Nosheteria

The First of the Season

noreply@blogger.com (nosheteria) — Thu, 02 Jul 2009 13:13:00 +0000

Last weekend brought my very first clafoutis. Cherry and blueberry, eggy and deee-licious! A well-trod recipe requiring just a handful of ingredients, and a pile of fruit, clafoutis is easier to make than a pie (my other summertime favorite), yet equally as delectable. I even included a copy of my recipe in the book. Have a lovely long weekend folks!

When it Ever Stops Raining

noreply@blogger.com (nosheteria) — Mon, 29 Jun 2009 13:05:00 +0000

...For more than a day, maybe that is when my tomatoes will turn from lime green to a sumptuous red. With the new apartment came a little plot of land, not quite a garden, but this is our attempt. Brian and I planted tomatoes, five plants to be exact. They range in variety from Cherokee Purple, to tiny Grape, and the aptly named, Early Girl, which were the first to fruit.

This fruit came weeks ago, and at first I was patient. (No easy task if you are me.) The blossoms withered and died, and little fetal tomatoes grew in their place, and they continued to grow. At first I was happy for all of rain, it meant little watering had to be done. But then it rained, and it rained some more, and if you weren't wet enough-- here, have some rain. The soil became saturated, and my darling Early Girls remained staunchly green.

We had our first dry weekend here in Connecticut in weeks. I'm hoping that it did my tomato plants some good. I begged them each day to soak up the rays all that they could-- drink in the sun! I'm ready, getting more ready every day to eat you, I told my plants. When I planted these tomatoes I imagined having a bumper crop, tomatoes coming out my ears, but now we'll see. If you would like, think sunny thoughts about these beauties. And to anyone who is an avid gardener out there, I have one plant that has yellowing leaves, what does this mean, and how do I get rid of it? Suggestions are always welcome!

Flowers to Eat

noreply@blogger.com (nosheteria) — Fri, 19 Jun 2009 15:59:00 +0000

Our farmers' market is finally getting going. The stinky man selling soap (the irony is almost too much!) is having to share booth space with vendors actually selling produce. The woman selling wool yarn has packed up her wares until the fall, but alas, the man selling treacly maple syrup will always be there. Last Saturday there were strawberries, in those adorable, frosty blue quart containers, the nubby cardboard working hard to contain the luscious berries.

Here in Connecticut there has been a lot of rain lately. A lot-- you would think we were in Oregon. But last weekend there seemed to be a break in the weather. The sun peered through the clouds on Saturday morning, and it seemed as though everyone had the same idea. Brian and I used to live just down the street from the farmer's market. We would roll out of bed, and head down to Wooster Square. But our new place is no longer a stone's throw away, so we piled in the car, and headed to the Square.

I wasn't expecting much, but the market was teeming with people, and there were even more vendors than the week before. Even my ladies were back! By "my ladies," I mean a group of young women, some of whom look about high school age, who work at a farmstand with excellent and reasonably priced produce. They were set up at the end of the market, scales swinging, weighing bunches of collard greens and Japanese turnips. I always make a bee-line to them first. But as I was making my way to the end of the market, I stopped to look at these tall, spindly stalks with yellow blooms.

I was told they were rabe blossoms, from broccoli rabe plants. "And what do you do with them?" I asked. The ruddy faced balding man tore a clump of flowers from the stalk. "You eat them," he said, offering me a blossom. I chewed. Flowers are always such fun to eat. I feel as though I've snuck into the garden, and I'm doing something that I shouldn't. The flavor of these blossoms was subtle yet herbaceous, like a delicate broccoli rabe. "I just bring them home, eat some, and leave the flowers in a vase on the table-- they're sort of pretty too," the vendor told me.

And that is exactly what I did. That weekend I made a chicken-bread salad and topped it with these lovelies. Then there was the scape and bok choy stir fry I made which had a springy floral garnish. The next day I made sandwiches with long-cooked broccoli sprinkled with the blossoms. It rained even more this week. But each day, as the stalks became more barren, the vase on the kitchen table gradually getting picked over, the arrangement on the table reminded me of the imminence of summertime. And it all became a little bit more bearable.

Calling all Nutmeggers!

noreply@blogger.com (nosheteria) — Sun, 14 Jun 2009 16:17:00 +0000

Hi Everyone,

To all my readers in the Nutmeg State, I will be appearing at RJ Julia Booksellers in Madison, CT, Monday evening June 15, with fellow memoirist, Giullia Melucci. Later that same week, on Saturday June 20, at 2 pm, I will also be at the Yale Barnes and Noble. Both events are free to the public, and I will be reading, and signing my book. Come on down, I would love to meet you!

In other news... Do you compost? Well, I didn't. That is until my friend, and fellow writer, Jude Stewart wrote a detailed article, rating composters, and needed copious amounts of food scraps. She turned to me, and I quickly realized I make a lot of reusable trash. You can read her article here, and if you are in the market for a state-of-the-art composter, she just may have a suggestion or two for you. Long live trash to nutrient-rich soil!

More of The Same

noreply@blogger.com (nosheteria) — Wed, 03 Jun 2009 13:35:00 +0000

So I think this is going to be a quick one today. Why? You might be asking. Well, Brian and I are moving again, just across town, but still, we are on the move again. I'm sure I don't have to tell you, moving is a royal pain. It's like a blister that just popped on your heel when you still have a mile to walk. (That's how much I like it!) This year I can blame all of the difficulties on James Beard and Craig Claiborne. Let me make that statement a bit more explicit, I blame it on their books.

In Niantic, Connecticut there is a funky, used book store, in a ramshackle house and several out-houses, called The Book Barn. It may not be the best book store ever, but it is one of the most charming. I find that the trip holds all of the eager anticipation of a good scavenger hunt-- I'm not sure what I'll find, but surely it will be a treasure. Each time I've gone to The Book Barn I've come home with cookbooks by those two departed masters, Beard and Claiborne. And since I have lived in Connecticut, my cookbook collection, which already had considerable heft, has grown exponentially. Beard on Bread, and Beard on Pasta too? Got it. They're sitting next to collections of year '73 and '74 of Claiborne's writings and recipes. As I pack up box upon box of heavy books, I curse (though secretly adore), my ever-growing collection of cookbooks.

Okay... That was a rather lengthy diversion, and now for the main event-- Leek and Egg Pizza.

Pizza crust embellished with sautéed leek, Parmesan cheese, and a scrumptious cracked egg, sound familiar? That's because it is, but it goes to show, what's good once, is often good twice. You can make this pizza with the dough of your choosing. Simply sauté some cleaned, sliced leeks in olive oil, seasoned with a bit of red pepper flake, salt and pepper, until softened. Douse the stretched pizza crust in olive oil, and then spread the leeks on top. Sprinkle with some freshly grated Parmesan, and bake as directed. (Mine baked in a very hot, 475 degree oven.) When the pizza is just about ready, remove from the oven and crack one or two eggs on top. Then put the pizza back in the oven for another 2-3 minutes, just until the white is set.

With some more freshly cracked black pepper, you have a lovely flat-bread-like pizza in minutes. Gooshy, with the hardly-set yolk, and mellow with the slippery white, this pizza has that oniony bite without being overpowering. Yum.

Now I really must go, this wasn't such a quick post after all! Next time, from my new home...

