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Posts Tagged ‘dough’

Vintage springform for Easter bread.

I’ve been making Easter bread on my own for years, but somehow every Good Friday I find myself blanking on some of the processes. 2017 examples: ‘Wait–if I put the chocolate mixture into my one big mixing bowl, what do I use to mix the dough?’* ‘Wait–can I start batch #2 before batch #1 is completely done?’** Seven years of talking myself into corners with questions like this are really beyond all reason, all good sense.***

But I do have consistent system for buttering the pans I load with dough: Every time I use a stick of butter, I lay open the wrapper and save it. There are at least five by the time I finish both dough batches, and I rub them liberally on the insides of the pans, in and out of every crevice.

Butter owns a dual role in baking bread: It adds incomparable flavor, and it allows the bread to be removed from the pan. The project can move from development to completion with butter on the team. Without it, the project would be at best compromised, and at worst, damaged. What good is a stuck bread?

I am a project person; I considered the other projects I do every day, for work and on my own, and thought about what facilitates the process through to completion—what gets them out of the pan. And there are many factors, but this is a good start.

-Making a point to stop for a treat to keep my spirits up. A Fluffer Nutter gelato today at Whole Foods was right bloody on. A nap sure doesn’t hurt, either.

-A full larder, a full gas tank, and a warm apartment. Deprivation is a brutal thing.

-And mostly…friends. There’s Grace, who writes to check in or just to say hi and leave a heart; Teresa, who’s so funny and expressive and always wants to talk about food; Casey, who also wants to talk about food when he’s not half asleep (okay, even then); Roger and Diana, who slam-dunk great conversation and huge laughs every time I see them. They and many more are my butter. They get me from point A to point B. They keep me from getting stuck in the pan.

I heard once that you should wear life like a loose garment. It’s a lovely expression, but it can’t be done without creature comforts and without people around you who care.

Tonight it was 76 degrees, a shock for Easter Sunday in NJ, so obviously I had to go to the beach after dinner. I came across a series of sand castle tunnels, presumably made earlier today by kids burning off the effects of marshmallow Peeps. We made many, many tunnels such as these as kids, on this very beach, and the way to make them is this:

You begin digging the tunnel at one side of the castle, and a pal begins digging opposite you. It can take time, but it’s a singularly magic moment when you feel each other’s fingers. From that point it just needs smoothing. Then it’s done.

*Transfer into smaller bowl after mixing.
**You can, but it’s a pain.
***Although next year I can refer to this post to answer at least two questions. Silver lining.

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Not to brag, but I’ve really been rocking Chocolate Day lately. When, to keep migraines at bay, you can only have it every third day (today! today!) it’s a big deal, so I bust my bottom to make it count. It’s always good quality, it’s always dark chocolate, it’s usually 65-or-so % cacao, and it’s often organic. With standards like that, eating it straight up is a big enough treat, but gilding the lily now and then is even more fun.

Every year around now I make a soda bread, and riff off the traditional made with raisins. I have two recipes I love, one from Gourmet Magazine, God rest its soul, and the other I happened upon on YouTube–we’ll call it the Bread From Some Guy Online. It’s fantastic, though, made with two full cups of buttermilk (though I use plain organic yogurt because it’s easier to find than organic buttermilk, if the latter even exists); moreover, he recommends eating it slathered with Irish butter, a suggestion that cannot be criticized to any degree.

I mixed up the dough, then soaked dried sour cherries in warm Baileys Irish Cream. The whole goopy thing went into the dough along with a bar and a half of thick-chopped Belgian chocolate. Then I sliced the top into a cross as per tradition—‘to let the devil out’—though I can’t say it did much good, as once it was baked I pulled it apart like a heathen anyway.

The tart cherries + the heady Baileys + the smooth, smoooooth chocolate + the tender crumb—I just want to emphasize that luxury is sometimes a necessity, and should not be met with shame. Jungian analyst Clarissa Pinkola Estes urges her clients to be good to themselves, to ‘have pity on the thing that wants and needs.’ It’s cold. Winter has overstayed its welcome. Stand by Clarissa.

I think I ate a quarter of the above bad boy today, steaming hot, and made a happy mess. With very cold milk it soothed everything. My freezer’s full of the rest, to be messily devoured four days from now, and four days afterward. And on.

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I needed to be in the kitchen today. Too much work and too much abject crazy in the world made it absolutely, crucially necessary; and thank the universe, it chilled me right out (and fed me very well at teatime today).

The above is a sausage bread. I’ve never made a stuffed bread before, and looked online for a good recipe, but all I could find were recipes that started with a tube of Pillsbury. Then it occurred to me that a stuffed bread is a lot like pizza dough with, you know, stuff in it. So I used Bon Appetit‘s recipe and added anything I thought would taste good.

First I crumbled up 12 ounces of hot Italian sausage and grated about a cup and a half of mozzarella. Then I made the dough, adding some Parmigiano-Reggiano and dried basil and rosemary. (I’ve noticed when you buy stuffed breads, the bread’s flavor itself is somewhat neglected; the focus seems to be on the filling alone.) Then I let it rise, and worked it into a ball the way I learned when I did a brief stint at a restaurant. (I was one of two people who, on weekends, rolled 250 balls of pizza dough per day. It was strange rolling just one!)

