September has always seemed like a month filled with promise and new beginnings. I guess it goes back to my first days of elementary school and wondering who my teacher would be, if my best friend would be in my homeroom class, and deciding which new fall outfit I would wear on my very first day back at school. Back then summer seemed so endless, sleep-away camp a distant memory. Warm July days spent lounging near the swimming pool at my grandma’s condominium complex were a pleasant diversion from school, but I was ready for all that the school year had to hold. I was ready to read Where the Red Fern Grows, ready to learn long division.

So in honor of September, a New Year of sorts, I’ve decided this month will be all about breakfast, that first meal of the day, a meal that welcomes the prospect of new beginnings. I have always been a breakfast eater, although I must say that it is only in recent years that I have become a more adventurous morningtime diner. My early years were spent with bowl, a spoon, and a large box of breakfast cereal. I eventually branched out– the griddle became a friend as I consumed piles of pancakes, and tender-crisp, cinnamon-scented French toast. But never did I allow an egg to cross my lips. They were too rubbery, to sulfuric…but I have seen the error of my immature ways. Now I am an equal-opportunity breakfast eater and lover.

But in order to kick this month off right, I give you an old classic. What could be better than the waffle? Well, I’ll tell you– the raised waffle. Marion Cunningham’s recipe from Fannie Farmer, or The Breakfast Book, for crisp, ethereal, downright scrumptious waffles. Who knew that the addition of yeast would be so morning-changing?

They might look like the ordinary, but let me assure you, this is no “Leggo my Eggo.” One taste of these stellar waffles , and you will gladly leggo, you may even throw every other sort of waffle right out with them. I have tried many waffles, continually searching for just the right combination of lightness, crispness, and body. And these waffles stayed crisp as I ate them, allowing the sweet maple syrup to pool in the waffle squares, not to simply soak in, creating a floppy confection.

Here is the best waffle recipe I have come upon. Crisp, light, and endlessly edible, Marion Cunningham knows what she is talking about. Make sure to give yourself plenty of time to make these. Although the recipe is not a difficult or testy one, the batter needs to rise overnight. These waffles tasted like one giant cake (plain) ice cream cone, an attribute that couldn’t have made me any happier. September is off to a good start, make ‘em!.

Yeasted Waffles
from The Breakfast Book

I’m usually not the biggest pepper fan, roasted they can become too slick and flimsy, and raw sometimes they are simply too pungent. But when I spotted these little peppers, sold for $1 a bag on a street near work, I grew nostalgic. So humor me while I take you on a journey through Nosheteria nostalgia.

My longtime readers know that I am married. I’ve been married to Brian for only a hair longer than the time I’ve had this blog. But Brian has actually been in existence for much longer than Nosheteria; before he was my husband, he was my forever boyfriend. Not high school sweethearts (considering our age difference of six years, that would have been sick and wrong), but we did meet while I was still in college.

I graduated and stuck around while Brian went back to graduate school. Years passed, anniversaries came and went, and then– we got engaged. And this is where my little story begins. There was a popular tapas bar near our house that we would frequent for a delicious Pisco Canary (Brian), or an Andalusian Sidecar (me), and a little nibble. The nibbles were plentiful and always expertly prepared, from the crisp, herby fried potatoes, to the smooth salt cod cazuela, to the intermittently piquant pimientos de padron. The pimientos were always a favorite. At the table a plate would arrive, the little peppers glistening in an olive oil sheen, and the sea salt pebbling proudly on the surface. Each time you would take a pepper, it was like opening a neatly wrapped present on Christmas morning. You never quite knew what you would get. Some peppers were mellow and sweet, other would be fiery hot, but each was always delicious.

It was one evening, sharing a plate of these very peppers, that Brian and I decided that now was the time for us to get hitched. There was no bended knee, no teary nods (that’s not our style), but Brian asked: calmly, succinctly, and altogether unplanned. We talked about it, and then by the end of our plate of pimientos, only the stiff stems remaining on the platter, I had agreed. And then Brian did the most romantic and quirky motion yet, he offered his hand for me to shake. Of course, I thought, people shake as they enter into a business transaction with one another, they shake when they buy a house, or even a car, why not when they enter a lifelong commitment with each other?

Six weeks later, Brian and I were married in the living room of our house in Berkeley. Our families were present, dear friends married us, and a select few attended. I wore grey. It was perfect. The way that Brian and I were married matches the way that Brian and I are to each other — low-key, private, and personal.

And these peppers, though not the special pimientos de padron at the tapas bar in Berkeley, were a close second. Fried in some cloudy, flavorful olive oil until charred and beginning to soften, then sprinkled with sea salt, they did just the nostalgic trick.

