my current favorite, sriracha sauce.
I have to say, I like this current incarnation quite a lot.
Bloody Mary
Makes one drink
2 ounces vodka
6 ounces tomato juice
juice of 1/2 lemon
generous pinch of celery salt
pinch of kosher salt
dash of Lea & Perrins Worcestershire sauce
squirt of sriracha sauce
Stir all ingredients together in a cocktail shaker or glass. Serve over ice, or not.
23 September 2009
slinging hash: shortbread
I don't know if it is because my children are getting older, or I'm just paying better attention, but this year it struck me in an altogether new way how stressful the beginning of the school year is. Between whipping the kids back in to shape and figuring out everyone's schedules, it is like trying to fit together the pieces of an extremely complicated three dimensional Chinese puzzle, and it has me longing for the simpler days of summer.
But school is underway, and my clientele have demanded that I put my apron back on. Because I aim to provide the best customer service possible, that means the cookies are coming. I really don't have a lot of time or energy for weekday baking, so I turn to shortbread. They are as close to a no-brainer as possible; they come together quickly, with very few ingredients.
But my favorite thing about shortbread, aside from its simplicity and utter deliciousness, is that once you have the basic formula down, it is infinitely variable. This means you can perform all sorts of kitchen sorcery, and trick your children into thinking you are making a different, carefully crafted batch of cookies every week. They catch on eventually, but you can have a good run of it.
My favorite way to make shortbread is with instant espresso powder and chocolate chips, and that is how I prepared them for the first week of school. Predictably, Sarah issued one of her proclamations, heretofore unbeknownst to me, that she finds this particular shortbread disgusting — I believe her exact words were they hurt her throat. This was something of a surprise to me as she has happily eaten these for years, but I took it as a sign of the dreaded cookie fatigue.
Because I am a good listener, this week, I made plain butter shortbread, and it was really no surprise to hear my kids complain about this.
Gabriel: "They're so boring."
Sarah: "Why didn't you make the coffee ones again? Plain ones taste like nothing."
Sacha: "Cookies!"
Sometimes, a mother can't win, and in the best of circumstances, one's children have no idea how good they have it, and that is how it should be.
Espresso chocolate chip shortbread
adapted from Dorie Greenspan and Melissa Clark
The basic formula for shortbread is 2 sticks of butter, 2/3 cup sugar, 2 cups flour. I like confectioners' sugar because it gives the cookies a smoother, more tender crumb, but granulated sugar works equally well. To make plain butter shortbread, omit the espresso and chocolate chips. To this basic formula, you can add grated citrus zest (about 1-1/2 teaspoons), a spice or seed (up to one teaspoon), a tablespoon of chopped rosemary or lavender, the seeds of a vanilla bean, and so on, and so forth.
1 tablespoon instant espresso powder
2 sticks (8 ounces) unsalted butter, at room temperature
generous pinch of salt
2/3 cup confectioners’ sugar
2 cups all-purpose flour
4 ounces bittersweet chocolate chips
1. Beat the butter and confectioners' sugar in a stand mixer fitted with a paddle attachment, or with a hand mixer in a large bowl, on medium speed until very smooth.
2. Add the espresso powder, mix until incorporated.
3. Reduce mixer speed to low, add flour, and mix until just incorporated. Fold in the chocolate.
4. Use a rubber spatula to transfer the dough to a gallon-size zipper-lock plastic bag. Leave the top of the bag open, and use a rolling pin to roll the dough into an approximately 9 x 10 1/2 inch, 1/4 inch thick rectangle. The dough may crease a bit. Smooth it out as you go if this sort of thing bothers you. Otherwise, don't worry too much about it. Seal the bag, pressing out as much air as possible, and refrigerate at least 2 hours, or up to 2 days.
5. When ready to bake, position oven racks on second and fourth notches, and preheat to 325 degrees F. Line two baking sheets with parchment or silicone mats.
