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Posts Tagged ‘nuts’

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Last weekend: Saw a post on Freecycle offering six gallons of black walnuts from a guy’s tree, just 15 minutes away. Squealed like a birthday girl with her hands in a Rapunzel cake.

Wrote to guy asking if could possibly have three gallons; he agreed, which is good, as am strong but small, and disdainfully imagined self hauling two heaping black Hefty bags up two flights in manner of underpaid North Pole intern.

Still plenty heavy. Required walking horizontally as if through strong winds. Set bag on kitchen floor, slashed it open, and stood somewhat dumbstruck. Remembered freshly fallen black walnuts are comprised of two layers, and containing brown staining ink—the reason why the buggers are so pricey. Also remembered my tendency to jump at chances and think later. This was the later part.

Emailed loyal reader Angie, retired Kentucky farm wife who grew up on black walnuts. Obviously was in good hands. Her advice: Let them all go dark, take them outside, put on shoes I never wanted to wear again, and stomp them silly to get the outer shells off.

Curses. Not a lawn owner. Toyed with notion of dragging heap to local park to stomp, and children’s class trips being shooed away to teachers’ warning words about liberals with free afternoons, or witnessed by local deer who would roll their eyes contemptuously at my technique. No crappy shoes, either.

Bought rubber kitchen gloves, and sat down on kitchen floor on Friday. Peeled thick, spongy outer shells off to reveal damp, coffee-ground color beneath, and hour later gloves looked as though I’d just delivered an Angus heifer. It was not the first time I marveled at how I spend my Friday nights. The right thumb ripped, too. But got the job done.

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Wait about a month and turn them every day to let them dry, says Angie. Hanging them in a grass sack is best. I have none. Drying and turning a burnished chartreuse-bronze every day. The goal: that they are not damp on the inside (useless) but light and dry (perfect). Hoping. If I don’t like the flavor, Angie generously offered to take all of them off my hands. Such a true friend. 🙂

Here they are, with outer shell off. Nutwatch 2016 is underway.

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It’s at the most impractical times that I feel compelled to get into the kitchen and cook something new. I’ve never made one of these but, burned out after a stressed-out week, there I was. And I very firmly told myself that first I needed to deal with the tax forms I’d spread out on the table or I’d have no room to put the recipe together. This did not stop me.

Anatomy of a Strudel

  1. Ignore two cookbooks and wealth of recipes online and wing everything, right down to setting on the oven. Set at 375 F.
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  2. Peel and chop six apples. Dismiss hunch that traditional strudel apples are minced because too tired to mince. (Actually think apple mincing, whether tired or wide awake, is refuge for the anal.)
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  3. For every three yawns, say ‘apfel strudel,’ as did Schwarzenegger when he put it on the Planet Hollywood menu like a good Austrian. (He’d visit guests with the dessert menu, saying ‘Try the apfel strudel,’ and the people would hmm and sigh and say the chocolate cake looked good, and he’d lean in menacingly and say TRY the APFEL STRUUUUDEL, faux glaring at them. They’d order it. I ordered it once myself; it was pretty great, to tell you the truth.)
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  4. Cook apples on stove top and shake in cinnamon and cardamom. Measure nothing. Grab jar of unlabeled, thickened honey that your sister got from a north Jersey farm last summer and said she’d never eat, and add in three spoonfuls.
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  5. Add about a half-cup of Trader Joe’s chopped pecans to saucepan to toast. Read label, see that this is 410 calories, blanch with panic, and pour half back into bag.
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  6. Push tax forms and last year’s receipts aside on table and set up cookie sheets, box of phyllo, olive oil, apples, and nuts. Fold phyllo sheets in half, brush with oil, sprinkle each sheet with seven miniscule pecan pieces, and envelop apples in center. Use hands instead of large serving spoon, leaving the odd appley drip to land on Industry Magazine 1099 form.
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  7. Roll up and bake strudels. Let cool, slice one, and chase down hundreds of tiny shattered pieces that fly off knife and onto tax forms like mosquitoes at a church picnic, if both mosquitoes and church picnic were same shade of slightly off-white. Start thinking was supposed to layer apples and nuts in all of the layers.
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  8. Probably.
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    Anyway. They’re pretty good, despite the heaping mouthfuls of phyllo necessary to penetrate first. I also like thinking my accountant, trying to organize the labyrinthine tax forms of a freelancer, will sniff and be blissfully transported to Austria, and not know why.

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Huber Woods, Navesink. New Jersey’s a dish, isn’t it?

Every year on Thanksgiving I make my family’s recipe for stuffing, eat it in great quantities, then go hiking. (The unfathomably good recipe is here.) This tradition does not vary, because like diamonds and a little black dress, like Valentino and the smoulder, it works. It ain’t broke.

But. I had to alter the tradition a bit this year, as I’m still nursing the effects of last month’s scratched food pipe. The stuffing starts with a loaf of crusty Italian bread. When it’s done, it’s spicy, rich, and chewy—the kind of addiction you wouldn’t mind having. And I don’t.

How it ought to look.

