Ginger Junky

Back in cookie land, babes still dream...

While some swooned over the chocolate ones, a batch of gingery cookies actually won the cookie contest. Wanting to make something seasonally warming, I was particularly attracted to the recipe on page 38 of my library-loaned copy of The Ultimate Cookie Cookbook. The combination of candied ginger, vanilla, brown and sugar and baking spices made these an absolute must.

Watching them spread out thin and flat under the oven light, I knew they were developing the crispy texture I was after. Generally I’m a soft & chewy cookie lover, but the boy has been swaying me.

Always seeking to please, I knew these cookies were a success as I watched the boy gobble down all 4 off a plate. He claimed the crisp golden edges as his favorite while I savored the chewy center bite. It satisfied both our sweet desires. The only problem with these treats is that they’re such short-lasting treasures.


Candied Ginger Cookies

Adapted from The Ultimate Cookie Cookbook by Barbara Grunes and Virginia Van Vynckt
1/2 cup (1 stick) unsalted butter at room temperature
1/3 cup granulated sugar (I shorted it by few spoonfuls)
1/3 cup light brown sugar
1 egg
1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract
1 vanilla bean (optional)
1 1/2 c all purpose flour
1/2 teaspoon cream of tartar
1/4 teaspoon baking soda
1/4 teaspoon salt
1/2 teaspoon ground ginger
1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1/2 cup minced candied ginger

 NOTE: My ground ginger (which had come in a friend's suitcase from Indonesia about a year ago) tasted off. Instead substituted 1 full teaspoon pumpkin pie spice for everything (it's a mixture of cinnamon, ginger, nutmeg and allspice). I also didn't have cream of tartar, so replaced that and the baking soda with 3/4 teaspoon baking powder. The results were still wonderful.

Cream butter and sugars on medium speed until light, about 2-3 minutes. As an alternative, it's also nice with vanilla bean. Add the scraped seeds when creaming butter. Blend in egg and vanilla. Whisk dry ingredients in a separate bowl. Slowly stir into butter-based batter to make a soft dough. Mix in candied ginger.

Either stick saran wrap directly to the surface of the dough, or gather in a ball in your hands and wrap completely in the plastic. Refrigerate for at least 1 hour and up to 2 days.

Cook on cookie sheet for a couple minutes before removing to a wire rack. And please, if you're intent on baking, buy a wire rack!

When ready to cook, preheat oven to 350. Lightly grease a cookie sheet or bust out your silpat mat. Scoop spoonfuls of dough and shape into 3/4-inch to 1-inch balls, then flatten slightly with your hand to make a thick disk. Set the cookie balls at least 2 1/2 inches apart on a cookie mat, as they'll flatten quite a lot in a cooking. These cookies really spread out, creating a sweet, crispy cookie with just a hint of chew in the center. Grunes and Bynckt say to bake for 8-10 minutes at 350, but these take at least 14 minutes in my oven. If baking for someone who likes crispy cookies (ahem, my sweetheart), you can push it until 16 minutes. The results are still fabulous - it's just a matter of taste.

Dense Cookbook, Delightful Cookies

I was recently amazed to discover I can check out cookbooks from the library. It’s sounds quite obvious, but the applicability of it had somehow never occurred to me.

When I told Lacy, she said “Yeah sure, but I’m afraid of spilling all over it in the kitchen.”

“Naw....” I said, imagining my cleanly cooking adventures. I silently pledged even measuring, steady pouring and fastidious use of my plastic cookbook holder.

“You were totally right,” I said post-due date, having returned the recipe for Rich Fudgy Delights smeared with you-know-what. But these babies are worth the mess.

But my coworker said the cookies “had great chocolate flavor and chewy texture!” Via email. With lots of exclamation marks.

“They taste like the Triple Chocolate cookies at Grand Central!” Lacy gushed, pairing cookies with port at my kitchen table. I’ve yet to try Grand Central’s, but funnily enough, The Ultimate Cookie Cookbook reminded me of their recipe. Before making the cookies, I even pulled open both cookbooks to compare the ingredients and instructions for their most decadent, chocolate-thick goods. If it’s any recommendation, the following recipe requires less labor and fewer eggs.

Fudgy Rich Chocolate Delights
Adapted from The Ultimate Cookie Cookbook by Barbara Grunes and Virginia Van Vynckt
These delicious, brownie-like cookies require investing some time. I recommend making the dough the day before you plan on baking and serving them. Store in a bowl and stick saran wrap directly to the dough's surface before popping it in the fridge.