For me, the hardest part of going away is not the planning (I guess I’m not really a planner), nor is it the packing (just take all of your clothes and stuff them in a suitcase). It is using up the contents of the fridge for that final week at home, that works me up. Because, yes, in the past I have left that solitary carton of milk on the shelf chilling, and let me tell you, after weeks of sitting alone in the refrigerator, that milk punished my olfactory senses heartily.

Going to the market and buying just a smattering of ingredients has never been one of my strong points. But sometimes, in using up what I already have, it is necessary to actually do a wee bit of grocery shopping, as counterintuitive as it may seem. So cruising up and down the grocery aisles, I must remind myself that my husband and I cannot consume an entire five pound watermelon in the two and a half days we are still at home, even if it is on sale.

This impending trip to California looming, and left with one recipe for galette dough, a small container of crème fraiche, and not much else, I knew a trip to the market was calling to me. So I put on my blinders, and walked out of the apartment. What I returned with was a small sack of cherries, just enough to bake with, and more than a few to chomp on unadorned while the baking was being completed.

What I decided to make was not a cherry galette, but neatly and sweetly folded over, cherries and cream (or crème as it were) pockets. Pitting all of the cherries was the most time-consuming, and finger-staining prospect about making these pockets. The rest was a snap.

Simply roll out the dough to 1/8 inch thick. Cut small-ish circles out with a biscuit cutter. Then spread half of the dough with a smooth covering of crème fraiche before topping with the cherries, which have been squeezed with lemon juice, and sweetened with a bit of sugar. Fold over, and crimp the edges. Brush with an egg, if you happen to have one lying around that also needs to be used. I did. Sprinkle with a bit more sugar. It will carmelize lightly through the baking process, then bake at 400 degrees for about 20 minutes.

These pockets were lovely. The crème melts into the cherries, the dough turns puffy and golden, and who doesn’t love a hand-held dessert? Truly, they need no excuse, even if they were a very delicious way to clean out the fridge.

Hello?
Hello, is anyone out there?
Oh, there you are, tanned shoulders, sun-kissed locks, glaring right back at me through your monitor screen.
I know.
I have been remiss.
But you know how it is dear reader; sometimes life just gets in the way.
But I am back.

Well, after returning from my second wedding in California this summer, I think I can say that wedding season has officially ended. At least for me. Veils have been worn neatly covering tight chignons. Saris have been donned in a stunning array of jewel tones, making me feel like a child gazing hungrily at a giant lollipop. I have eaten my fare share of mediocre satay sticks dribbling peanut sauce on the ground, careful to avoid getting gobs on my summer dress. I have carried pomanders dutifully. I cut a rug, several in fact. Some would even say that I have cut enough rugs to carpet a large apartment.

I couldn’t be happier for the brides and grooms. But all of this trekking back and forth to California, it’s a bit dizzying. And I must say, it’s good to be home. It was even nice to schlep my butt up the four flights of stairs to our tiny apartment, carefully unpack all of my wedding regalia, shove my suitcase under the already crammed-full bed, and tuck myself into bed. And the first meal made back in New York was this lunch.

Nestled under that slick of melted Gruyere cheese is some thinly sliced, grilled zucchini to add some interest to this simple, yet hardly boring, open-faced sandwich. Slices of Portuguese bread, a smattering of Dijon mustard, a few slices of grilled zuke, all happily coexisting under a respectable layer of Gruyere cheese. I topped the sandwich with a duo of sage leaves before popping the whole shebang under the broiler to melt the cheese, and to toast the bread to a golden brown hue.

There is just something so civilized about the open-faced sandwich. Maybe it is having all of the contents of a sandwich laid out in front of you, or maybe it is actually having to sit down and consume your lunch with a fork and a knife. Or maybe it was just that feeling of being home that was so satisfying. Who knows, but eating this sandwich was so enjoyable, that I don’t think I should wait for next year’s wedding season to have it again.

I’ll admit it, at first it was the packaging that attracted me to these beauties. Those nubby pint containers, the aqua blue cardboard was complementing the crimson of the cherries so poetically. Really, there could have been slop for sale in those pint containers and I would have had to stop and comment, “Look, the rough-hewn finish of those beautiful cardboard containers so matches the bumpy nature of the slop it contains.” But you have been mostly saved from those ridiculous musings, because instead of slop, there were juicy sour cherries.

Maybe it’s the growing climate, but in California, a place where I spent the bulk of my life (okay, I’ll be honest here, 27 out of 28 years of my existence) the sour cherry is somewhat of a rarity. But at the Union Square Greenmarket, which has been stupendous as of late, they have been absolutely lousy with sour cherries. Vendors selling them loose by the pound, stacked high among the Ranier and Bing style cherries, vendors selling them in the pint, and quart containers in a stunning array of muted ocean hues. I had my pick.

I tasted the sweet-tart fruit, and bought my pint, thinking about what I would make with my cherries on the subway ride home. A bit too sour to be eaten out of hand, yet soft, and bursting with juice, it took me moment– and then I knew.