I was disheartened for a good week beforehand because I thought I would have to forgo this dish. But I decided to buck up, and good techie that I am, made a plan: to eat stuffing, somehow, and not have it aggravate my condition.

Instead of buying my Italian bread on Monday and letting it go stale on my dining room table until Thursday, I bought it fresh, the day before. Next I pulled the crust from the fluffy white insides—the part I was hoping I could swallow easily—and froze the two portions separately. I also prepped some homemade chicken broth.

On Thanksgiving morning I defrosted the bag of bread insides and added it to my pan with the sausage, spices, olive oil, eggs, toasted nuts, and Parmigiano-Reggiano. I ground the dried rosemary with a mortar and pestle so it wouldn’t be too spiky going down. Then I poured broth over the whole thing to make it even more tender.

I am not going to lie and tell you that it was delicious. It was decent. The next day it was quite a bit better. But it was more important that I wasn’t uncomfortable, and I wasn’t. I made it work. This was a huge win.

Then I went hiking.

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Gradations of light and shadow, eastern meadow.

Longtime readers know about my love affair with nature—with the wildest parts especially. It is at once a source of serenity and energy for me to leave the paved walkways and cross meadows, hills, glens, groves, the untidy places, the unmanicured country. There is no grass, let alone neatly trimmed grass. The spicy fallen leaves are slippery. I get my ankles tangled in the snarls of vines that cover the rolling ground. Chipmunks, groundhogs, and squirrels dart between thistles. Once I even saw a coyote. I always hope I’ll run into him again. But I hike mostly because I love the feeling of being enveloped by something ancient and unspoiled. It’s like getting massaged on the inside. And I always try to see something I haven’t seen before.

A few Thanksgivings ago I found a hidden cemetery, with maybe 30 occupants in all. I always wish them a nice holiday.

Last year I found tiny old wooden shacks labeled with numbers—1937, 1938—and I fancied them past years, relegated silently to the woods of Navesink. I could not bring myself to look through the windows and still cannot. This year I found 1929.

And also this year, beyond the eastern meadow, I followed a deer path until I was surprised by the shadow of a horse. It stood perfectly still, so I ventured closer to investigate. It was a sculpture, perfectly to scale, and made entirely of driftwood blackened with age. Imagine coming across this with no warning.

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The afternoon light gets low pretty early these days. I watched it ride the edge of the trees and wondered if I had enough time to look just a little farther. I’d never been beyond the brook at the western end of the woods, and it was tempting. I decided it was getting too late to chance it. Coming across a coyote at nighttime is somewhat less appealing.

But here’s the thing. Being sick or injured can make a person want to withdraw and not take chances. God knows it’s happened with me, especially recently. After a month of ping-ponging between my food pipe being okay and being uncomfortable, you can believe I’ve hung back from time to time. If I’m not careful, though, that can become a new habit.

Last Thursday I wanted to go farther. I’m so glad I wanted to. It’s a good sign. There are times when I won’t be able to, like this time. But I figure as long as I always want to know what’s beyond the brook, I’m okay.

For dinner that night I ate half an Italian sausage, some caramel applesauce I stirred up on the spot (sliced apples with a little butter, brown sugar, and water), and vanilla pudding I’d made the night before. And it was okay again, and I was grateful.

The crust from that loaf of Italian bread is sitting tight in my freezer, waiting for another batch of stuffing. It’ll happen.

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I just ate a chocolate chip cookie after going though the basket until I found the softest. I didn’t pull the Charmin bit because I only buy soft cookies, nor because I’m a really original narcissist who marks her territory by way of finger dents through Saran Wrap.

No, I did it because my jaw’s been on the fritz this week, and I can’t do any heavy-duty chewing. This happens. I was diagnosed with TMJ disorder in 2000. Google can tell you more, but the layman’s description is I’m a tooth grinder, and it takes a toll on my jaw. The cookie was really good, and I’m thanking my lucky stars, because I was starving and it was the sole soft cookie in the basket.

When you have this condition, being under stress often means pain—a little or a lot, depending on the stress in question. Many teachers have given me many ways to chill and to relieve the soreness.* It’s something I just plain manage. And with all of the problems in the world, especially of late, I’m not whining. It just led my brain to some connections.

As a kid I hated any food that was lumpy. Ix-nay on nuts in candy bars or brownies. Fie on chunky peanut butter and chunky tomato sauce. Ice cream had to be soft, the gooshy kind out of the machine. I didn’t even like chicken or beef on the bone.

Hindsight being what it is, I know why. It wasn’t because my jaw was acting up. That happened much later. I was stressed a lot, so I think I just wanted my food to be one less hassle.

And probably not surprisingly, the inclination toward smooth sailing back then went beyond food. This girl wanted simple, predictable, and routine…across the board. That’s common with very young kids, but I hung in with that a lot longer than most. If I couldn’t get smooth, I felt compelled to make it happen…or to tune out entirely.

Mind you, this is not to say smoothness is bad all the time and in every case. Sometimes it’s great. For some, it’s always perfect, and I bow to that. One should have what one wants. But for me it got old. I’d been stifling myself and didn’t even know it. For me, smoothness is fine. Too-smooth, though = too confining.