The Muddler

noreply@blogger.com (nosheteria) — Wed, 27 May 2009 12:00:00 +0000

Muddle is just one of those perfect words. It's almost onomatopoeic-- like smooch, or mushy. In fact, I think that I abuse this little double syllable. Phrases like "muddle through it" seem to so aptly describe my life at times, when I'm just at a loss, when every little thing seems completely insurmountable. Yes, it is times like those that I just seem to muddle through, and then I muddle right home, and make myself a cocktail-- a wine cocktail.

Now, I'm not much of a boozer. I guess you would call me a lightweight. One martini and I'm a bit woozy. But give me a wine cocktail, a warm evening with the sun casting a pink light on the horizon, and I am a happy girl! I know, I know, a wine cocktail? You might be saying, "Who am I reading here, Bartles or Jaymes?" But let me assure the skeptics-- slightly fizzy, fruity, off-dry-- there is one word for a good wine cocktail and that is refreshing. And in this latest concoction, you even get to do a bit of muddling.

With my relative novice stature as a booze hound, it took me awhile to discover Lillet. For those of you who are not familiar with this apertif, Lillet is a fortified wine. This means it is fermented with a small amount of distilled alcohol, so it never goes off, and has a slightly higher percentage of alcohol. The flavor is citrus, and floral, and altogether delicious. It comes in both white and red variety, but I've stuck with the white. Hey, if you find something you like, why mess with a good thing? Lillet is best served chilled, and can be drunk on its own, or with a splash of seltzer for that effervescence. Or you can muddle it.

Here's what I did: In a glass, take a handful of crushed ice, a few fresh, torn mint leaves, and some frozen berries (I used Trader Joe's black raspberries). Then go to town; muddle that mixture like you've never muddled before!* Spoon the ice mixture into cocktail glasses. Pour yourself a few inches of Lillet, and then top off with seltzer. I know this recipe is far from exact, but that's the beauty of the laissez-faire wine cocktail. Like it particularly minty? Add more fresh mint. More fruity? Add berries a plenty. Just be sure that when summer hits, you're ready with a wine cocktail.

*I don't actually have a proper muddler. I used the end of a clean wooden spoon and a sturdy drinking glass, and it worked like a charm.

Popovers!

noreply@blogger.com (nosheteria) — Thu, 14 May 2009 14:05:00 +0000

All popovers are not created equal. Awhile back I made a recipe for oatmeal popovers by Marion Cunningham, whom I normally adore. With finely ground oatmeal, and a dollop of orange marmalade baked in the bottom, they sounded superb. Well, turns out they weren't. They never really puffed (or popped as it may be), and I had a muffin pan of full of deflated batter with marmalade that was too bitter for my taste. Oh well, every cookbook writer is allowed a dud every now and again.

When I was at the market last week, the strawberries finally looked good-- rosy, with a sprightly green stem-- not a crinkly brown one. I bought a basket, and ate almost all of them plain. But with the final few, I decided to make a more classic popover to redeem the oatmeal debacle of late. And these strawberry popovers definitely did the trick. To say that these popovers were redemptive is putting it mildly.

There is something just so exciting about taking popovers out of the oven. In goes an ordinary milky batter, and a half hour later, out comes glory. These popovers had everything I love about the classic-- a subtle eggy-ness, a beautiful brown crust, and an almost custard-like texture. The only twist to this morning treat were the chopped, fresh strawberries contained within. The berries got even sweeter upon baking; they juiced, tinging the popover with a berry-scented goodness. With the strawberries baked right in, these lovelies didn't even need butter to spread, or honey to drizzle, just a hot cup of coffee, and a bright morning.

Strawberry Popovers
adapted from Mark Bittman and Michael Ruhlman

makes 9-12 popovers depending on muffin pan

2 eggs
1 cup milk
1 teaspoon sugar
pinch of salt
1 cup flour
3 tablespoons butter, melted
1/2 cup chopped strawberries

Place a muffin pan in the oven, and preheat to 450 degrees.

Beat together flour, eggs, milk, sugar and salt. Let the mixture rest while oven comes up to temperature. When oven reaches heat, remove pan and working quickly, drop some strawberries and a few teaspoons of butter into each cup. You want enough butter to cover the bottom of each cup. Fill the muffin tins, at least halfway, with batter.

Drop the heat to 375 degrees, and bake for 20-30 minutes. Remove from pan with an off-set spatula.

Something Out of Nothing

noreply@blogger.com (nosheteria) — Wed, 06 May 2009 14:59:00 +0000

Sometimes, at the close of a weekend full of errands, dinner with friends, and general busy-ness, the most you can do is tumble onto the couch with the book review section of the New York Times. And then you remember that, oh yes, you have to feed yourself. What to do, what to do?

Growing up, my mother called Sunday suppers, "Fend for Yourself Night." I must have gotten this propensity for laziness from someone. Usually my mom would do some cobbling together: there would be leftovers, or a can of tomato soup with some elbow macaroni bobbing about in the broth, there were eggs to cook, and if things really got slim, a bowl of cereal usually did the trick. But the one thing that these dishes had in common-- mom didn't have to spend much time in the kitchen.

Last Sunday I found myself throwing together a bit of this, and little of that, making my own, "Fend for Yourself Night." It was already dinner time when I found myself standing in front of the pantry deciding what to make. Hunger is always a good impetus for making a meal. There wasn't much, some pasta (always a standby), a few cloves of garlic, and from the refrigerator, some springy leeks. So I set to work, chopping and slicing, while the water percolated on the stove for the pasta.

I have made Farfalle with Scrambled Eggs for myself many times before, so I thought I would share it with you for those evenings when you are at a loss as to what to prepare. This dish is so simple, so delicious, I hope that it becomes one of your standards as well. Made in the time it takes to boil your pasta, you simply sauté your leeks and garlic, then gently scramble some eggs until they are hardly cooked with tiny curds looking like bumps in a gravel road. In goes the farfalle, a little cheese, maybe a bit of cooking water to make the dish more fluid, and dinner is served. It's not much in terms of ingredients, but the flavor is rich and creamy (although no cream is used) and the leeks simply melt away leaving behind the suggestion of onions.

The next Sunday night that you find yourself standing in front of an opened refrigerator trying to decide what to make, give this dish a try. Sometimes the best meals are made with next to nothing.

Farfalle with Scrambled Eggs
serves 2, with leftovers

2 leeks, white and light green parts only, sliced thin
3 cloves of garlic, sliced thin
2 tablespoons butter
1 tablespoon olive oil
4 eggs
1/2 pound farfalle pasta
1/3 cup grated Parmesan cheese, plus more for garnish
a bit of reserved pasta cooking water if necessary
salt and plenty of pepper

Begin to boil pasta in a large, salted pot of water.

In a large skillet, over medium heat, melt butter and olive oil. Add the leeks and garlic, seasoning with salt and pepper, and sauté until softened and falling apart. About 5 minutes. In a bowl, whisk the eggs until blended. Bring the heat down to low, and pour in the eggs. Keeping the eggs constantly moving, slowly scramble until partially cooked. The eggs should be set, in very small curds. Season again with salt, and lots of pepper. Remove the skillet from the heat.