6. Slit open the plastic bag and use a knife to cut the dough into 1 1/2-inch squares and transfer to baking sheets.
6. Bake for 18 to 20 minutes, rotating the sheets from top to bottom and front to back halfway through. The shortbread should be pale, rather than golden. Transfer cookies to a rack to cool.
But school is underway, and my clientele have demanded that I put my apron back on. Because I aim to provide the best customer service possible, that means the cookies are coming. I really don't have a lot of time or energy for weekday baking, so I turn to shortbread. They are as close to a no-brainer as possible; they come together quickly, with very few ingredients.
But my favorite thing about shortbread, aside from its simplicity and utter deliciousness, is that once you have the basic formula down, it is infinitely variable. This means you can perform all sorts of kitchen sorcery, and trick your children into thinking you are making a different, carefully crafted batch of cookies every week. They catch on eventually, but you can have a good run of it.
My favorite way to make shortbread is with instant espresso powder and chocolate chips, and that is how I prepared them for the first week of school. Predictably, Sarah issued one of her proclamations, heretofore unbeknownst to me, that she finds this particular shortbread disgusting — I believe her exact words were they hurt her throat. This was something of a surprise to me as she has happily eaten these for years, but I took it as a sign of the dreaded cookie fatigue.
Because I am a good listener, this week, I made plain butter shortbread, and it was really no surprise to hear my kids complain about this.
Gabriel: "They're so boring."
Sarah: "Why didn't you make the coffee ones again? Plain ones taste like nothing."
Sacha: "Cookies!"
Sometimes, a mother can't win, and in the best of circumstances, one's children have no idea how good they have it, and that is how it should be.
Espresso chocolate chip shortbread
adapted from Dorie Greenspan and Melissa Clark
The basic formula for shortbread is 2 sticks of butter, 2/3 cup sugar, 2 cups flour. I like confectioners' sugar because it gives the cookies a smoother, more tender crumb, but granulated sugar works equally well. To make plain butter shortbread, omit the espresso and chocolate chips. To this basic formula, you can add grated citrus zest (about 1-1/2 teaspoons), a spice or seed (up to one teaspoon), a tablespoon of chopped rosemary or lavender, the seeds of a vanilla bean, and so on, and so forth.
1 tablespoon instant espresso powder
2 sticks (8 ounces) unsalted butter, at room temperature
generous pinch of salt
2/3 cup confectioners’ sugar
2 cups all-purpose flour
4 ounces bittersweet chocolate chips
1. Beat the butter and confectioners' sugar in a stand mixer fitted with a paddle attachment, or with a hand mixer in a large bowl, on medium speed until very smooth.
2. Add the espresso powder, mix until incorporated.
3. Reduce mixer speed to low, add flour, and mix until just incorporated. Fold in the chocolate.
4. Use a rubber spatula to transfer the dough to a gallon-size zipper-lock plastic bag. Leave the top of the bag open, and use a rolling pin to roll the dough into an approximately 9 x 10 1/2 inch, 1/4 inch thick rectangle. The dough may crease a bit. Smooth it out as you go if this sort of thing bothers you. Otherwise, don't worry too much about it. Seal the bag, pressing out as much air as possible, and refrigerate at least 2 hours, or up to 2 days.
5. When ready to bake, position oven racks on second and fourth notches, and preheat to 325 degrees F. Line two baking sheets with parchment or silicone mats.
6. Slit open the plastic bag and use a knife to cut the dough into 1 1/2-inch squares and transfer to baking sheets.
6. Bake for 18 to 20 minutes, rotating the sheets from top to bottom and front to back halfway through. The shortbread should be pale, rather than golden. Transfer cookies to a rack to cool.
16 September 2009
slinging hash: coconut macaroons with chocolate ganache
Last spring as I was planning the menu for my Passover seder, it occurred to me that I did not want to make yet another flourless chocolate cake. Delicious as they are, I was bored of them, and wanted to my menu to be a bit less predictable.