Ingredients
5 oz semisweet or bittersweet chocolate (I did 2.5 oz of each) I love Scharffen Berger, but buy a lot of Ghiradeli too.
1/4 cup (1/2 stick ) unsalted butter, room temp.
1 egg
1 egg white
1/2 cup plus 2 tablespoons sugar
1 tablespoon instant coffee
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
1/3 cup all-purpose flour
1/4 teaspoon baking powder
1/4 teaspoon salt
3/4 cup chocolate chips (I did 1/2 white chocolate, 1/2 semisweet chocolate, cutting  blocks into very small chunks)
1 cup chopped nuts (I used almonds, though hazelnuts would be amazing)

Preheat oven to 325. Lightly grease a cookie sheet or bust out your Silpat.
Melt chocolate with butter in a microwave or over a double boiler, stirring occasional. Set aside to cool.  Ideally, you want it between 80 and 85 degrees, which could take up to 20 minutes.

Beat egg, egg white and sugar on medium to high speed until thick and light, 4-5 minutes say Grunes and Vynckt. I did it for a full 10 minutes. Grand Central prescribes a whopping 14 minutes, but at 2 am on a weeknight I deemed it unnecessary.

Add the instant coffee and vanilla. Slowly stir in the chocolate mixture until blended. In a separate bowl, whisk flour, baking powder and salt. Add to chocolate, but do not overmix. The batter will be loose, but thickens as it stands. Fold in chocolate chips and nuts. Using a tablespoon, scoop out batter. Shape into mounds using 2 spoons. Don’t do what. But if you have a salty palate, do top each mound with a few grains/flakes of finishing salt.

Bake at 325 for 14-16 minutes.

Crispy Chicken for Two

I’m a girl who finds extraordinary comfort and satisfaction in a whole roasted chicken. But last week as the weather cooled, my stomach stumbled upon a desire for crispy skinned chicken. I didn’t want to deep fry anything, though I craved the sound of crackling meat in a pan and crunchy, paper-thin skin between my teeth. Something to savor September.

What I had to do, I knew, was butterfly and flatten the bird for a good pan-frying, a dinner ordeal I’d previously undertaken with Lacy’s help. On Thursday, for the first time, I butterflied a chicken all by myself!

First I arranged the chicken, rinsed and patted dry, breast side down on a large cutting board (I prefer one with a “meat moat” and used the large butcher block Lacy’s grandpa made for me). Wielding my Henckle kitchen shears with fiegned confidence, I cut up one side of the spine, snipping away from me, tailbone to the back of the neck. Then I cut along the other side to remove the entire spinal cord. Turning the chicken over, wings tucked under for leverage, I used my palm to apply quick pressure on the sternum, cracking it open so I could flatten the entire chicken.

With the breast side still up and the legs pointing away, I exchanged my shears for a paring knife. Time to remove the wishbone! I find that doing away with this little bone makes slicing the breast meat a breeze later (and fun fact: the wishbone is similar in size and shape to the clitoris!). I like to feel for the bone with my fingers, then insert the paring knife on it’s underside, tracing the curve from left to right. Next, easing the knife into the same incision, I angle the point upwards and feel along the top side. With that little wish all stenciled out, I insert my pointer and middle finger, wrap them around the bone and give a good pull. It usually comes out with one tug, but sometimes it snaps in the middle and I have to grasp and yank each side separately.

Is it sick to admit I love the textiles of butchery? I feel a strange intimacy with my food when prodding it, scraping away extra fat accumulations and petting it down with salt. Well, clearly I don’t think it’s sick at all, considering I ate the entire chicken over the course of the weekend, with the help, be assured, of someone dear.  

Now bear in mind that this was Thursday and I was actually prepping for a Friday night dinner date. After mincing together thyme, rosemary, parsley, garlic and kosher salt, I rubbed it under the skin, rubbed lemon juice and salt on the outside of the skin, wrapped the whole plated thing up in saran wrap and let it live in my fridge for 24 hours. Of course, you could rub it down and let it sit out for an hour before patting dry and setting it to sizzle in your biggest skillet. To do so the next day, I threw a slice of bacon in my pan, rendering the fat and flipping it a few times to crisp and brown on each side. I removed the little piece of pork for later (to crumble sparingly atop the chicken and salad greens) removed any little brown bits, and supplemented the bacon fat with an extra tablespoon of olive oil. When jumping-but-not-quite-smoking hot, I add the chicken, splayed out, skin down. I then placed my stock pot on top and weighted the whole thing down with my blender (my kitchen is a place of improvisation) to press the chicken into the pan and brown up every inch possible. If you have two large cast iron pans that nestle together, they are the perfect tools for this job.