Add in the cooked pasta, and the Parmesan cheese. Toss well, add in additional pasta cooking water, if pan seems dry. Taste, adjust seasoning, and serve with more Parmesan cheese, if desired.

A Vegetable Cobbler-- Sort of

noreply@blogger.com (nosheteria) — Thu, 30 Apr 2009 15:20:00 +0000

I think that rhubarb is really one of those vegetables that is best served as a fruit-- like a tomato in reverse. That is not to say that I have never been swayed to try out rhubarb as a savory component to my meals. If I remember correctly, several years ago, I tried out a pork tenderloin dish with roasted rhubarb and sage. It was bad. Needless to say, as I was ingesting the relaxed, roasted rhubarb, all I was thinking was that I wished I had stewed the rhubarb in sugar, and forgotten about the pork entirely. But you have to give things a shot to determine their worth.

Rhubarb is an odd vegetable/fruit. It can range in color from a gentle celadon to a shocking pink, all in the same stalk, making it look like celery's racier cousin. I am always tempted to eat it raw, it looks so springy and sweet. But looks can be deceiving. When raw, the taste is puckery, and tart to the extreme, but when stewed or baked with sugar this vegetable finds its natural affinity, like a babe to milk.

But what is most exciting to me, is that rhubarb signals the on-coming spring. It really is the first bit of produce that says, "Just you wait, there is more to come!" So when I saw these gorgeous stalks at the market, seemingly tossed like an afterthought in a pile next to the strawberries (the most common of pairings), I scooped up a pound or so. The rhubarb was beautiful, but the strawberries-- not so much. I thought, with only the smallest hint of sorrow, a solitary rhubarb dessert would have to be on the menu that night.

I should not have been so hasty in my disappointment, a rhubarb cobbler is wonderful! I kept it simple, slicing the stalks, into 1/4-1/2 inch pieces, and tossed them in sugar. A squeeze of lemon juice, a modicum of vanilla, some cornstarch for thickening, and then I got to work on the topping. This recipe is for a cobbler, not a crumble, so I made a biscuit-like dough, with a bit of cornmeal for added texture and chew. This is my go-to cobbler recipe, and so I was pleased to find it work out so well with rhubarb too. Because of the tannic aspect of raw rhubarb, the cobbler was just sweet enough, and with a drizzle of vanilla yogurt, this makes the perfect close to a springtime meal.

Rhubarb Cobbler
made in 9-inch pie plate

For the filling:

4 cups slice rhubarb (1/4-1/2 inch thick)
squeeze of half a lemon
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
1 tablespoon cornstarch
1/2 cup sugar

For the topping:

3/4 cup all-purpose flour
1/4 cup medium to fine ground corn meal
4 tablespoons sugar
1 teaspoon baking powder
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
1/4 teaspoon salt
3 tablespoons unsalted butter, cold and cut in 1/2 inch cubes
2/3 cup buttermilk

For the filling: slice the fruit, and put into a medium-size bowl. Add the lemon juice and the vanilla, and toss. Add the sugar and the cornstarch, and toss well to evenly coat. Set mixture aside while preparing topping.

For the topping: Preheat oven to 350 degrees. In a large bowl, whisk together all of the dry ingredients. With your hands, mix in the butter. Rub between your fingers until mixture resembles a coarse meal. Add buttermilk all at once, stirring together until dough is just formed.

Put filling into a pie plate. Spoon topping evenly over surface. It is fine if the topping does not cover entirely, it will spread during baking. Bake until fruit is bubbling, and topping is golden brown, approximately 40-45 minutes. Let cool slightly before serving. This cobbler recipe is great with other summer fruit as well. It requires little substitution, except for the amount of sugar in the filling can be decreased when using sweeter fruits like peaches or nectarines.

Dessert for Many

noreply@blogger.com (nosheteria) — Thu, 23 Apr 2009 12:59:00 +0000

When it comes to meals with my husband, most of the time I am quite alright with a table for two. When we go out, it usually means that there is sure to be leftovers brought home and enjoyed at lunchtime the following day. Or when I cook at home, it means that Brian and I can share a large strip steak for dinner, seared in my cast-iron skillet, and cut on the bias. Yes, most of the time, I am able to be convinced of delicious intimacy in dining for two. But then I think of dessert, and the joyful clatter of dishes turns to angry silence.

For those of you that have been Nosheteria readers for some time, you are very familiar with my love of the final course. I have a very mean sweet tooth; it bites when not fed regularly. The problem lies in the fact that so many desserts are truly meant to be enjoyed in groups. Don't get me wrong, I was raised well by my parents, who taught me the age old rule of share and share alike. When I make a pie, you can bet that I also have friends over to share the wealth. And countless times I have sent Brian off to work with foil-wrapped leftovers of unfrosted cakes or piles of cookies. This usually makes him quite popular.

But there are the times when I have a hankering to do a bit of baking, and I know that I will be a lone eater of the final product. Case in point: carrot cake. I love the stuff-- the moist crumb, the subtle crunch of a walnut here and there, and that whipped goodness of cream cheese icing. I am a goner. Brian, however, could take it or leave it. Can I really justify making the dessert if I will not have even one cohort in eating it. What to do, what to do? Well, I will tell you what I did-- I got an invitation to a cook-out.

Last weekend was glorious. I know that I have been doing a bit of complaining about the weather not being up to its sunny par, but last weekend it was stupendous. It seemed that overnight the cherry blossoms had riotously bloomed, and the lawns were a verdant green. I caught the first glimpses of spring. So when an email was sent out inviting Brian and I to bring meat and gather round the BBQ to enjoy the highly lauded springtime weather, I quickly went to the store, bought a passel of sausages, and a few carrots, and got to work.

I decided on making carrot bread, rather than an all-out, layer cake. And found this recipe, claiming to be a lighter alternative to the standard carrot cake. I don't know that it was lighter, but it was sturdier, and just as delicious. With a crisp crust, yet tender body, making the carrots literally melt away, this bread was a hit. I added a bit of homemade cream cheese icing, because what is a carrot dessert without its counterpart? Full of sausage, hamburgers, grilled veggies, and salads of all sorts, my friends managed to save room for dessert. I even got a piece, yet managed to take home an empty container at the end of the evening. I would say that's a successful dessert.

Cream Cheese Frosting

enough for one loaf of carrot bread

4 ounces cream cheese, softened to room temperature
2 ounces unsalted butter, softened to room temperature
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
1 cup powdered sugar, sifted (more to taste, if you like it sweeter)
pinch of salt

In a medium-size bowl, cream butter and cream cheese until well incorporated, and whipped smooth. Add vanilla. Sift in the powder sugar, and the pinch of salt, and continue to beat until smooth. Frost the top of the loaf. Carrot loaf should be completely cool before icing.

Kale in April

noreply@blogger.com (nosheteria) — Wed, 15 Apr 2009 12:55:00 +0000

I try to eat seasonally, and locally is even better. But I must admit, it is about this time each year, as I plunge my hand into the produce bin at the market, only to retrieve yet another clump of chard, or spinach, or dandelion greens-- I curse my fate. I try to keep my cooking somewhat innovative, so I thought I had tried eating my greens most every way I could. There was steaming, braising, simmering in soup, or sauteing with a splash of vinegar. Each method was like watching a favorite movie on cable-- aggravating with all of the commercials. I needed something more.