I happened to be reading A Homemade Life, Molly Wizenberg's lovely book. Wizenberg's blog Orangette, is a constant source of inspiration to me. And so I turned to her recipe for macaroons, that mainstay of the seder dessert plate. It had never occurred to me to make macaroons; when I think of them, they come out of a vacuum sealed can, and taste like sweetened sawdust.
In addition to being extremely easy to make, oh my, were they good, like the juiciest, most tender and sublime Mounds bar.
I filed the recipe away for next year, but at the end of the summer, I was going to have my friend Nicole and her fiance over for dinner, and Nicole is on a gluten and dairy free diet. As a cook, I love the challenge of satisfying people's dietary requirements and still making a delicious meal. Dessert was especially challenging. Poached fruit would have been easy and obvious but it wasn't striking my fancy. And then I realized that if if I left some macaroons naked, they would still be mighty tasty, and fit the bill.
And so I made them, and then Nicole had to cancel, and poor me, I was left with a dozen macaroons all to myself. It only took me a few days to finish them.
Since then I have not been able to stop making these, and it is really annoying my children, not to mention violating my two out of three rule on purely selfish grounds. I guess that is the nature of obsession.
As far as Sarah is concerned, I've already slacked off on baking for far too long. But she's a trooper, and let me know that she while she will eat macaroons under duress, they are not her favorite. Sacha, consistent with his approach to baked goods, eats the frosting, leaving behind its mutilated carcass. My macaroon obsession is most unfair to Gabriel though, because he is allergic to egg whites, cannot even partake.
I made these at the end of summer vacation for a party at the pool, and as I passed them around the table to a group of adults, the reaction was much like that which I remember from my college days, when you passed around a bong full of really good weed. And that is just about the best response a cook can hope for.
Coconut Macaroons with Chocolate Ganache
Adapted from A Homemade Life by Molly Wizenberg
3 cups lightly packed sweetened coconut
3/4 cup sugar
5 large egg whites
1-1/2 teaspoons vanilla extract
pinch of salt
Ganache
4 ounces chopped bittersweet chocolate, finely chopped (I like Lindt Excellence Intense Dark 70%)
1/2 cup heavy cream
Place the coconut, sugar and egg whites in a heavy 2- to 3-quart saucepan and stir well. Cook over medium low heat, stirring frequently for 10 minutes. The mixture will start off looking very creamy, and as it dries out, you will be able to see individual flakes of coconut. Stop cooking when it is still sticky and moist, not dry. If the coconut mixture begins to brown in spots, turn the heat down a bit and stir more frequently.
Remove from heat, stir in the vanilla and salt. Spread the mixture in a pie plate and refrigerate until cool enough to handle, about 30 minutes.
Preheat oven to 300 degrees. Line a baking sheet with parchment or a silicone baking mat.
Use your hands to firmly pack the coconut mixture into small domes, about 1-1/2 inches in diameter, spacing evenly on the baking sheet.
Bake until evenly golden, about 30 minutes. Cool completely on the pan on a wire rack.
To make ganache, put the chocolate in a medium bowl. Heat the cream in a saucepan or the microwave until it is steaming, but not boiling. If you do this in the microwave, cooking in 20 second bursts. It should not take more than 45 seconds on high power. Pour the cream over the chocolate, let sit for 1 minute, and then stir until smooth.
Dip each macaroon into the ganache and lay back on the baking sheet. Refrigerate until ganache sets, at least 2 hours.
Yield: 14-18 macaroons
I happened to be reading A Homemade Life, Molly Wizenberg's lovely book. Wizenberg's blog Orangette, is a constant source of inspiration to me. And so I turned to her recipe for macaroons, that mainstay of the seder dessert plate. It had never occurred to me to make macaroons; when I think of them, they come out of a vacuum sealed can, and taste like sweetened sawdust.
In addition to being extremely easy to make, oh my, were they good, like the juiciest, most tender and sublime Mounds bar.