Trying to disturb the chicken as little as possible, I tune into my kitchen spidey-sense, lowering the heat slightly and checking under a breast when I think it’s approaching the right shade of golden. When achieved, I lift up the stock pot (thank goodness my sweet date had arrived by then to help me, but you can set it aside, assuming you have a clean sink or counter surface), flip to the ugly, skinless side, and brown up again. Check a small chicken for doneness after 30 minutes of total cooking time, but a large chicken could require an entire hour. You can pop the chicken, pan and all, into the oven, but do NOT cover or your crispy skin will lose its integrity.

Clearly Friday night dates are a serious prospect in my kitchen, but it all proves worth it when served with scalloped sweet potatoes and a bottle of pinotage, and the sweet boy sitting across from me gently places a linen napkin in his lap. I really enjoy eating this chicken atop a green salad, barely dressed in a lemony-mustardy vinaigrette.

On Saturday, after sex and french toast and adventures in Grand Central Bakery and Uwajimaya, we came home to pick apart the cold leftovers. I cubed up a collection of white and dark meat for chicken noodle soup and sliced up the rest for sandwiches. He sliced the rye bread sturdily, the tomato thinly, and assembled, meticulously, a spread of other fixings. Looking over at him I exclaimed “You have a perfect mis en place!” Beaming back, he confirmed my mustard selection (“Just the dijon”) and slathered on extra. More pepper and parsley, I decided, tasting my soup.

Finishing leftovers always feels like a bit of an accomplishment. With company, the completion is utter enjoyment.

“We had a really good weekend,” I responded on Monday to a coworker’s inquiry.
“We?” she asked incredulously. “I go on vacation for a week and come back and now you’re a we?”

The next words out of my mouth were “Oh, shit.” I felt caught. And by my own net, no doubt.  

Summer’s ending and we’re still standing here together, he and I. The cooling weather has me not just crisping chicken skin and browning sweet potatoes, but even baking pumpkin pie, his favorite. And more than food, I’m craving him. Sometimes I feel so saturated in sweet syrupy feelings, you could just pour me on a waffle.

When I’m with him, I feel so confidently that I’m in the right place. Across from a kitchen table or side by side in bed, what could feel more right? But later, after the Tupperware is empty of leftovers and my apartment void of his presence, I admit I feel even smaller than before. My body aches with indecision. I can’t even discern if it needs to be fed.

Smells Like Green Spirits

I've recently become enamored with the weekend cocktail. The past few weeks, I come home from work on Friday, gather together ingredients, perhaps prep up some herbs and garnishes, shake shots of liquor over ice and tinker up a tasty cocktail. I may tinker with it, but this little recipe becomes my go-to again on Saturday or Sunday, maybe a pre-funk drink before going out, maybe a cocktail with company after dinner or hell, after brunch.

I had bought a huge bag of pea shoots at my new favorite grocer - the super-cheap Hau Hau market in the international district. I came home with a $5 bag full of fruit and salad fixings and still-attached chicken breasts and I' think "how the hell does one person eat all these pea shoots?"

I found you can drink them.

Searching the internet, I realized I had all the ingredients for a cocktail called the Pea Shoot Gin Flower. The only odd part was combining equal parts pea shoots and cold filtered water in the blender to make a sludgy, vegetal puree. It tasted sweet and healthy and fresh, not very different from freshly squeezed wheatgrass juice. But let me tell you, this cocktail was bright green.

Green like absinthe in Moulin Rouge technicolor (though it totally lacked this ingredient). Green, appropriately, like new growth in a rainy spring. It even tasted like the color green. I made it, of course, on a damn grey day. In all the cocktail was very refreshing, and my only warning is that the delicate flavors can easily be overwhelmed by the ginger ale.

2 shots gin (or 1 if you're feeling wussy)

2 shots pea shoot puree

splash St. Germain Elderflower Liquer

giner ale

1 stick seeded cucumber and 1 sprig mint for garnish

Shake the gin, pea shoot puree and St. Germain over ice. The puree needs to be strained, and I had some trouble with it clogging my shaker - hopefully yours is better. Pour into a tall glass with more ice, garnish and top with ginger ale. Sip and feel refreshed.