Then with a rolling pin I rolled it into a disk, loaded it up with the cheese and sausage, then treated it as I do my chocolate-cinnamon babka: I rolled it up jelly-roll style, pinched the ends, twisted it, and coiled it. It got an egg wash and I popped it into the oven, figuring 350 degrees F would do. It did. Took Julia Child’s advice and took it out when I could smell it.

I sat down with it, hot, the whole thing, at my dining room table and pulled off steaming little pieces. Nibbled and looked out the window and was soothed. Sending all of you the same wishes, with or without a sausage bread.

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Stollen

Short and sweet tonight, quite like the little number above. I love making stollen this time of year, and had some fun with the recipe, from The Joy of Cooking.

-Doubled the amount of raisins (I like a lotta fruit) and used orange rind instead of candied orange. Soaked them both in my homemade apple vodka to fatten them up.

-Decreased the amount of sugar to just two tablespoons and you couldn’t even tell. Although, now that I think about it, the apple vodka probably had a pretty solid hand in that.

-Used just shy of a stick of butter instead of the 1.75 sticks they called for. The dough was slippery as a politician in November even so. Wacky.

-I used half all-purpose flour plus half whole-wheat pastry flour in the dough. Again, couldn’t tell. I can’t imagine it would do much to counteract seven tablespoons of butter, but Lord knows I’m enjoying the pretense.

Took it out of the oven, ran an errand, got back a couple of hours later, and ate two slices just barely warm for lunch. It was tender and full of fruit, and had a crackly crust. On a chilly day—heck, on any day—it was profoundly soothing.

But I told my Facebook friends the hard truth.

Pros to living solo: having an entire stollen to yourself.
Cons to living solo: having an entire stollen to yourself.

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With all due respect to the believers out there, my hallelujah news this past week was only peripherally due to Easter Sunday. Most of it came from putting my overworked, overwhelmed hands into a bowl of bread dough, where I was able to dispel the stresses of the past month with a few turns.

2016 marks something like my 25th year of making Easter bread, a 100-year or so tradition my sister and I assumed, and I took it over entirely a dozen years ago. Chocolate-cinnamon babka is what I make. It is sticky and goopy, with spiced dark chocolate twirled throughout layers of buttery, eggy dough. No one argues with this recipe.

After a March of solid writing, phone calls, candy making and delivering, stage prop hunting and more delivering, I was beat from every angle. The crazy thing is, when the world spins too quickly and it feels like I can’t catch up, I crave the kitchen. I need to make something…and specifically, to put my hands in something.

When I flour my hands and first put them in the dough, an enormous calm washes over me that says this I can do. My heartbeat slows to match the motion of my hands. It’s probably akin to knitting, music-making, or any number of things that have a beat. But this has the added bonus of that raw yeasty smell and the cool feel of dough. Dough-working is instinct and skill: discerning when the dough needs more flour, how many turns it should take, when it’s springy enough to stop kneading. And I love dropping it into my parchment-lined, secondhand wooden bowl. I love covering it with more parchment and a dishtowel, and setting it to rise on the cooler end of my kitchen radiator.

I think back to our grandmothers and their aunts, sisters, cousins who bent over bread bowls in the middle of their chockablock lives, and wonder if their heartbeats slowed to a sane pace as well. I think about the unique stresses of their lives—illness, war, foreclosure, rationing—and wonder if they were able to breathe in yeast and and breathe out the cares of the day and the fear of the unknown. I don’t know. All I know is it puts heart back into me in a way nothing else quite does, letting me resume the world with a clear outlook.

Bread dough—now that’s a religion I can stand behind.

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For the past few Marches I’ve made soda bread. Wildly delicious breakfast.

I started out using traditional recipes from Gourmet Magazine* and Linkedin, tender, buttery, raisiny ones. Then last year I decided to get all cocky and do riffs off the usual recipes.

The below is last year’s oeuvre, with a big handful each of dried cherries and dark chocolate chunks. It worked. I’d do it again. And, no, I never slice these dudes.

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Pulled-off chunks taste way better.

This year’s idea clocked me upside the head while in the car, just a few minutes from my place.** I’d thought I’d go with a tropical theme, with dried pineapple or mango, toasted coconut, and rum. It’s a solid idea, and it’s still in the running for next year. Stick around.

Then I thought, no, I’ll stay really, really close to the heart, soul, and fisherman sweaters of the Irish, and use Baileys Irish Cream somehow. I toyed with making a glaze out of it. When I heard a howl of brogue coming from across the pond, I got a mite shaky and poured this lovely stuff right into the dough—halved the buttermilk called for, and made up the difference with Baileys.

The broguey howl mercifully shifted in character and pitch, and sounded a lot more appreciative.

I also threw in a cup of raisins that I had soaked in a combination of hot water and my homemade vanilla extract*** until they plumped up, and dark chocolate that got a very rough chop. Shamelessly big chunks. If you’re gonna do it, you know.

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Do I seem obsessed with chocolate?