I filed the recipe away for next year, but at the end of the summer, I was going to have my friend Nicole and her fiance over for dinner, and Nicole is on a gluten and dairy free diet. As a cook, I love the challenge of satisfying people's dietary requirements and still making a delicious meal. Dessert was especially challenging. Poached fruit would have been easy and obvious but it wasn't striking my fancy. And then I realized that if if I left some macaroons naked, they would still be mighty tasty, and fit the bill.
And so I made them, and then Nicole had to cancel, and poor me, I was left with a dozen macaroons all to myself. It only took me a few days to finish them.
Since then I have not been able to stop making these, and it is really annoying my children, not to mention violating my two out of three rule on purely selfish grounds. I guess that is the nature of obsession.
As far as Sarah is concerned, I've already slacked off on baking for far too long. But she's a trooper, and let me know that she while she will eat macaroons under duress, they are not her favorite. Sacha, consistent with his approach to baked goods, eats the frosting, leaving behind its mutilated carcass. My macaroon obsession is most unfair to Gabriel though, because he is allergic to egg whites, cannot even partake.
I made these at the end of summer vacation for a party at the pool, and as I passed them around the table to a group of adults, the reaction was much like that which I remember from my college days, when you passed around a bong full of really good weed. And that is just about the best response a cook can hope for.
Coconut Macaroons with Chocolate Ganache
Adapted from A Homemade Life by Molly Wizenberg
3 cups lightly packed sweetened coconut
3/4 cup sugar
5 large egg whites
1-1/2 teaspoons vanilla extract
pinch of salt
Ganache
4 ounces chopped bittersweet chocolate, finely chopped (I like Lindt Excellence Intense Dark 70%)
1/2 cup heavy cream
Place the coconut, sugar and egg whites in a heavy 2- to 3-quart saucepan and stir well. Cook over medium low heat, stirring frequently for 10 minutes. The mixture will start off looking very creamy, and as it dries out, you will be able to see individual flakes of coconut. Stop cooking when it is still sticky and moist, not dry. If the coconut mixture begins to brown in spots, turn the heat down a bit and stir more frequently.
Remove from heat, stir in the vanilla and salt. Spread the mixture in a pie plate and refrigerate until cool enough to handle, about 30 minutes.
Preheat oven to 300 degrees. Line a baking sheet with parchment or a silicone baking mat.
Use your hands to firmly pack the coconut mixture into small domes, about 1-1/2 inches in diameter, spacing evenly on the baking sheet.
Bake until evenly golden, about 30 minutes. Cool completely on the pan on a wire rack.
To make ganache, put the chocolate in a medium bowl. Heat the cream in a saucepan or the microwave until it is steaming, but not boiling. If you do this in the microwave, cooking in 20 second bursts. It should not take more than 45 seconds on high power. Pour the cream over the chocolate, let sit for 1 minute, and then stir until smooth.
Dip each macaroon into the ganache and lay back on the baking sheet. Refrigerate until ganache sets, at least 2 hours.
Yield: 14-18 macaroons
05 July 2009
Slinging hash: key lime pie
I have an unofficial tradition of making key lime pie for Independence Day. Unofficial because some years I don't bother and no one suffers for it, but if there is a day during the year that a key lime pie is going to get made by me, this is the one.
I settled on key lime pie for several reasons. There are few desserts more American than pie, and it is one of the few types of pie that David likes (I maintain that his dislike of pie is un-American, but because we accept the flaws in those we love the most, I have come to terms with this). It involves no exotic ingredients: graham crackers, sugar, eggs, butter, limes, sweetened condensed milk. This is not 1955, and sweetened condensed milk is not exactly a pantry staple, but it has such a long shelf life that if you buy a can now it will be good next year, if the urge to bake strikes you.
Most importantly though, is it is extremely easy to make, and involves little mess. You don't have to prep a large amount of fruit. It takes all of 20 minutes of hands-on work, and a lot of time chilling, so you can do it in the morning, go out and enjoy your day, and feel like a very good hausfrau come time for dessert.