Turning Over A New Crepe

"A crepe is one of the few things I've never attempted to make," I told my new sweetness. We were wandering the horribly named BURP, Ballard's "urban picnic." We passed by lines for pizza and ice cream, crepes and cupcakes, finally happy to sink our teeth into a burger and some poutine ("Sure, we can make it for you," Skillet's server said when I asked for the latter off the menu), but in general the festival was pretty pathetic. The Maritime sponsored beer garden was a sad cage, created to keep the children out and the money in. We made a lap, lined up in front of my favorite airstream truck, then returned to his apartment to sit on the outdoor deck, burger in one hand and beer in the other.

Somehow, a few short hours later, I was running away from my sweet boy. He tried calling me back, freshly-showered and shirtless in his doorway, and I turned once to look at him before I descended the stairwell. I stalled at the intersection, a waiting pedestrian, but didn't look back again. Though I knew he wasn't following me, I broke into a run while crossing the street, heart pumping faster than my feet as I beelined for the closest bus stop. The right route came almost immediately and I soon realized I'd left my wallet behind in the boy's apartment. Without my bus pass, I decided I'd rather charm my way back home than return with my tail between my legs.

My stomach felt awful on the bus and after. Why did I run away?

It's scary, you know, liking somebody.

I stopped at the gym and then walked home the long way in order to ease my stomach. Cashless, cardless, my emotions in chaos, I took a quick inventory of my kitchen, knowing I would inevitably end in the pantry with the jar of Nutella.
Staring at the jar, I recalled Steven and our morning after the Built to Spill show when I lied to my work, saying I had a dentist appointment and would be an hour or so late. "I'm gonna to spoil you rotten," he said excitedly. "I'm gonna spoil you with waffles." After the late night of memorable music and less memorable whiskey, I emerging from his shower, drawn to the kitchen by the sent of Belgian waffles. A new jar of Nutella graced his kitchen counter.

"No, not waffles," I thought, flipping to a crepe recipe in Joy of Cooking.

After the first crepe, it was pretty easy to get the hang of it. I had the wrist-to-pan rotation movement down, having pretty much mastered it at the age of 10 when I learned how to cook omelets. The key, and the hardest thing for me, is to be present and conscious in the kitchen. No multi tasking allowed, as these suckers only take a couple minutes on each side. I placed them on a warm plate in the oven and after the next crepe was safely swirled in the pan, I would use a rubber spatula to spread a thin layer of Nutella over half of the warm crepe. I'd fold the crepe in half, give it another dab of Nutella, and then fold it in half again so each one was folded up in pretty little corners. Top with more Nutella and some whipped creme, or maybe just some lemon zest.

I particularly liked them folded into quarters and stacked one on top of the other so they form decadent layers of alternating dough and Nutella layers, then topped with a generous amount of lemon zest and a dollop of plain yogurt. I love the tangy contrast, though some freme fraiche would be equally fantastic and some unsweetened whipped creme (or grand marnier or hazelnut flavored!) would make it scrumptiously dessert-worthy.

I tried to settle my mind before bed, taking comfort in my kitchen staples, always there for me when I'm in a financial or emotional pinch. I feel like if my parents ever made crepes or if I'd learned to make them at an earlier age, they would have been my childhood favorite, surpassing even my beloved french toast.


Basic Crepes (makes 10 8-inch crepes) adapted from Joy of Cooking by Irma Rombauer, Marion Rombauer Becker and Ethan Becker
Combine in a blender or food processor until smooth:
1/2 cup all purpose flour
1/2 cup milk
1/4 cup lukewarm water
2 large eggs
2 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted
1 teaspoon sugar
1/2 teaspoon salt
fresh lemon zest

Pour the batter into a bowl with a lip or one that can easily rest a ladle. Cover with plastic wrap and let stand for at least 30 minutes or refrigerate for up to 2 days. This allows the flour to thoroughly absorb the liquid and fives the flatten int he flour a chance to relax. Place a nonstick crepe pan over medium to medium-low heat. Coat with a little unsalted butter.

