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Posts Tagged ‘Gourmet Magazine’

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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Maybe 30 years ago I read Katherine Paterson’s brilliant Bridge To Terabithia*. There was a note at the end which said the illustrator drew the pictures while listening to the music of the Beatles. (To see one of Donna Diamond’s beautiful drawings from that book, click here.) Her work was so ephemeral and dreamy, and I was not surprised to learn of the particular musical influence. I’d bet you aren’t either.

In my Advanced Studio Art class in high school we always had the radio on, set to a local station, while we drew. My work was inevitably co-authored by Mister Mister, Heart, and Dream Academy. By college I’d graduated to Belinda Carlisle and MC Hammer.

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This is a Lady’s Speed Stick. Hammer would be proud.

Sometimes I listen to music while doing busy work like cutting and freezing produce. Once I wrote to Gourmet Magazine** and told them I spent the afternoon slicing organic strawberries while accompanied by Led Zeppelin. It was a solid choice, I thought. Gourmet agreed. They printed my letter.

But back to the vein of Donna Diamond, Bridge drawings, and the Beatles; and me, my drawings, and late ’80s power ballads: I think the music I’m listening to when I’m creating has a hand in the product. That includes cooking. This past few weeks I’ve needed some deep rest—soul-core rest. Aside from sleeping, that means comfort food; and in my case, making it.

First I went to my farm and bought some local, low-spray, ripe peaches. Then I sliced them and tucked them into a butter crust, latticed and sprinkled with demerara sugar. My co-author was The Carpenters. I felt like I was moving not through air but through Karen’s exquisite honey-colored contralto. That was a mellow-tasting pie, indeed (there it is above).

A couple of days ago I became oddly obsessed with a recipe I’ve had for years but have never made: blackberry brown-sugar cake. I took some liberties, since it was to be a breakfast or teatime cake for me, not a celebration cake for others. Omitted the buttercream and jam and half the sugar, swapped in some olive oil for part of the butter and whole-wheat pastry flour for some of the all-purpose. The recipe also called for ground walnuts and a little sugar at the base of the pan, but I didn’t have any walnuts, so I used hazelnuts instead. They were so heady and delicious that going forward I’ll never use walnuts. I topped the cake with tangy, organic plain yogurt and blackberries I’d just picked at the farm. The result was subtle and moody and surprising.

Nat ‘King’ Cole made this cake with me. You might not be able to tell by the photo, but you’d know for sure when you ate a slice.

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*The movie is rubbish.

**Requisite whimper that they’re gone. 😦

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Feeding people gives comfort to the feeder as well as to the fed.

—Ruth Reichl, former editor of Gourmet Magazine, oft-lamented-on-this-site publication

So the world’s been a bit of a hullabaloo lately. Not in a good way, either. But Ruth’s quote above (written in the face of 9/11, when magazine staffers were too stunned to do anything but cook chili and lasagna for relief workers), is as true as ever. After the shock—multi-shocks—of 2016’s most recent events, I got into the kitchen as soon as possible.

Comfort food is in order when people are wounded. Physically, spiritually, doesn’t matter. I think it’s safe to say none of us are in the mood for anything tartare, or made with carob. I was heading to rehearsal for ‘To Kill A Mockingbird,’ so I made Elvis’s favorite pound cake. I still giggle at the breathtaking self-indulgence of any cake that calls for seven eggs, three cups of sugar, two sticks of butter, and a cup of heavy cream*. But darned if it doesn’t do the trick.

I brought it in and fed it to actors, who are not generally a picky bunch. But they really loved it, in particular, the actor who plays the reverend. He told me it was outstanding, and that he’s spent his life in the food business, so the statement wasn’t coming out of left field.

When a portly, older African-American gentleman who used to run a business making cakes and sweet-potato pies out of his church basement tells you your cake is outstanding, it’s probably the best compliment on that cake you’ll ever get.

That recipe is a pretty good one. We all felt a little better; good food does this. It warms and unites. And I was cheered further upon his promise that he’d bring in a sweet-potato pie for me to try.

*As a matter of fact, that’s almost the entire recipe.

 

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Years ago Gourmet Magazine* published an article about a Scandinavian woman who, like the rest of her countrymen and women, grew up foraging. She took the lifestyle quite in stride, speaking of it the way the rest of us speak of lacing up New Balances. Hunting for chanterelles for breakfast with her grandparents, nibbling on bits of pasture as she walked home from school, she said with no pretense that her country was edible.

Someday I will forage in Scandinavia with faithful Swedish reader Pelle as my guide, I hope. In the meantime, I am determined to gobble up my own country, starting with the Jersey Shore. For the past couple of weeks I have been extracting local flavors and making simple syrups. Granulated sugar, cold filtered water brought to a boil, immersion—1:1:1.