We did enjoy our day very much. We went to the parade, and perhaps it is my imagination, but living here in the Berkeley of New Jersey, the mood seemed decidedly more optimistic then during the past eight years. My children were excited to go, and annoyed that my pie baking kept us from arriving earlier. The parade seemed sweet to me, as opposed to lame, as it has in years past, where I was going through the motions of being proud to be American under the auspices of an administration that seemed hell-bent on destroying this country's standing in its misguided attempt to promote democracy.
We went to a party, and on the way back to the car, I accomplished a long-time goal of finally walking down Mid-Park Lane, the alley that winds between Park Street and Midland Avenue, where I had the pleasure of watching Gabriel pee into the stream. Sacha was so amused by this that he almost pulled down his pants to give it a go, until he noticed how excited that would have made me and David. (Note to self: work on poker face.) He decided his diaper did the job very well, thank you very much.
I made pizza for dinner, which is always a hit. Then I brought out the pie, and cut everyone a slice.
And that is when things darkened. What is this, my elder two asked, eying the pie suspiciously.
“It's key lime pie,” I replied noncommittally. (Already working on poker face!)
“Do I like it?” Gabriel asked.
“You love it.” I lied.
“What's it taste like?”
“It's very sweet, and a little tart.” I offered.
David added, “It's a little like lemonade.”
“Or limeade,” I added, “And you love limeade.”
The pie sat a few more minutes on their plates, as they performed mental cost-benefit analysis, and ultimately decided to give it a try. It was not a hit.
“Too sour.” Sarah declared.
“It's a little too sweet,” explained Gabriel, whose naturally optimistic demeanor prevents him from criticizing anything too harshly. “I'll just eat the whipped cream,” he added.
Sarah could not miss this opportunity to lob another criticism: “I wish you'd make the whipped cream with sugar.”
Sacha's reaction was the most damning. Although he'd declared himself full and the dinner dishes had been cleared, he ignored the pie entirely, and requested another slice of pizza.
I am long past the point of getting upset when my kids reject my cooking. Children outnumber the adults in our house, so the odds are stacked too high against me. But this was tooth-achingly sweet pie, topped with whipped cream. Not, as you might have surmised had you witnessed the scene with the volume turned off, braised monkey brains with brown butter served in a cranial cavity bowl.
Although I knew it would not satisfy my two out of three criteria, and David and I would likely be the only ones eating it, the pie was still worth it. Not only because it was good, but because watching the show my children put on was part of the entertainment.
And now, the two of us can enjoy leftover pie for breakfast.
Key Lime Pie
Adapted from Cooks Illustrated, March 1997
Feel free to use a pre-baked pie crust, or a can of whipped cream. I won't tell anyone, and you are still a good person.
You do not need key limes to make key lime pie; regular Persian limes are perfectly fine. Go figure.
The recipe calls for sweetened whipped cream and a garnish of slivered limes dipped in confectioners sugar. I never add sugar to whipped cream as I think cream is sweet enough as is, and like the contrast when serving with something sweet, and really, when else do you serve whipped cream. Sarah, of course, disagrees.
As for the limes, I'm sure it would be attractive, but A: I've likely used the last of my limes for the pie, and B: I can't be bothered.
If pressed for time I don't cool the pie shell completely before filling and baking, and I haven't noticed any significant difference.
Lime Filling
Crust
Preheat oven to 325 degrees F.
Serve with whipped cream, enjoy listening to your children complain.
I settled on key lime pie for several reasons. There are few desserts more American than pie, and it is one of the few types of pie that David likes (I maintain that his dislike of pie is un-American, but because we accept the flaws in those we love the most, I have come to terms with this). It involves no exotic ingredients: graham crackers, sugar, eggs, butter, limes, sweetened condensed milk. This is not 1955, and sweetened condensed milk is not exactly a pantry staple, but it has such a long shelf life that if you buy a can now it will be good next year, if the urge to bake strikes you.
Most importantly though, is it is extremely easy to make, and involves little mess. You don't have to prep a large amount of fruit. It takes all of 20 minutes of hands-on work, and a lot of time chilling, so you can do it in the morning, go out and enjoy your day, and feel like a very good hausfrau come time for dessert.