Stir the batter and pour or ladle 2-3 tablespoons into the pan. Lifting the pan off the heat, tilt and rotate it so the batter forms an even, very thin layer. Turn the crepe over, using a spatula or your fingers and cook until the second side is golden. Remove to a piece of wax paper or to a warm plate in a low oven. Continue cooking the rest of the crepes, buttering the pan and stirring the batter before starting each one.
It's a comforting and comfortable pattern. The crepes go quickly once you get into a routine. I'm definitely making these again next time I plan on serving dessert or maybe just a sweet breakfast in my home.

P.S. I went back to the boy's apartment the next morning. We have since made crepes toghether - both the Nutella described and savory ones with brie, thyme and port-simmered mushrooms. New things are scary, esecially in all this post-Bugs business, but as Julia Child said when flipping omelets (or was it hash browns?) "All you need are the courage of your convictions." I thought about this while flipping crepes.

Cleansing Cucumbers

I needed something healthy and invigorating. 

I'd recently stuffed myself to the brim, eating my way through a weekend in Portland. On Saturday I lunched on Bijou's salad Nicoise, perfectly and minimally dressed though the herbs lacked fragrance and I longed for a few capers. Dinner began with the flaky biscuits piled high in the bread basket at Mother's Bistro, continued with Mother's roasted beet and blood orange salad and ended with her crab cakes. The decor impressed though the service did not, and the food, though slightly flawed, was rich and flavorful. I would return for the biscuits alone. Sunday started with Morning Star's eggs benedict, necessary after the night's libations. 

Back in Seattle, I came home to quietude, flipped through my cookbooks and went on a sunny stroll through Cal Anderson park, running into several neighbors on the way. We chatted on park benches until the shadows crept over us, relegating the sun to slender stripes on the grass and gravel. Still mildly hung over, faintly tired, I craved something light and cleansing. Cucumbers.

I played with David Tanis' Vietnamese cucumber salad, trying out a bias cut on my vegetables, adding rice vinegar and extra ginger, reducing the sugar. The results were flavorful and just short of fiery. I preferred all of my improvisations except for the bias cut. Simply sliced cucumbers make a more manageable mouthful. I garnished the salad with thinly sliced sweet onions and, though pretty, they were more delicious when tossed and marinated with the rest of the salad. I suggest taste over aesthetics on this one. 

After salad came sleep. A new week. A date with a new boy, even. I laughed at myself as I shared camera-phone images of my recent concoctions, lovingly pointing out ingredients like a grandparent naming children in a wallet photo. "I want that," the boy said as he pointed at the cucumber salad with his chopsticks, his gorgeous gray eyes lighting up. I smiled, remembering how the sweet crunch contrasted with the tangy, slightly salty dressing, the bite of onions and peppers. Suffice it to say, I hope to make it again soon. 

Vietnamese Cucumber Salad

Adapted from "A Platter of Figs and other Recipes" by David Tanis

4 large cucumbers

salt and pepper

vietnamese (nuoc mamma) or thai (nam pla) fish sauce

rice vinegar
2-inch piece of ginger, peeled and cut into fine julienne

palm sugar

3 serranos or jalapenos

2-3 limes

mint sprigs

basil sprigs

thinly sliced sweet onion

Peel cucumbers, cut them lengthwise in half and slice into half-moons. Place in a large bowl, add salt and pepper to taste, a dash each of fish sauce and vinegar, the ginger and a tablespoon of palm sugar. Toss well and let sit for at least 5 minutes.

David suggests finely chopping the chiles and adding them to taste by the spoonful, but I prefer them thinly sliced and added with a bold liberality. Add the onions, douse with freshly-squeezed lime juice and toss again. Cover and refrigerate till serving.

Just before serving, add a fistful of mint and basil leaves, roughly chopped or perhaps stacked, rolled and sliced into a pretty chiffonade. Taste and adjust the seasoning, adding more lime juice, fish sauce or salt as necessary. Though I halved this and enjoyed it as a hefty meal for one, Tanis serves it as a side to wild salmon. 

Caketastic Birthday Blowout

Being an Aquarius and born in the ghastly year of 1985, I recently turned 25.

I didn’t really have a big birthday blowout, or anything as crazy as the word suggests. I did put on a pretty party dress and have a few friends over, though. I even received a singing telegram, compliments of my father, along with two noise complaints from neighbors. And I baked a cake.

A friend who bakes for a hobby and has made a few wedding cakes lent me her professional cake pans. I’d been planning on doing a big 3-tiered beast but when I saw the 6”, 10” and 14” square pans and realized I’d have to bake 2 layers of each if I didn’t want a squat-looking dessert, I decided to nix the bottom layer. It alone was supposed to serve 50 people! I may not be the most practical girl, but even I knew that would be entirely unnecessary.