We may be more than two weeks into spring, but here in Connecticut, it is still staunchly winter. I wore a wool scarf on Easter Sunday. It was darling, teal green, and knitted by my mother, but nonetheless, it was wool. The ground however is thawing; crocuses are pushing their way through the hardened soil, and tiny buds are resting on tree branches. But as far as the produce goes, it is still January. That means yet another day of tangy oranges rather than fuzzy apricots, and a few more weeks of dark, leafy greens.

Well, I discovered a new method of getting my quotient of leafy greens. You know kale-- that curly stuff more often used as a garnish at Denny's than actually eaten as a side dish. I actually feel sorry for it. A little while ago I flipped on the television and found Jacques Pepin making baked kale and serving it much like you would potato chips. It was so simple-- here's what he did. Clean a bunch of kale, then pluck the leaves from the stem, tearing into bite-size pieces. Then toss the kale in olive oil to coat, salt, and pepper, and I added a clove or two of minced garlic. Spread the kale out in a single layer on a cooling rack-lined baking sheet. The reason for the rack, is that you want the kale to bake evenly on all sides. Place in a low, 275 degree oven, for 25-30 minutes, tossing once during the baking process-- and there you have your vegetable side dish.

It may not look like much, just a pile of withered leaves, but it tastes wonderful. Different from sauteing or braising, where the kale practically cooks down to nothing, baking at this temperature is like dehydrating. The vegetable becomes chewy yet slightly crisp around the edges, and more concentrated in flavor. I, unlike Jacques, didn't serve these as a vegetable chip, but rather I ate my kale with a piece of fish, and some roasted new potatoes. And I must say, I was quite pleased with my same, old kale.

Pink Stuff

noreply@blogger.com (nosheteria) — Mon, 06 Apr 2009 13:21:00 +0000

Do you know Sarah McColl? She is the author of the exquisite blog Pink of Perfection. Her blog has a little bit of everything: food, crafting, shopping, and living, all written in Sarah's breezy style. Well, she was nice and enough to do a profile about me. I answered a few of her thought-provoking questions, about the book, writing, and cooking. Click on over, to read a little more. Thanks Sarah!

In other news, a few weeks back I did an interview (also book-related), with Evan Kleinman, the host of LA's Good Food, on KCRW, their NPR affiliate. The segment aired over the weekend. Give a listen, to hear a bit more!

Comfort Me With Soup

noreply@blogger.com (nosheteria) — Thu, 02 Apr 2009 15:52:00 +0000

Let's pretend it's still March shall we, because that is when I prepared this comforting bit of soup. March can be a month of maybes, a time of indecision. Is it spring or is it still winter? The thermometer may reach into the 50's during the days, beckoning you outdoors, only to fall once again below freezing at night, forcing you to pull on you woolen socks to complete your wintertime, pajama ensemble. It all can be a too much to confront.

When I am tired, maybe a tad lazy, and find myself in the kitchen with nary an idea of what to prepare, this soup is ideal. Cream of Tomato Soup is rich, calming, and satisfying, and can be made with what most of us have in the larder on a good day. It is the apotheosis of comfort food. Macaroni and cheese, scrambled eggs, butterscotch pudding-- come to think of it, most any dairy-laden foods mark the cornerstones of many American comforts. And not far down the list for most people is a gooey grilled cheese sandwich dunked in a bowl of tomato soup.

This combination was surely a popular lunch choice from my past. The soup may not have been homemade at the time, but it was still as comforting as a warm embrace. When I was young, and spending the day at my grandma's house, she often would make this meal for me. Grandma often loosened the concentrated soup with a cup of milk, not the suggested cup of water. Even coming out of a can, yet thickened with milk, the soup seemed somehow decadent. And the deep pink hue was a delight for the girl who, like so many of peers, loved that Peptobismal shade.

This recipe maintains that hue, though now it is more adult, and slightly salmon-colored in nature. It is important to add the 1/2 teaspoon of baking soda, to ensure a sturdier base of milk when the tomatoes are added, or else the result will be a curdled mess. Creamy, yet light, and mild in flavor, this soup makes a perfect compliment to, you guessed it-- a grilled cheese sandwich.

Cream of Tomato Soup

3 tablespoons butter
1 small onion, chopped
3 tablespoons flour
3 cups milk
1/2 bay leaf
1 1/2 teaspoons sugar
1 1/2 teaspoons salt
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
1 large (28 oz.) can tomatoes, with juice

In a dutch oven, melt butter. Add the onion and cook over medium heat until softened. Sprinkle flour over butter and onion, continue to stir, cooking for 1 to 2 minutes. Slowly add the milk, bay leaf, sugar, and salt. Continue to cook until mixture thicken slightly. Stir in the baking soda.

Crush the tomatoes with your hands, and add them to the soup along with the juice. Bring soup just to a simmer, careful to not scorch the milk-based soup. Remove from heat, and process until smooth, with a hand blender, or regular blender. Andy froth that is created will subside. Reheat soup to simmer, and serve.

Polly Wants These Crackers

noreply@blogger.com (nosheteria) — Mon, 16 Mar 2009 22:00:00 +0000

I was a latch-key kid. But please, don't feel sorry for me-- I loved the time alone. There was something so settling about a quiet house to come to, with no one pestering me about schoolwork that had yet to be completed. The school bus would drop me off just houses away from where I lived, and I would trudge home, appropriately exhausted. After dumping all of my books, and stacks of handouts, in a basket near the front door, I would make a bee-line for the pantry.

If the pantry were the refrigerator, surely my mother would have reprimanded me for standing in front, letting all of the cold air out. I gazed at the various packages of food for what seemed like hours. Sometimes I would have some cereal, a replay of my morning meal. At times a can of soup would tempt me. But if I spied a red box, emblazoned with the kind of mispellings that only snack foods, motels and diners can get away with, you could almost bet that a handful of Cheez-Its would become my treat du jour.

Who doesn't love a Cheez-It? They're salty, crispy, and well, cheese-y, and they were the snack cracker of my youth. I would plunge my little hand into that box, retrieving a handful of unnaturally orange squares just calling out to be eaten. The technicolor crumbs would settle on my fingers as I repeated this action until I had consumed enough to satiate my hunger, yet not enough to spoil my appetite for dinner.

When I saw this recipe for Parmesan Cream Crackers a few weeks back in the New York Times, and read of Mark Bittman's childhood affection for Cheez-Its, I knew that this would be just the perfect late afternoon snack. I followed the recipe closely, and while rolling out the dough, thought to myself, "Crackers seem like such a snap, why hadn't I made them before?" I baked them up, and Bittman's cheese crackers were simply-- meh. There was no crackle, no flakiness, no crisp texture, nothing of what I'm longing for in a snack. But they did taste cheesy, and salty-- two definite pluses. The recipe just needed to be toyed with. So back to the kitchen I went.

What I came up with is in essence the same list of ingredients, just a different handling of the dough. The original recipe was similar to your basic pie crust, but in order to make a crisp, flat, cracker-like texture, the dough needed to be docked several times before baking. I rolled out the dough quite thin (1/8 inch thickness), and before scoring to make square cracker shapes, I took a fork, and poked the surface of the dough several (40-50) times. By docking, air is released from the dough in the baking process, making a thinner, flatter cracker.