Sour Cherry Sweet Rolls, made mostly from this recipe, were the perfect breakfast treat to celebrate my newly crowned queen of the summer fruits. I used this recipe mainly because it allowed for refrigeration of the dough, retarding the rising process, which allowed for a freshly baked sweet roll in the morning, not the afternoon as many double rise doughs will have you do. For the filling I kept it simple. I brushed the dough with a few tablespoons of melted butter, and sprinkled a half cup of dark brown sugar, before studding it with pitted sour cherries.

Roll, slice, and place in a baking dish, and then the fridge, and soon they are ready to be baked. As the rolls were baking they perfumed the house with the of homey smell of yeast, and when brought out of the oven– they were beautiful. Some of the cherries had worked their way to the top, popping out of the sweetened dough, and getting a caramel-like glaze from the filling. I honestly can’t say enough about these rolls, they were sweet, but not too sweet, tart from the cherries, but not too tart, chewy but not too chewy. But they were just delicious enough to make me want more.

And then there was buttermilk. But this wasn’t the staunchly tangy stuff that you buy in a carton for making waffles, and then sits in the recesses of your refrigerator, separating, growing more sour, until the carton begins to emit a peculiar odor. No, this buttermilk was pleasingly watery, ever so mild, with just a hint of tang hitting you in the back of the throat. Daniel Patterson’s butter article, also gave a recipe for chilled pea soup with mint, utilizing the newly made buttermilk. With the butter being such a success, I was sure that the pea soup would be delightful. Well, sometimes things don’t work out as planned. They work out even better.

I went to the Union Square Greenmarket on a gorgeous, and busy Saturday, set on purchasing my peas of choice. Well, I should have remembered that one never goes to a greenmarket with a set idea of what one wants to purchase. One lets inspiration be the guide, buying what looks best– and the peas, dear readers, where a little less than inspiring. Swollen, and starchy, and far from the bright green that I had anticipated, these peas were not rockin’. But luckily I found another leafy green to be inspired by– sorrel.

Now I had never cooked with sorrel before. In fact I rarely saw this herb at the market, and when I did, it was hermetically sealed in a plastic box. But here sorrel was, mounds upon mounds of it, loosely laying in a wooden crate. I asked the vendor if I could have a taste, and given the all clear, I chewed a piece as delicately as a cow chewing her cud. Tart, acidic, grassy, almost tannic, it was a delight, the perfect complement to the mellowed buttermilk. I grabbed an armload, along with some beautiful garlic scapes, and ran home.

The soup couldn’t have been simpler or more delicious. I diced an onion, gently sauteing it in some olive oil. Once the onion was softened I tossed in the loosely chopped sorrel, and cooked it just until wilted. Pouring in the buttermilk, I stirred until bubbles began to form at the edge of the pan. I let this mixture cool a bit, then plunked it in blender. I whizzed the soup around, then poured it through a strainer, to get any fibrous bits out. The soup took a healthy does of salt and pepper, as it was already at room temperature.

That evening we had friends over for dinner. First course? Chilled sorrel soup topped with crispy fried garlic scapes. The perfect way to start a summer meal.

In this modern day and age, one where we can buy everything online, including our groceries, and it’s possible to never have to actually speak to another person again (that’s what email and IMing is for!), I think it’s very easy to idealize an agrarian lifestyle. Or at least I do. I dream of waking up from my restful slumber on the farm to the mournful mooing of fat cows, udders full , waiting to be milked. Or stopping by the hen house, gaggles of cluckers ready to be pushed aside in order to collect still-warm eggs. Yes, the smell of hay, the sweat of manual labor, and tons of steaming manure, can seem attractive.

When I was reading the Sunday NY Times a few weeks back, ignoring the salsa music coming from the street below, and sipping on a delicious cup of bodega/deli coffee, I spied Daniel Patterson’s recipe in the magazine section for fresh, homemade butter. I squealed with glee, my high-pitched emoting blending in perfectly with the jangle of the salsa music. Here was my opportunity to become my very own milkmaid , never having to leave the comforts of my couch in New York City. I ran out to the store to buy the only ingredient, a quart of heavy cream.

Who knew that making butter would be so simple, and so satisfying? All that is required is block of time, and a heavy duty mixer. Have you ever whipped cream into pillowy mounds to top your favorite dessert? Well imagine doing that, but not stopping when the cream reaches the desired billowy stage. There you have butter. (For anyone who would like to become an urban/suburban milkmaid themselves, Luisa has the complete recipe, with pictures, on her blog.)

As the minutes pass, and as you continue whipping that cream, just as you are about to wonder if anything will happen, little pebbles of butter emerge from the watery whey, which I learned is actually buttermilk. Then, there is draining, and some kneading (which I will admit is a little bizarre), in order to release even more buttermilk from the butter, yet in a matter of moments you have it– pure, rich, butter. And you can say that you made it.