Since I couldn’t decide between red velvet cake and traditional yellow birthday cake, I set about making both. I scoured cake recipes in my cookbooks and online and inevitably chose the ones with the most butter and eggs, deeming them “authentic.” My alarm set for 6 am on my birthday formally observed (since my real birthday was on a workday), I woke up and removed 2 whole packages of butter and 10 eggs from my fridge to bring to room temperature and went back to sleep. Don’t think I’d forgotten the half-pound of cream cheese or the pint each of buttermilk and heavy cream. I let them warm up and gave them some loving later on in my leisurely day.

Hours passed pleasurably as I oscillated between mess making and cleaning. When the cloud of sugar settled, I’d stained my white seat covers with red food coloring, spattered creamed butter on the walls and dirtied every bowl I owned. A birthday baking success!

After my cooked layers cooled, I frosted the yellow cake with a satiny chocolate frosting, easily made in the blender. The recipe that follows was actually my favorite discovery of the day.

I torted (divided each of my two layers in half) and frosted my red velvet tier with an airy cream cheese frosting. The whole cake was refrigerated with a crumb layer, then given a final frost a few hours later.

I piped melted chocolate onto parchment paper and then firmed it up in the fridge before transferring it to my cake. Atop the pristinely pale cream cheese screamed the words “Fuck Yeah 25.”

I declined to try my hand at prettily piped borders and instead tossed on some coconut, creating a fun effect that reminded me of Top Pot’s feather boa donuts. Lacy and The D, who showed up early with take-out Ezell’s fried chicken, helped my haphazardly throw some sprinkles on the side edges. Lacy made me the sweetest card - dedicated to 10 years of best-friend status, a gorgeous secretary pen necklace, and The D installed a dimmer in my kitchen, providing the perfect atmosphere for my birthday-candle-blowing-and-wish-making moment!

By the time Jamie and Niel of Seattle Singing Telegrams were wildly performing The Beatles' “Birthday” (which transitioned awesomely into “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds”), I was ready to cut my fucking cake, yo! Jamie and Neil passed, but I don't blame 'em. I’m sure they get offered a lot of cake. It's a job hazard.

Savoring a sample of each layer, I nestled into my couch with a White Russian cocktail and watched The Big Lebowski with my remaining friends.

The birthday girl abides.

Chocolate Satin Frosting
Adapted from The Joy of Cooking

By Irma Rombauer, Marion Rombauer-Becker and Ethan Becker

6 ounces unsweetened or bittersweet chocolate, broken into small pieces

1 cup heavy cream : )

1 ½ cups sugar

6 tablespoons (¾ stick) unsalted butter, cut into small pieces

1 teaspoon vanilla (or booze!)

In a small saucepan, bring cream to a boil. Remove from heat and add chocolate without stirring. Cover and set aside for exactly 10 minutes. Scrape into a food processor or blender and add the remaining ingredients. A drizzle of rum or strong coffee would be welcome additions at this stage, too. Process until perfectly smooth. Set aside until thickened to desired spreading consistency. This keeps in the fridge for one week. But if you're me, you'll find yourself pulling out the Tupperware two weeks later and spooning it up while you watch Thumbsucker and World's Greatest Dad back to back on a Friday night.

Breakfast for a New Year

Determined to do something right, I started 2010 with clean sheets and freshly baked cinnamon rolls.

Actually, I inaugurated the new year running down a hill in the rain to catch the last glimpse of fireworks, drunk and disheveled, hauling a man in my wake and accidentally abandoning a fleet of friends.

I hosted a party and proceeded to be the wrecked hostess, forcing ramekins of rum-raisin bread pudding and cupfuls of truffle popcorn into guests' hands. Manically alternated between bossy and silly, stubborn and ridiculous. I was so fuckered-up I remember, as I kicked everyone out of my apartment at 11:45 (except for one party angel who had passed out on my bed), being astonished that no glasses were broken. Of course, the next day I broke a glass on my head. Some motha left a drinking glass full of red wine on top of my fridge (not a wine glass, mind you, despite the fact that there were actually clean ones). When will boys learn that shorties don't look up? I was bent down, rooting around in my crisper when it fell and broke on my head, shooting red wine and blue glass all over my kitchen! Very painful, but I learned my head is quite resilient.