We did enjoy our day very much. We went to the parade, and perhaps it is my imagination, but living here in the Berkeley of New Jersey, the mood seemed decidedly more optimistic then during the past eight years. My children were excited to go, and annoyed that my pie baking kept us from arriving earlier. The parade seemed sweet to me, as opposed to lame, as it has in years past, where I was going through the motions of being proud to be American under the auspices of an administration that seemed hell-bent on destroying this country's standing in its misguided attempt to promote democracy.
We went to a party, and on the way back to the car, I accomplished a long-time goal of finally walking down Mid-Park Lane, the alley that winds between Park Street and Midland Avenue, where I had the pleasure of watching Gabriel pee into the stream. Sacha was so amused by this that he almost pulled down his pants to give it a go, until he noticed how excited that would have made me and David. (Note to self: work on poker face.) He decided his diaper did the job very well, thank you very much.
I made pizza for dinner, which is always a hit. Then I brought out the pie, and cut everyone a slice.
And that is when things darkened. What is this, my elder two asked, eying the pie suspiciously.
“It's key lime pie,” I replied noncommittally. (Already working on poker face!)
“Do I like it?” Gabriel asked.
“You love it.” I lied.
“What's it taste like?”
“It's very sweet, and a little tart.” I offered.
David added, “It's a little like lemonade.”
“Or limeade,” I added, “And you love limeade.”
The pie sat a few more minutes on their plates, as they performed mental cost-benefit analysis, and ultimately decided to give it a try. It was not a hit.
“Too sour.” Sarah declared.
“It's a little too sweet,” explained Gabriel, whose naturally optimistic demeanor prevents him from criticizing anything too harshly. “I'll just eat the whipped cream,” he added.
Sarah could not miss this opportunity to lob another criticism: “I wish you'd make the whipped cream with sugar.”
Sacha's reaction was the most damning. Although he'd declared himself full and the dinner dishes had been cleared, he ignored the pie entirely, and requested another slice of pizza.
I am long past the point of getting upset when my kids reject my cooking. Children outnumber the adults in our house, so the odds are stacked too high against me. But this was tooth-achingly sweet pie, topped with whipped cream. Not, as you might have surmised had you witnessed the scene with the volume turned off, braised monkey brains with brown butter served in a cranial cavity bowl.
Although I knew it would not satisfy my two out of three criteria, and David and I would likely be the only ones eating it, the pie was still worth it. Not only because it was good, but because watching the show my children put on was part of the entertainment.
And now, the two of us can enjoy leftover pie for breakfast.
Key Lime Pie
Adapted from Cooks Illustrated, March 1997
Feel free to use a pre-baked pie crust, or a can of whipped cream. I won't tell anyone, and you are still a good person.
You do not need key limes to make key lime pie; regular Persian limes are perfectly fine. Go figure.
The recipe calls for sweetened whipped cream and a garnish of slivered limes dipped in confectioners sugar. I never add sugar to whipped cream as I think cream is sweet enough as is, and like the contrast when serving with something sweet, and really, when else do you serve whipped cream. Sarah, of course, disagrees.
As for the limes, I'm sure it would be attractive, but A: I've likely used the last of my limes for the pie, and B: I can't be bothered.
If pressed for time I don't cool the pie shell completely before filling and baking, and I haven't noticed any significant difference.
Lime Filling
4 teaspoon grated lime zest
1/2 cup lime juice (3-4 limes)
4 egg yolks
14 ounce can sweetened condensed milk
Crust
1 sleeve of graham crackers, processed to fine crumbs
3 tablespoons granulated sugar
5 tablespoons melted butter
Preheat oven to 325 degrees F.
Whisk zest and yolks in medium bowl until tinted light green (about 2 minutes). Whisk in the sweetened condensed milk, then lime juice. Set aside at room temperature to thicken for a few minutes, while you make the crust.