My pastry chef friend Matthew made macarons with lilacs a couple of weeks ago, and you read about the results last week. I have since been drenching pieces of my olive oil-almond cake in it every day. The rest I poured into a one-gallon freezer bag, labelled, and popped into the freezer.

Matthew wondered aloud if wisteria is edible. I looked it up, discovered the flowers are (a member of the pea family. Look above: Don’t they look like sweet peas?), and grabbed my clippers. It dangles from the trees that surround my lake. I will not say how close I came to falling in, nor what the waterfowl were likely thinking as they watched me test the brush that was the only barrier between me, the brackish water, and them. I snipped a few blossoms (see above) and jumped to safety. Then I took them home, separated the flowers from the stems, and put the flowers in a nice warm bath. The flavor is lighter, sweeter, and more delicate than the deeply perfumed lilac.

Next up: wild peppermint, which I found last spring at a time when I really needed a treat in my life. Soon after I made a big bowl of truly fantastic tabbouleh, with all local vegetables and really bloody local mint. This time around I need a treat again and can’t wait until the tabbouleh vegetables are ready, so instead I clipped about six cups’ worth and made more syrup.

This one was a like a smack upside the head: The whole house smelled like mint for the rest of the day.

I have always hated mint-flavored things, never could understand the immense appeal of chocolate-chip mint ice cream. To me it always seemed like eating a giant, cold heap of toothpaste. But when you start with an actual plant, the whole ballgame changes. The peppermint syrup is grassy, pungent—a knockout. It, too, went into the freezer. And mint being mint, I know I’m good for more, as much as I want, until just after frost.

In cocktails, in marshmallows, in marzipan…there’s no end in sight to what I can do with these syrups. And don’t look now, but honeysuckle season is right on our heels. And elderflower, too. Another newbie!

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Below we have the fruits of my flowers: lilac, wisteria, and peppermint syrups, respectively. Totally digging that the mint at right is faintly green.

I can’t wait to see what else is out there. The earth never fails to be there for me, to teach me about starting over, and to surprise me.

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*Will I ever stop mourning the loss of this publication?**

**Nope.

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My fellow stage-crew friend and I like to eat. And to talk about eating. And, often enough, to talk about eating while we’re eating.* Casey grew up in a family that cooks from scratch—hard core. When they make burgers they start with an actual cut of meat. Then they put it through a grinder and spice it to taste. Yeah. He also has a brother who’s a chef in Manhattan, and his dad’s wife is a pastry chef in Brooklyn. Having a friend like this is wise on all counts.

For a couple of years we’ve been dreaming about a banh mi, a sandwich made at our favorite (so far) Vietnamese restaurant (Pho Le, in Red Bank, NJ). The place only offers it for lunch, and the only time we’re both available for lunch is on weekends. That usually leaves lunch before a Sunday matinee…but most of the time we’re too sleepy to go after working a heap of shows.

Yesterday, before the closing matinee of Peter Pan, we quit whining and made it happen.

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Look at that fat wedge of jalapeño! Tucked underneath like it’s a common dill pickle, humming placidly and gazing skyward! Sneaky little poser.

Pho Le’s classic banh mi is at the top of the page. I have a recipe for one from the long-gone and much-lamented Gourmet Magazine, one that has liverwurst ably pinch-hitting for pork pâté.

This sandwich had the real thing: pâté, roast pork, pork roll, head cheese, cucumbers, jalapeños, cilantro, pickled daikon (a type of radish—pure white and mildly flavored), and carrots.

I’d never had head cheese before, but have always wanted to try it. As a lifelong Laura Ingalls Wilder devotee, I’ve read matter-of-fact accounts of offal preparation over and over, so I’m not especially squeamish about it. I did read up on head cheese as a refresher, though, and learned meat from the tongue, feet, and heart are sometimes added to the flesh from the animal’s head.** Only one complaint about this delicious sandwich: not enough of the pâté and meat. It gave me a little taste of the gaminess I love, but not as much as I’d like.

Casey yawns at squeamish as well; he’s eaten far stranger foods. His sandwich is just above and was more successful. It was a grilled pork banh mi, with avocado, pâté, greens, tomato, and the rest of the lovely vegetables I had in my sandwich. The smokiness of the grilled meat sold us both. And the sandwiches, it must be acknowledged, were served on very fresh, toasted rolls. Concentrating on the fillings and mailing in the bread has almost become a cliché in the food business, but this little place knows it matters. They’re right.

We put these sandwiches away while he told me about the snake-bitten production of West Side Story he did in college. Theatre people never run out of disaster stories, and we’re always ten minutes away from a new one. Then we pushed our chairs back from the table and sighed and headed off to Neverland. Two friends, two adventures, one afternoon.

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*BONUS: I just received a fantastic leftover turkey sandwich recipe, and right now we’re messaging about it. This is surprisingly common.

**Boy, if my mom didn’t stop reading earlier, she sure did now.

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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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