The finished product was divine-- crispy yet chewy, with just the right amount of salt, and a distinctly homemade character. I almost didn't miss my Cheez-Its at all.

Homemade Cheese Crackers
loosely adapted from Mark Bittman

1 cup all purpose flour
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/2 cup grated cheese (I used sharp cheddar, but I imagine any strong flavored, hard cheese such as, gruyere would be excellent)
4 tablespoons unsalted butter
1/4 cup half-and-half, or light cream, more if needed
Coarsely ground black pepper

Put flour, salt, cheese, and butter into the bowl of a food processor, and pulse to combine. Add the cream, and let machine run until the mixture comes together yet is not sticky.

Roll out the dough on a lightly floured surface until 1/8 inch thick, using additional flour if necessary. Transfer dough to a parchment or Silpat lined baking sheet. With a fork, poke dough randomly, several (40-50) times. Score the dough to obtain 1-inch square cracker shapes. Sprinkle with pepper.

Bake at 400 degrees, for 17-20 minutes, or until lightly browned. Remove from oven, cool, and break into cracker shapes.

Marshmallow and Me

noreply@blogger.com (nosheteria) — Thu, 05 Mar 2009 13:22:00 +0000

I realize that I remain rather anonymous to all of my blog readers-- well, no more! Yesterday I did a segment on Connecticut Style, a local show that airs from WTNH, the local ABC affiliate, right here in New Haven. Now you all know that Connecticut is highly regarded for its style...Christmas sweater anyone? I'm kidding!

Connecticut Style is a nice, weekday program, hosted by Sonia Baghdady and Desiree Fontaine, featuring local guests from all walks of life, with a cooking segment virtually every day. They were nice enough to let me come on the program, talk about my book, and cook a piece of fish. But I wasn't the only guest...my segment followed an interview with Marshmallow the therapy dog, a fluffy Bichon Frisé (with a headshot, to boot) and his owner, Paul Rothberg.

Here's my clip:

If you want to see Marshmallow, you have to visit Connecticut Style!

Winter Brings a Summer Salad

noreply@blogger.com (nosheteria) — Mon, 02 Mar 2009 13:46:00 +0000

As you probably can guess, from being a food blog writer, I also read a lot of food blogs. And if there is one common thread that is sewn amongst my fellow bloggers each February and early March it is that spring cannot come soon enough. So I feel that it is safe to speak for a few and say: we are tired of soup, and braised dishes are lovely and rib-sticking, but---bring on the grill and we are all dying for a peach!

But speaking from 30 years of experience, let me say, as the wind whistles round us, we have some time to wait before Spring's arrival. So why not enjoy it? Dust off that soup pot for just a while longer, braise yet another interesting cut of meat, and discover the wonders of citrus fruit. To me, nothing invokes warm weather fare like a salad. (I know, I know, it must be the Californian in me.) But it can be hard to keep a salad interesting in the middle of the coldest, most blah time of the year. How interesting is a head of green leaf lettuce anyway? Then I saw a recipe from the Minimalist, Mark Bittman, for an orange and olive salad in last week's New York Times, and it looked divine.

First, you make a coarse paste from pitted, oil-cured olives, and olive oil, pulsing moderately in a food processor. The paste comes together with ease, and if you squint your eyes just so, it even looks like Beluga caviar. Fancy! Peel the oranges with a sharp knife, then slice them cross-wise into geometric disks. Spoon the paste onto the orange slices, and sprinkle some herbaceous fresh thyme. A drizzle of a good, green olive oil, and lunch is served.

There were three types of oranges that I used: traditional Navel, mild Cara Cara, and vibrant Moro Blood oranges. Although having the variation in color was a treat for the eyes, I felt that Cara Cara orange, known for its mild flavor and low acidity level, got lost when combined with the potency of the olive paste. But other than this minor change for next time--and there will be a next time--this salad was utterly delicious. The pungency of the olives toyed with the gentle acidity of the orange, bringing a pleasant melange to the tongue. Having a lunch that is assembled rather than cooked, and wonderfully simple in its construction made me feel like I was having a little bit of summer, right here, in the dead of winter.

Bloated to Perfection

noreply@blogger.com (nosheteria) — Thu, 19 Feb 2009 00:12:00 +0000

When I started this blog way back in January of 2005, I wasn’t much of a baker, so this wasn’t much of a baking blog. I wrote about chickpeas, zucchini, quickly frying fish, or sautéing vegetables. Standing, perched over my cast-iron skillet, or waiting impatiently while a roast chicken fragranced the entire house with its subtle aromas of lemon and thyme was all par for the course.

But as time went on, for the sake of everyone’s interest, both the diligent reader and the refreshed writer, I expanded my horizon. Occasionally a cookie, a cupcake, or even a pie or two crept its sugary way onto the Internet in the form of a Nosheteria post. I found that baked goods were nothing to be feared, but rather, they were to be relished. Yes, the long-time dessert lover, was becoming a baker as well.

This summer, when Brian and I moved to New Haven, my baking curiosities were solidified when I approached the final frontier—bread. And let me tell you, once you’ve tasted scratch, you never go back. Or at least I couldn’t. I, by no means, am a professional baker, but to say that I have an affinity for home-baked bread is to put it mildly. My freezer is now full of an assortment of loaves and nubby rolls. I have a two pound container of active dry yeast chilling and waiting to be used in the refrigerator. Flours are my friends. And, of course, there is now the constant pursuit of the ideal bread baking book. I have found more than a few which I love, among those, Beard on Bread, which I have written about before. But this recipe deserved a revisiting of that book.

Water-Proofed Bread, is exactly what it sounds like—a satiny smooth dough, laden with butter and eggs, which has its first rise while nestled in a tea towel, submerged in water. Bizarre, right? After I read the account by Beard, I ran to my cookbook shelf, and scanned each of my bread baking books for a similar recipe. Nothing. Several Google searches and I came up with a big fat zero. I have discussed this bread recipe with other home-bakers, and they have never even heard of such a thing.

Well, all I can say is, the silence is doing a big disservice to bread lovers everywhere. I will shout it (or write it, as it may be) from behind my computer screen, this bread is stupendous! The dough is soft, almost shaggy, and when mixing it up, you may even say—this doesn’t look like much. But upon kneading, it comes together like a pillowy dream. During the proofing process, the dough bloats, and eventually rises to the top of a water-filled bowl, becoming silky and light as a feather. I have made this bread several times, this last time forming individual rolls out of the dough and adorning them with crunchy poppy seeds.

The bread itself is similar in nature to a brioche or a challah, eggy and rich, with just the right amount of sugar to lend a beautiful caramel color to the crust. Perhaps this method is some forgotten relic of the past, but I say it’s time to revive it. If anyone has been baking water-proofed bread for years, please drop me a line. I would love to know where you got the recipe.

Water-Proofed Bread
from Beard on Bread

2 packages (approximately 4 1/2 teaspoons) active dry yeast
1/2 cup warm water (100-115 degrees)
1/4 cup plus 1 teaspoon granulated sugar
1/2 cup warm milk
1 stick (1/2 cup) butter
2 teaspoons salt
3 eggs
3 1/2 cups flour

makes 2 loaves, or about 18 rolls

Rinse a large mixing bowl, or the bowl to an electric mixer with warm water, and dry thoroughly. Put yeast, warm water, and the teaspoon of sugar in the bowl. Stir to dissolve the yeast, and allow to proof for 5 minutes.