Pulse the graham crackers in the food processor, or place in a sealed ziploc bag and beat them silly with a blunt object. Turn the crumbs into a bowl, add the sugar and then melted butter. Stir to blend. Press into pie pan, starting in the center and moving up the sides. Use a finger to tamp the mixture around the rim of the pan while pressing it up the sides of the pan to form a flat top edge, and give the crust structure.
Bake 15 minutes. Cool to room temperature, or not.
Pour filling into crust, bake 15-17 minutes, until center is just set. Cool to room temperature, refrigerate at least 3 hours.Pulse the graham crackers in the food processor, or place in a sealed ziploc bag and beat them silly with a blunt object. Turn the crumbs into a bowl, add the sugar and then melted butter. Stir to blend. Press into pie pan, starting in the center and moving up the sides. Use a finger to tamp the mixture around the rim of the pan while pressing it up the sides of the pan to form a flat top edge, and give the crust structure.
Bake 15 minutes. Cool to room temperature, or not.
Serve with whipped cream, enjoy listening to your children complain.
01 July 2009
Slinging hash: ginger butter
A few weeks ago, I was flipping through Mark Bittman's How to Cook Everything, trying to find something new to do with salmon.
How to Cook Everything looks intimidating, but it is very accessible. I liken it to a more contemporary version of the Joy of Cooking or Fannie Farmer. Lately, I find myself referring to this, or The Gourmet Cookbook, far more than the old tried and trues.
In the first chapter, Bittman includes a recipe for compound butter, which lists 21 variations, but really, the combinations are endless. His second suggestion, for adding fresh ginger, caught my attention. I love ginger, but am more intuitive when I cook in an Italian/American/French style. When it comes to Asian flavors, I can't improvise as well.
I keep butter in a crock at room temperature, so it is always soft, and a bowl of chopped parsley on the counter. When I buy a bunch, I chop it immediately, use what I need and sprinkle the rest at will throughout the week. It's quicker than rinsing, drying and chopping a bit at a time, and keeps it from getting lost, and slimy in the fridge.
And thus, a recipe — although I use the term loosely — was born.
I have been putting ginger butter on everything: fish, steak, duck, chicken, rice. At this point, if you stand still too long in my kitchen, you run the risk of getting slathered with it.
Ginger Butter
adapted from Mark Bittman
You can halve this recipe, or use half and freeze half.
Cilantro can stand in for the parsley, but the thought of cilantro makes me gag. It may be genetic.
1 stick (8 tablespoons softened butter)
2 tablespoons fresh ginger
Chopped parsley
salt and pepper to taste
This is what my mother calls a shit and mix recipe: take some shit, mix it together. Done.
How to Cook Everything looks intimidating, but it is very accessible. I liken it to a more contemporary version of the Joy of Cooking or Fannie Farmer. Lately, I find myself referring to this, or The Gourmet Cookbook, far more than the old tried and trues.
In the first chapter, Bittman includes a recipe for compound butter, which lists 21 variations, but really, the combinations are endless. His second suggestion, for adding fresh ginger, caught my attention. I love ginger, but am more intuitive when I cook in an Italian/American/French style. When it comes to Asian flavors, I can't improvise as well.
I keep butter in a crock at room temperature, so it is always soft, and a bowl of chopped parsley on the counter. When I buy a bunch, I chop it immediately, use what I need and sprinkle the rest at will throughout the week. It's quicker than rinsing, drying and chopping a bit at a time, and keeps it from getting lost, and slimy in the fridge.
And thus, a recipe — although I use the term loosely — was born.
I have been putting ginger butter on everything: fish, steak, duck, chicken, rice. At this point, if you stand still too long in my kitchen, you run the risk of getting slathered with it.
Ginger Butter
adapted from Mark Bittman
You can halve this recipe, or use half and freeze half.
Cilantro can stand in for the parsley, but the thought of cilantro makes me gag. It may be genetic.
1 stick (8 tablespoons softened butter)
2 tablespoons fresh ginger
Chopped parsley
salt and pepper to taste
This is what my mother calls a shit and mix recipe: take some shit, mix it together. Done.
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