The butter was good, not delicious, but very good. Light, unsalted, sweet, and it didn’t taste a bit like the fridge, always a dangerous threat when buying butter at the store these days. But the thing that was most gratifying about this little experiment, was just knowing that you made the butter, something we buy so readily, and may take for granted, yourself.

The original article, had a recipe for pea and mint soup, made with the buttermilk the butter produced. Sounds good right? Well, I didn’t end up making the pea soup, but stay tuned for what I did make.

This is what I would have imagined being fed if as a child if I grew up in some Spanish villa. Instead I grew up in a ranch style house in suburban San Francisco eating macaroni and cheese. Not that there is anything wrong with that cheesy goodness, but chorizo sausage it is not.

When I saw this recipe in July’s issue of Gourmet magazine, it intrigued me. Crispy bits of chorizo sausage, buttery chickpeas, and the crunch of toasted almonds sounded perfect. And this pasta dish was terrific, as long as you cast aside any preconceived notions as to what pasta should be like, in the Italian sense. This is not an al dente dish. The body that comes from this dish is not coming from the swollen angel hair noodles, it is coming from the other Spanish ingredients added to the pasta.

Homey, settling, all around satisfying. First, I cooked the garlic and then the chorizo, removing these goodies and leaving behind the delectable grease. As I broke up the dried angel pasta into bite-sized shards, and quickly browned them in enriched sausage grease (how bad could that be?), the nutty smells perfumed the kitchen. Then I cooked the pasta– completely, and as I added back in the plentiful cloves of garlic, and the shiny, spicy chorizo, I just knew that supper would be delicious.

Adorned with roasted and sliced almonds (save the Parmesan for another day), and some soapy clean cilantro (my addition), I felt like I had made a meal fit for a child. Chewy, warm, with the slipperiness of spaghetti, I got the same good feelings from eating this pasta, as I do from sitting down to a bowl full of my mom’s macaroni and cheese. With a slice of whole grain bread, and accompanied by cool, crisp salad this dish proved to be a wonderful weeknight meal. And the leftovers were just as good as the previous night’s dinner.

Sometimes you just make those salads that sound so good. With summery ingredients like juicy tomatoes and crisp cucumbers, bits of torn, aromatic basil, and my favorite, slithery, salty anchovies, it should be great. You follow the recipe almost to the T, and you know what? It just falls flat– not on its face but skidding ever so gently on its bum.

When I saw this recipe for what seemed like a delectably simple farro salad in The Zuni Cafe Cookbook my mind began to reel with all of the pithy titles I would name this post. So Near, So Farro. Farro Too Good. Or maybe, Once Upon a Time, In a Land Farro Way. (Yes, I know that none of these titles make a lick of sense.) But then I made this salad, and I’m sorry to say, for the sake of the English language (or maybe that is a blessing), I was underwhelmed.

This salad just needed something. The dressing was not acidic enough for my taste, with a 1:6 ratio. I even salted heartily, and that didn’t do it either. The best word to describe this salad? Meh. I like each of these ingredients on their own, so why not all mixed up to make this summer salad?

Instead as I sat in the living room, gazing out the window as I am wont to do, choking down this bland melange, I found myself thinking of the seasons to come. Wouldn’t a warm winter salad of dried fruit and farro be delightful? What about a farro porridge, drowning in piping hot milk? Or a mock risotto of sorts, farro kernels plumped with broth and speckled with reconstituted dried mushroom? Ah yes, so near, so farro…

I have a soft spot for sandwich cookies. Or maybe a better turn of phrase would be: I have a sweet spot for sandwich cookies. Always have. Oreos, with there unpronounceable list of ingredients, are pretty darn close to perfect. Nutter Butters, part gooey peanut butter, part crisp, peanut-shaped confection, were a favorite afterschool for snack. Even the refined Linzer cookie, delicately dusted in puffs of confectioner’s sugar, are eaten like the heartier American sandwich cookies by me. Twist of the top, gobble this plain cookie right up, then move on to the other adorned half. I love ritualistic dining.

I’ve made one sandwich cookie on this site before, so why not make the blond counterpart, the Caramel Cream Cookie?

This cookie doesn’t have snowy white, lard-based cream, and it doesn’t have stick-to-the-roof-of-your-mouth peanut butter, it has complex cream of nutty browned butter, reminiscent of caramel swirls ribboning their way through mounds of vanilla ice cream. The cookie itself is not too sweet, and delicately crisped with brown sugar. And the cream, the cream is a stunning brown sugar buttercream– what more needs to be said about that?

Can you tell that I really enjoyed this cookie? I found the recipe here, so get into the kitchen!