Things slowly started to change. I had the most delectable hors d’oeuvres here and there of a world that was bigger than the one I was in. A big friend here, three big teachers there. Travel, which can’t help but expand the old worldview. I started asking a lot of questions, talked to people without wanting to burrow into my very well-worn, self-conscious hidey-hole. I got normal answers and I got weirdo answers. I threw it all against the wall of my mind to see what stuck. Laced up my adventure boots. Even my laugh got bigger. It was crazy.

And you saw this coming: I started to eat stuff I’d never eaten before. Lumpy stuff. I ate walnuts in muffins. Grew to adore tomato sauce made with just skinned plum tomatoes. I was on chunky peanut butter like Homer on a doughnut. Spare ribs were cheerfully gnawed. I only wanted hard ice cream and only with a bunch of stuff in it—Moose Tracks, Cookies & Cream, Cherry Chocolate Chip. I’d switched out too-smooth for a crazy quilt of nubbly, and things were Finally Good. Life sparkled like a vampire.

Then whoops, the ancient stress I hadn’t resolved clobbered me. And food imitating life, I mellowed back down again. I had to—I was too spooked to do otherwise, and besides, my stomach wouldn’t let me eat much. Anything with power was strictly off the table, literally and figuratively. After about five years of these boring shenanigans, you’d better believe I went after it all—travel, adventure, FOOD—like a feral dog. And still do until I need a break, or my jaw cuts in for a slow dance.

Going smooth from time to time—this works for me. Sitting on the sand and watching the tide go out. Floating to the bottom of a really, really well-made vanilla ice cream, with only like four ingredients in it. Or when basic stress and my jaw sucker-punch me for a while and I have to soften my diet, as my oral surgeon says. I guess the Tilt-A-Whirl that’s been been my life was setting me up to figure out what’s the best way to get at all of it. A little gorge here, a little smooth there. Maybe I should be shooting less for a crazy quilt than the throw** I’m sitting under as I write this. I love this thing. It’s fleece on one side and nubbly faux fur on the other. It ain’t the fleece that makes it awesome and it ain’t the nubbly. It’s the both.

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*If you’re in the same boat, please Google myofascial release technique.

**Is it me or do I write about this throw a lot? Last week. Over a year ago. It’s totally that great.

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A vintage cake on my vintage Christmas tablecloth. It works.

A couple of days ago I baked my friend Kim’s grandmother’s holiday cake. A year or so ago I was treated to a jar of Granny’s grape jelly that would embarrass Welch’s, and so I was looking forward to trying this. And the below, from Kim, was quite an endorsement as well:

These recipes are all from a family cookbook that Granny (my mother’s mom) put together in 2004. The cover of the cookbook has a picture of Granny with sugar and butter, because they make things taste good! And as Granny says in the foreward, “Remember that love, and family – (and food!) are some of the most important things in your life.” Enjoy!!

Apple Sauce* Cake

 

2 c sugar

1 c shortening

4 eggs

2 ¾ c unsweetened cold applesauce

4 c all-purpose flour

2 tsp baking soda

1 tsp baking powder

1 c raisins, cut fine

1 c nuts, chopped (I used walnuts)

1 ½ tsp salt

2 tsp cinnamon

1 tsp nutmeg

1 tsp cloves

 

Cream sugar and shortening with eggs. Beat baking soda into apple sauce and add to sugar mixture. Use about ½ c of the flour and dredge the raisins and nuts.** Add rest of dry ingredients then add raisins and nuts. Bake for 55–60 minutes in a 350° oven.

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My edits: I substituted butter for shortening and toasted the walnuts. I also cooked down apples from my favorite local, organic farmer.

 

What came as an unexpected plus what how much this cake hit the spot after the glut of heavy-duty sweets I’ve been eating all month. Full of apples, nuts and raisins, it is homey, and delicious as it is wholesome. Kim says Granny always serves this with the plum pudding sauce below. I should have, but didn’t this year simply because of how perfect the cake tastes to me just as is, for breakfast. Next year I’ll do it, and I’ll make the marshmallows!

 

Plum Pudding Sauce 

 

This is my great-grandmother’s recipe from 1935.  My grandmother, Granny, generally has this on hand at Thanksgiving and Christmas.

 

1 C butter (not margarine)

1 ½ c brown sugar

1 c canned milk (Pet or Carnation)

2 egg yolks

2 c miniature marshmallows

 

Cream butter and sugar together. In a separate bowl, beat egg yolks and add to mixture. Heat and add milk. Mix all together and cook in double boiler or at a low heat until thick. Add marshmallows. Keep in refrigerator. If too thick when ready to use, just use milk to make it thinner.

 

Good on Apple Sauce Cake.

 

One more note: the spicy smell of this cake baking mixed with the woodsy smell of the Christmas tree is pretty unbeatable. If you weren’t in the holiday spirit before, you will be afterward. Thanks to Kim and Granny!

Kim Raynor

Wanamassa, NJ

*Editing skeptics are wondering why I separated apple and cake. It’s because Granny does. Period 🙂

**This is to keep the raisins and nuts from sinking to the bottom of the cake like lemmings.

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