Heat the milk with the butter and 1/4 cup sugar, just until the butter is melted. Add this mixture to the yeast mixture, stir in the salt. Add the eggs, one at a time, blending thoroughly after each addition. Stir in the flour, one cup at a time to make what will probably a very wet and sticky dough. Blend quite vigorously. Switch to a dough hook if using, or dump dough out onto a kneading surface. Sprinkle with additional half cup of flour. Continue kneading to make the dough firmer until all of the flour is mixed in to the dough.

When dough becomes more easy to handle (about 3-5 minutes), form it into a loose ball. Place the dough onto a clean tea, or kitchen towel that has been sprinkled with flour. Wrap and tie the towel loosely, just as you would a package. Submerge the package in a large bowl of warm water (about 100-115 degrees). The dough will sink. Let it sit for 35-40 minutes, or until the dough inflates and begins to float.

Lift the dough from the water, letting excess water drip off. Unwrap, and turn out onto a lightly floured surface. The dough will be quite sticky, knead. If making loaves, divide, and place in two well buttered 9-inch bread pans. Cover, and let dough rise in a warm, draft free environment until almost doubled in bulk. If making rolls, cut off, and shape into balls, placing on Silpat, or parchment lined baking sheets. Brush with an egg wash, sprinkling with poppy seeds if using.

Preheat oven to 375 degrees and bake on the middle rack of the oven for 30-35 minutes. Loaves are done when a hollow sound is achieved when rapping with your knuckles. Cool on racks.

It's Here!

noreply@blogger.com (nosheteria) — Tue, 10 Feb 2009 13:32:00 +0000

February 10th will forever be a birthday of sorts. The birthday of my book. What does one do in celebration? Surely it will be different than birthday parties of yore, with the meal of my choosing, a round of duck-duck-goose, and an angel food birthday cake heaped with clouds of loosely whipped cream. A birthday party seems a bit premature. But a little birthday cake—a cupcake—was just the right thing with which say, I’m thrilled.

There is a settling immediacy to blogging. One writes, posts, and puts it out there, for all of the world to see. But it is different with a book. With a book you write, send it in, and then you wait. Wait for comments from your editor, who shows it to her team of people. You edit, she edits, you read, and reread, write some more, then send it back in. Write, read, repeat. There is a gentle to and fro, a collaborative working that occurs, and then—a book.

Now, I look at my book and when I thumb through the pages, a mess of feelings erupt inside of me. Of course there is pride. Being a reader for over 25 years, I am now so proud to consider my work sitting on someone’s bookshelf. Cooking and Screaming was a long time coming, with so many loved ones playing integral parts in my life—thus my story. But there is also a lot of trepidation, and a lot of anxiety. I have put my story out there for the world to read, and to judge, and I only hope that they enjoy what they find within the pages.

Woo! That was a bit serious! So, now what?

Oh yes, cupcakes! They’re good! And these little cakes were very good. The recipe comes from The Wooden Spoon Dessert Book, a compendium of old-timey recipes, the type that have been passed down through the generations, donated as part of a community cookbook, or won a state fair. I bought a copy at a used book store recently, and while going through it and dog-earing recipes, this one, for Burnt Sugar Cake with Burnt Sugar Buttercream Icing, was a stand-out.

A three-parter, with the recipe for burnt sugar syrup starting the whole thing off, this recipe is originally for a standard layer cake. Easily made into cupcakes (about 14), the cake was not too sweet, the perfect foil for the rich and sweet buttercream. I modernized the recipe a touch by adding fleur de sel crystals as a garnish, creating that salty-sweet combination that I love. And the crunch can’t be beat.

So make the cupcakes, and read the book, preferably together. I think that they made a pretty good combination.

Burnt Sugar Cake
from The Wooden Spoon Dessert Book

Burnt Sugar Syrup

1 cup sugar
1 cup water

Spread the sugar in an 8- or 10- inch skillet. Cook undisturbed, over medium heat until the sugar begins to liquefy and color. Then begin stirring until desired color is reached, a deep caramel hue. Remove from heat, then carefully stir in the water, watching as sugar may splatter. Return to heat, and continue stirring until any remaining lumps have dissolved and mixture thickens slightly.

Burnt Sugar Cake

2 cups unbleached flour
½ teaspoon salt
2 ½ teaspoons baking powder
8 tablespoons butter, softened
1 cup sugar
2 eggs
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
4 tablespoons burnt sugar syrup
¾ cup milk

Preheat oven to 350°. If making a cake, grease and flour two 9-inch pans, lining the bottom with parchment paper. If making cupcake grease and flour cups or line with paper cups.

In a medium sized bowl, whisk together flour, salt, and baking powder. In a large bowl beat the butter until light and fluffy. Gradually add the sugar, creaming well. Add the eggs, one at a time, beating well after each addition.

Add alternately (three parts dry, two parts milk), the remaining ingredients. Spoon batter into prepared pans and bake for 25-30 minutes, or until cake springs back when lightly touched in the center.

Cool in pans for 10 minutes, then turn out on wire racks. Remove parchment from cake bottoms and cool completely. Frost when cakes are cooled completely.

Burnt Sugar Buttercream Icing

8 tablespoons butter
4 tablespoons burnt sugar syrup
3 ¾ cups powdered sugar
4-6 tablespoons heavy cream
fleur de sel (optional)

In a large bowl, beat the butter and the burnt sugar syrup until smooth. Add alternately blending after each addition (four parts sugar, three parts cream) the remaining ingredients. If necessary, add additional cream to make frosting spreadable.

Sprinkle with fleur de sel, if using.

A Classic

noreply@blogger.com (nosheteria) — Mon, 02 Feb 2009 15:27:00 +0000

Potatoes. Boiled, baked, sautéed, and fried-- it seems that this season I cannot get enough of them. Maybe it's the cold weather. The crunchy ice paving the sidewalk outside my apartment makes me want to stay in near the fire, a stack of books to my left, and a piping hot tuber to my right. Carbohydrates, how I love ya! The potato may be perfect in all of its grubby glory, but when you are eating them for days on end (as I have been), they may require a bit of gussying up to make them special once again. Enter the twice-baked potato:

My mother comes from a fairly large family that, for years, gathered together at my grandma's house for every holiday imaginable. There would be piles of food, far too much for even this family with so many hungry mouths to feed. But a starch that always had a place at the ever-growing buffet table was the twice-baked potato. To the young me, this was the ideal carbohydrate. Self-contained, with whipped potatoes within (who didn't love mashed potatoes?), a crunchy, almost dry exterior, and the burnished skins-- it was every marvelous aspect of the potato, all rolled into one.

I stole the recipe with my eyes. Recalling my grandma baking pounds of potatoes, she scooped out the centers, the potato steaming and almost crumbling into a mixing bowl. Then mashed potatoes were made from this interior, and messily stuffed back into the skins. My grandma always put a sprinkling of paprika on top. "For color more than anything," she would tell me. Then the potatoes would go back into the oven, to earn their name, at 400 degrees for at least 30 minutes. A pat of butter melting over the top, and I was in potato heaven.