The next day, cradling my bumped cranium and cleaning my apartment, I emptied out a half bottle of totally decent Mountain Dome sparkling wine and forsook my uneaten bread pudding. I suddenly and desperately missed my Queen B in California! She would have helped me be "on the ball" as we like to say, to be a better, tidier, more pulled-together hostess. Slightly mopey and missing my team mate, I gave her a call and we decided that a reunion was in order. So she bought tickets to Seattle for a 10-day stay in March!

Queen B, you already made my year.

So did the cinnamon rolls. I did all my prep work on New Year's Eve so I could enjoy a freshly baked bun slathered in cream cheese frosting for my first breakfast of 2010. I saved my remaining rolls and baked them up the following day, sharing them with a few girlfriends. Pulling apart the hot rolls, drinking spiked coffee, the conversation twisted from the sweet to the obscene and back again, wrapping tightly around our interwoven lives like dough spiraled around sugar and cinnamon. I love my friends and I love sharing meals with them. Here's to more of both in the new year!

Cinnamon Buns

Adapted from Piper Davis and Ellen Jackson's The Grand Central Baking Book (The main change was removing currants and adding marzipan):

Sponge

2 ½ cups tepid water (about 80 degrees)

2 teaspoons active dry yeast

3 tablespoons molasses

½ cup whole wheat flour

½ cup eight-grain cereal with cracked—not rolled—grain

2 cups unbleached white flour

Final Dough

2 ½ to 3 cups unbleached white or bread flour

¼ cup (½ stick) unsalted butter, melted and slightly cooled

1 tablespoon plus 1 teaspoon salt

Filling

½ cup (1 stick) unsalted butter, room temperature

¾ cup granulated sugar

¾ cup packed brown sugar

1 tablespoon ground cinnamon

¼ cup marzipan paste (optional)

To make the sponge, combine ingredients in a bowl with high sides and whisk or beat until smooth. Cover tightly with plastic wrap at let sit at room temperature for 2 hours or in the refrigerator for about 12 hours. It should bubbly and a bit stringy when you stir it.

Combine the fermented sponge with the flour, butter and salt in a fowl. Use a stand mixer with dough hook attachment if you have it. I like to knead by hand while listening to music.

When the dough is a shiny, smooth cohesive mass, turn into a bowl lightly brushed with butter. Cover with plastic wrap and let rise until doubled in size. If you have time, chill the dough for an hour. It will be stiffer and easier to form into rolls.

Combine your filling ingredients, reserving 1/3 cup to sprinkle on top of the rolls. If you’re addition the optional marzipan, a fork and some muscle are required to mix it into the sugar. Turn the dough out onto a lightly floured surface. Use a combination of gentle stretching and light rolling to shape into a 20”x12” rectangle. Spread 6 tablespoons butter over the entire rectangle of dough and top with the filling. I flexible rubber spatula would probably work well for spreading butter, but I decided to forgo tools and make a mess with my hands. This works fine, too.

Roll the dough tightly to create a log 20-24 inches long and 2-3 inches in diameter. Cut the rolls using a serrated knife. Gently tuck the tail under the center and goose to creat a conical shape. Arrange the rolls in 9”x13” pan, greased with your remaining 2 tablespoons butter. Cover the pan with plastic wrap and let them rise for 30-60 minutes in a warm spot (atop the preheating oven is ideal) or refrigerate overnight and let them rise in the morning. When the rolls have swelled, top with the remaining cinnamon and sugar and bake at 350 degrees for 45 minutes, rotating the pan halfway through.

Enjoy with coffee and good company.

More Than A Trifle

Several Saturdays ago, Hilarity gave me a ride home from Olive’s birthday party at a totally trashy Belltown venue. Giggling and somehow setting off her car alarm and breaking my umbrella at the same time, I bid Hilarity and the night adieu, always a hard thing to do. Arriving home alone (or hand in hand with myself, as I like to think of it. Thanks, Lou Ree) to an apartment rich with possibilities, I knew the night was not yet through. Turning on the lights, the space seemed quiet, just faintly buzzing, waiting for me to make the floors and bed creak and stir up something delicious in the kitchen.

With several dark beautiful hours still ahead before the sun and I began our struggle, I decided to bake a cake for a trifle. I used towels to muffle the sound of my egg beaters, which have woken the neighbor below me before.