Warm out of the oven, this quite knocked me out—vanilla and chocolate in such a grownuppy way, with creamy, boozy, mesmerizingly fragrant undertones. It worked.

OH, and kindest regards to my #1 Irish fan. Brendan, hope I did you proud! 🙂

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*God rest its soul.

**Most accidents happen near the home. Look it up.

***Because I was out of Jameson.

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No preliminaries from Little Miss Chatterbox this time. Let’s go:

1) Be skeptical of any dessert served with an amorphous heap on top—whipped cream, raspberry sauce, spark plugs, whatever. It usually means the kitchen is trying to distract you. Remember: if the dessert could stand on its own, it would.

2) Smile at your restaurant server even if he or she doesn’t smile back.

3) If you loved your meal, send your thanks to the kitchen. It’s not pretentious or old-fashioned; expressing appreciation will never be thus.

4) If your Filipino friend invites you to an authentic Filipino meal made by her mom, say yes.

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Lumpiang shanghai—homemade spring rolls filled with ground pork, carrots, and onions. Piping hot and crisp. I couldn’t stop eating them, which was rude because my hosts and friends kept trying to engage me in conversation, but I got a little delirious with these.

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This is is monggo, and lovely comfort food. Beans, broth, shrimp, and vegetables. Again, I needed to exercise better portion control and likely didn’t.

5) If a friend who grew up in Wisconsin tells you that a local ice cream place is fantastic, go.

6) Never refuse a cookie made from scratch.

7) When in a burger joint or chain restaurant, don’t order the pasta. Doesn’t matter if the place has an Italian-sounding name.

8) It’s okay to hate marshmallow Peeps and Cadbury Creme Eggs. Get in line with me. We’ll hang out.

9) Always pull over to buy lemonade from kids selling it in front of their houses.

10) When trying an exotic dish for the first time, make sure the people preparing it know it like they know how to inhale and exhale.

11) Own a copy of The Joy of Cooking. Every single standard dish is in there, and it’s plainly written.

12) Eat fruits and vegetables when they’re in season and you’ll find out how they’re really supposed to taste. Watermelon delivered to New Jersey in March is, for example, a disgrace. In August, purchased locally, it’s celestial.

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Organic Sugar Baby.

13) Shop at farmers’ markets. Ask questions. The guy behind the fold-out table most likely grew those sweet grilling peppers himself and loves talking about them.

14) Recognize that your tastes can change. Something you used to hate might taste very differently to you today—or you simply might learn that you hate broccoli when roasted, but love it when steamed.

15) Put your hands in soft bread dough at least once. Making bread is easy. Really really.

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Babka dough…on the rise.

16) Just because a recipe looks difficult to make doesn’t mean it is, or that you won’t enjoy every second of making it.

17) When traveling, eat where the locals eat for the best value and flavor. If you want fancy, ask a local butcher where to eat; he or she will know which restaurants buy the best cuts. If you want simple and hearty, ask a policeman where to eat.

18) Along the same lines, try foods that the place is known for. Taste an artichoke in Rome, heather honey in Scotland, flying fish on Barbados, sharp white cheddar in Vermont.

19) Go strawberry picking. Go anything picking. Wear decent shoes. Flip flops aren’t.

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20) Own a proper set of knives. They should be weighted evenly, with the metal running straight through the handle. I firmly maintain that if you own cooking equipment that you don’t have to fight, you’ll enjoy cooking far more.

21) On the other hand, don’t spend much for ordinary things. An aluminum muffin tin has a design that’s hard to foul up. I bought a few sets for something like $7 at an ex-boyfriend’s sister’s garage sale in 2006. I also bought a hand mixer for five bucks. Both were at least 10 years old when I got them and they’re still chugging along fine.

22) Try different ingredients together, different textures together. If you don’t like it, so what? You can always chuck it if it doesn’t work out. Or you might come up with something wildly groovy.

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This was a weirdo idea I had for a breakfast sandwich: roasted local peaches with my fresh ricotta, basil leaves, and a drizzle of honey. It was too sweet. Next time I’m going to try balsamic vinegar instead of the honey.

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My honeysuckle syrup. One to one with plain vodka over ice was OUT of this world.

23) Eat with your hands. Not at a posh spot with your district manager, but as often as you can. It will taste differently. It’s grounding.

24) Find out what’s growing wild in your backyard, research it, and be clear on it. I’d bet there’s something edible there you can throw into your salad.

25) Eat good-quality chocolate, pure maple syrup (Grade B!), fresh garlic. Spread Irish butter on your English muffin. (Sure, they’ll be fighting in spirit, but in your mouth it’ll be divine.)

26) Try making pumpkin muffins with fresh-baked pumpkin at least once.

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Above: Cinderella pumpkins; below, cheese pumpkins. Highly recommended.

27) When at a Jewish deli, order the hot pastrami sandwich.

28) If you ever come across a cold bottle of sarsaparilla, try it.

29) Ditto for homemade hot chocolate. Ix-nay on the blue packets.

30) Adding a little sprinkle of sea salt to the top of homemade brownies, truffles, chocolate-dipped figs, and peanut butter fudge gives them a happy little punch.

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