When I was first earning my cooking chops, and having dinner parties from time to time, twice-baked potatoes were a stand-by for me as well. They were so simple to make, and everyone seemed to have some memory of consuming them as a child. But above all, they became a frequent visitor at my dinner parties, because they were the type of food you could make, and then forget about while sautéing a vegetable or keeping your eye on the roasting meat.

Now, my cooking seems to run in cycles. It had been years since I had made what once had been a standard. While scrubbing my potatoes one night for dinner, twice-baked potatoes popped into my head like a greatest hit that keeps playing in redundancy. That night Brian and I had those potatoes again, and I loved them as much as I did as a child. Sometimes, classics will just do that to you.

What's New

noreply@blogger.com (nosheteria) — Mon, 26 Jan 2009 02:11:00 +0000

The drop date for the book is quickly approaching. I can hardly believe it is almost here! I have started a Cooking and Screaming web page to let all of you know what's new with the book. (As it turns out, that page is pretty barren now, but more is surely to come.)

In the meantime, you will find an excerpt from Chapter 1, with a recipe included. Every chapter begins with a recipe as a way of getting to the meat (pun intended) of the story. I will be updating this page as I have more information to share about the book.

There is also a link to the new Simon and Schuster web page, complete with me (nervously) answering a few match.com-like questions. Don't you just love the internet? Check it out!

Phat Fat?

noreply@blogger.com (nosheteria) — Tue, 20 Jan 2009 13:50:00 +0000

There are times when you make something so odd you simply have to share. This weekend I had one of those moments. Recently I have become a bit obsessed—with fat. Butter, schmaltz, duck fat, and who can forget the king of all fats—lard. I have become fascinated with the nuances of fat and this book has only encouraged my curiosities.

For years I had heard that there is no better medium for making pie crust than lard. Supposedly, it would make the dough roll out like a smooth, elastic dream, and the crust would be flaky and crumbly. And then cookbook author Jennifer McLagan confirmed the talk in her book, with a recipe for leaf lard pie dough. Fast forward to last weekend, a blustery Saturday morning, when I walked down to the bi-monthly, winter farmer’s market, and stumbled (well, trudged through the snow) upon a pork purveyor. He was having a two-for-one sale on precisely the type of lard needed for pie dough. I bought a pound of the stuff and made my way home.

(I tried to make my lard look attractive!)

This weekend I had guests for dinner, so I made decided to ease myself into the world of lard with some pie dough, made with a mixture of butter and lard. My lard was whole, needing to be diced into manageable-sized pieces before being combined with the other ingredients to make the dough. When I cut open the vacuum-sealed package a subtle grassy, barn-yardy fragrance permeated the kitchen. But I forged ahead—of course lard would smell barn-yardy, it comes from a barn yard inhabitant!

I made my dough, and it did come together like a dream. The dough was not sticky, it was silky even, and rolled out with ease. But the scent, that outdoorsy fragrance, never disippated. I was making a galette, and as I piled on the ingredients, a smear of almond paste, some sliced pears, and tiny dollops of cranberry compote, I did have a sinking suspicion that I would be making piggy pie. But I cast aside my fears and popped the galette in the oven.

When the galette was done baking, I pulled it from the oven, and it was beautiful—if a bit stinky. I had to try some crust, for no other reason than to protect my guests from having a surprising finish to the meal. I crumbled a small piece of the crust, and tasted. It was truly odd, tasting of peat and pig; the barn-yardy aroma was now a peculiar taste. I called my mother in California, for no other reason than to alert her of my bizarre cooking event. She admonished me (like any good mother would), saying I couldn't invite people over for dinner without serving a proper dessert. So I quickly ran around and mixed up a lemon pudding (thank you, Nigel Slater), that was light, creamy, and delicious.

When the dessert course rolled around, I served my guests both desserts, with the story of the day's activities. Surprisingly, they all ate both sweets, though most detected a swine-like flavor in the galette. Upon sampling, I remarked that the galette tasted like Scotch, not one of my favorite alcoholic beverages to begin with. I pushed the pie away, and opted for the delightful pudding instead. But one of the guests loved the meaty flavor of the dough, and while the other guests each politely choked down their one slice of pie drowning it in softly whipped cream, Bobby had three. Which was fine with me; somehow I couldn't imagine having that galette with a cup of coffee for next morning's breakfast.

I wonder however, has my modern palate grown too accustomed for lard-based pastry dough, or was I deceived by the pork purveyor, and sold swiney lard rather than leaf lard? I still have one-half portion of lard dough in the freezer, waiting to be used. Maybe I should make another sort of pie with it—a pork pot pie.

Leaf Lard Pastry
from Fat: An Appreciation of a Misunderstood Ingredient

makes enough for a double crust

2 cups flour
3/4 teaspoon baking powder
1/2 teaspoon salt
2 1/2 ounces chilled butter
1/3 cup chilled leaf lard, diced
1/3 cup ice water

Combine the flour, baking powder, and salt in a food processor, pulsing to mix. Add the butter, and pulse just to begin blending. Add the lard and and continue to pulse until mixture resembles small pea-sized pieces. About 15 seconds.

Turn the mixture into a large bowl. Pour water over mixture, and mix well with a fork. Squeeze a bit of the dough between your fingers. If it hold together, transfer to a lightly floured board. If not, add additional teaspoons of water, and test again. Gently knead the dough into a ball. Divide the pastry into two disks. Wrap each in plastic wrap, and refrigerate for at least 30 minutes before using. This pastry also freezes well.

Note to Self

noreply@blogger.com (nosheteria) — Fri, 09 Jan 2009 14:41:00 +0000

No, this is not simply a forgetful phrase uttered to myself one too many times. It is also a name of a new book, edited by Andrea Buchanan of which I was honored to be a part. Speaking with Andrea, she told me a little bit about her project. It was a collection of personal essays by women, for women, discussing a defining moment in their life, the moment that so many of us grapple with, fight against, that makes us stronger, more well-rounded, empathetic individuals. I, of course, was thrilled to even be asked, and got to work. And now, almost one year later, the book is here.

The one thing that I have learned from my experiences, no matter how minute, in the publishing industry, is there is a lot of hurrying-up-then-waiting. There are deadlines, emails passed back and forth, more deadlines, proofs, and proofs, and don't forget, more proofs. But when the book is in your hot little hands, it all seems somehow worth it. It is easy to forget about the toiling when you have a tangible final product. That is kind of how I feel about this book. Although my own book comes out in about one month's time, and has absolutely been a labor of love, this book is the very first in which my work has been featured. I couldn't be more pleased.

I share the bill with many well-known women such as, Sheryl Crow, Camryn Manheim, and Trudie Styler, but there are also unknown inspirational women, such as a seventy year old, HIV positive grandmother, or the thirteen year old girl struggling with, and overcoming her diagnosis of rheumatoid arthritis. And then there is my story, a paen to my life in the kitchen, and negotiating just how to do what I love in a newly transformed body. I am in good company, don't you think?

Check the book out if you get the chance, it is definitely a New Year's resolution-worthy read!

"A-Mmmazing"

noreply@blogger.com (nosheteria) — Mon, 05 Jan 2009 15:29:00 +0000

"Yum. These are amazing. Really good. Scrumptious even," Brian exclaimed over dessert last week. When we met (way too long ago), my husband didn't have much of a sweet tooth. In fact, I don't even remember there being a box of cookies, or the lone candy wrapper blowing around like a tumbleweed in his apartment the first time I visited his abode. This was not the case for me. I always had a little sweet treat squirreled away. Who knew when that bar of chocolate I was saving for a rainy day would have come in handy? And it always did whenever I would start jonesing too hard.

But as the years progressed, sugar, and I, with our very own close personal relationship, began to wear him down. Brian still does not lap up pools of chocolate sauce, or partake of enormous slices of cake, with the buttercream whipped into icy peaks, on a regular basis; but a biscuit or a cookie, an ascetic slice of apple galette, or a dish of coffee ice cream is now enjoyed at the end of dinner. (He has not caught up with my consumption of dessert after each meal, save breakfast, but I have a lifetime to work on him.)

With this little bit of background information, you can imagine my surprise about his proclamation in favor of these little desserts that I whipped up with ingredients that I had on hand. The yumming and mmming continued as Brian poured a bit of fresh cream on top of the pudding, letting it sink down into the chocolatey porridge. My husband is always one of my biggest fans in the kitchen, thanking me wholeheartedly for each meal, and doing up all of the dishes diligently-- but even I was aghast at his gusto. What had become of my dessert dilettante?

Then I remembered: Brian meet Nigel Slater; Nigel, Brian. It is no secret that I am a die-hard fan of Mr. Slater. His recipes are beautiful, unfussed-with charms, and his book, The Kitchen Diaries, demonstrates the philosophy that just about anything that is pleasing and delicious can make up a meal. Nigel ate these puddings on Valentine's Day, and although I had them about six weeks too early, I'm surely glad that I did.

With just a handful of ingredients, and only two mixing bowls, when throwing the ingredients together, I started to wonder how they would taste. But upon baking, the aromatic smell of chocolate melting in the oven told me that these little puddings, dark and brooding, would be divine. With a crisp shell, and the look of a fallen soufflé, the pudding was light-- almost airy in consistency. And the flavor was just right-- not too over-the-top, nor too rich. The puddings called out for a bit of unwhipped cream to make the whole mess even more of a treat.

Give these puddings a try. Even the non-dessert lovers or the Brians that you are cooking for will love them.

Hot Chocolate Puddings
from The Kitchen Diaries

serves 4-5

7 ounces dark fine-quality chocolate
1 cup sugar
3 eggs
2 ounces butter
2 heaping tablespoons chocolate-hazelnut spread

Preheat the oven to 400 degrees. Lightly butter four (or five) small, ovenproof ramekins.

Break chocolate into small pieces, then melt in a double boiler. Meanwhile, separate the eggs, putting the yolks in a medium-sized mixing bowl with the sugar. Beat until thick and creamy. Place the egg whites in a large bowl, whip until airy and almost stiff.

Stir the butter into the melted chocolate. When the butter has melted, add the chocolate-hazelnut spread stirring to combine. Fold the chocolate mixture into the egg and sugar, then carefully fold in the beaten egg whites. Be careful not to overmix, but make sure there are no streaks of egg white that are unincorporated.

Scoop the mixture into the buttered ramekins and place on a baking sheet. Bake for 15-20 minutes. Pudding should rise a bit, with the tops being cracked with the centers remaining molten. Should you open one too early, or would like it more baked, these puddings can simply be popped back into the oven.

Happy 2009!

noreply@blogger.com (nosheteria) — Thu, 01 Jan 2009 20:00:00 +0000

Well, it was time to do a little spring cleaning, or windy, snowy January cleaning as it may be. In its older iteration, this blog served me well, as a place to post what I have been cooking in the kitchen-- and it still is. But I thought that it could use a bit of face-lifting, donning a new outfit to get the year off to a good start. You know how it is, sometimes you need a brand new dress to wear in order to face all of the exciting tasks at hand.

So I hope that you enjoy the newer, slicker, more streamlined version of Nosheteria. Have a wonderful New Year, here is to a fabulous 2009!

One Last Thing

noreply@blogger.com (nosheteria) — Tue, 23 Dec 2008 15:56:00 +0000

Now I know that you all are getting ready for your festivities this Christmas, and I, as a lapsed Jew, am getting ready for my festivities-- gathering with my people at the movie theater (any suggestions?) followed by some Chinese food. But I have to leave you with just one more recipe before the year is through. It's a good one. And those of you who are feeling especially ambitious this holiday season, might even mix up a batch to eat Christmas Eve.

Popcorn-Peanut Brittle-- the name is a lesson in onomatopoeic alliteration. My mom was telling me about her newest travails in candy making with this recipe. Although she burned the sugar syrup the first time around, the second time worked like a crispy, sugary dream. I am always up for a project, so while heeding her warnings, I dove right in to the caramel making, hard-ball heating process with gusto. The combination of popcorn (light and airy) and peanuts (salty and substantial) was too much to resist.

There is something so exciting about cooking sugar. Something so sweet, and seemingly innocent, turns into a molten, singe-the-skin-right-off-your-hands, dangerously sticky concoction when boiled and cooked to the right temperature. It is in the danger that the interest dwells.

This recipe, though sticky, and potentially harmful, is relatively easy to make. Although, I must admit, I got my husband to help me out by pouring the syrup while I furiously tossed the popcorn and nuts. (My husband can be rented out for a nominal fee--very nominal!--if you choose to make this recipe for yourself at home.) And the taste... is super. Do you remember Fiddle Faddle? That crunchy, popcorn snack that you could just eat and eat, (that's what I did anyway)? This brittle is like that, only ten times better. Saltier, sweeter, buttery-er. And if this is your first venture into the world of candy making, like it was mine, it will only want to make you have more hot sugary experiences.

Have a wonderful holiday season, with or without a batch of Popcorn-Peanut Brittle!

Popcorn-Peanut Brittle
from The Good Housekeeping Cookbook

This is the recipe as stated, however, I didn't have salted peanuts so I added a bit more salt than listed, and gave an extra sprinkling of Kosher salt to the brittle when drying. This gave the candy more of the salty-sweet flavor that I love.

2 1/2 quarts popped corn (approximately 3/4 cup of kernels)
1 lbs. (2 1/4 cups) light brown sugar
1/2 cup light corn syrup
1/2 cup water
1/2 cup (1 stick) butter
2 teaspoons salt
1 tablespoon vanilla
1 cup salted peanuts

Preheat oven to 250 degrees. Pop the corn, place in a large roasting pan in the oven to remain crisp and warm. Make syrup.

In a dutch oven, over medium heat, place sugar, corn syrup, water, butter, and salt, and melt, stirring occasionally. Continue stirring, until a candy thermometer reaches 290 degrees, the hard-ball stage. This can take anywhere from 20 to 30 minutes. Remove from heat and stir in the vanilla. The syrup will bubble up on contact, keep stirring.

In a large buttered pot, place the popcorn and peanuts. Slowly pour the syrup on top, mixing with a wooden spoon until the popcorn and nuts are well-coated. Work quickly, as the syrup will harden, and mixing will become more difficult.

Spread the mixture onto two lightly buttered, jelly roll pans. Butter your hands as the syrup will still be hot, and could burn your hands, and separate popcorn clusters into bite-sized pieces. Brittle should continue to harden, and become more chewy as the mixture cools.