I've definitely been indulging my sweet tooth lately. Beating my butter, whipping my cream and licking up the leftovers, I've been delighting in the days and nights, letting each one unwrap slowly like a concealed piece of candy. Taking delight.

Admittedly, midnight baking is a coping method of mine, a reverted-to routine during every breakup. I remember staying up all night once, baking batch after batch of prettily piped meringues and watching Wes Anderson movies. I was giving tupperwares of chewy, heart-shaped meringues to friends for weeks. All for the memory and forgetfulness of red-headed androgynous Jamie. Sometimes egg whites and sugar are a girl's best friend.

Especially considering "Dessert at my place?" rarely fails as a pick up line.

The following recipe is just one of my favorites from Piper Davis and Ellen Jackson's Grand Central Baking Book, which I purchased at 30% off from Powell's Book Store. If you're going all the way and converting this cake to a trifle, the recipe says to refrigerate for 24 hours before eating. I only prepared the trifles 10 hours in advance. Though tasty, I have to admit that the following evening's leftovers were even better, so stick to at least 24 hours marination time if possible and know that the leftovers will still be delicious for a couple days. I don't recommend champagne glasses.

According to Davis and Ellen this “rich white cake is glazed while it’s still warm, giving it a doughnut-like appearance. It gets volume from additional egg whites and longer whipping… Use the leftover egg yolks to make a simple crème anglaise, which you can use, along with fresh berries, to dress up this cake.”

That’s exactly what I did the first time around, cutting cake slices with a glass and stacking them with the crème anglaise, raspberry lavendar jam and fresh raspberries for a tasty, whip cream-topped trifle.

*I've been procrastinating posting this because I really wanted to include photos. I had them, good ones, and picture to add to past posts, too, but I somehow deleted all the photos on my phone, include those of my trip to New York. I was trying so hard to overcome my fear of technology and do a simple thing like upload photos on my own and I failed completely. Now they're gone. Poof. Le sigh. Maybe some cake will cheer me up. Here's the recipe:

Glazed Vanilla Bundt Cake

I scaled down the original recipe (intended for a 12-cup bundt pan) for a tea-loaf sized cake, perfect for 4 servings of trifle. If you’re making one though, you might as well just make a second cake for consumption on its own. I’ve made three so far. One for trifle, one for the boss, and one for my pears poached in red wine.

1½ cups all-purpose flour

1/3 tablespoon baking powder

1 teaspoons salt

1/8 8teaspoon ground nutmeg, preferably freshly grated

1/2cup (1 stick) unsalted butter, room temperature

1 cup granulated sugar

3 egg whites, room temperature

1 teaspoons vanilla extract

2/3 cup whole milk, room temperature

Glaze

1/ 4 cup confectioners’ sugar

2 tablespoons heavy cream

1/8 teaspoon vanilla extract

The first time baking, my only deviation was to use vanilla bean instead of extract in the batter. The second time, I used the extract along with just a touch of almond extract. Also, since I had taken to storing my leftover vanilla bean pods in my sugar, I had vanilla-sented sugar.

Preheat the oven 350. Grease and lightly flour a 4-cup loaf pan. I tried cooking 2 cakes together. I don’t recommend it, but it works in a pinch.

Measure the flour, baking powder, salt and nutmeg into a bowl and sift or whisk to combine.

Using an electric mixer, beat together the butter and sugar until very light in color – almost white – and the texture is fluffy, 7-10 minutes. Scrape the bottom and sides of the bowl a few times during the process.

Combine the egg whites and vanilla in a liquid measuring cup. With the mixer on medium speed, add the egg whites slowly (about ¼ cup at a time) completely incorporating each before adding the next. Scrape the bowl several times.

Reduce the mixer speed to low. Add 1/3 of the dry ingredients and incorporate on low speed, then increase the speed to medium. Add 1/3 cup of the milk and mix briefly to incorporate. Reduce the speed to low again and add half of the remaining dry ingredients. Mix and repeat with the remaining milk and then the remaining dry ingredients. Stop mixing just before the flour is fully incorporated. Finish mixing by hand using a sturdy spatula, scraping the bowl.

Pour into your prepared loaf pan. Bake for 35 minutes, then rotate the pan and lower the over temperature to 325. Bake about 30 minutes more. It’s ready when the sides pull away from the pan slightly and it springs back when pressed lightly in the center. The top will probably split. Use a toothpick to check for doneness.

Make the glaze while the cake is in the oven. Whisk the confectioners sugar, cream and vanilla until smooth. Let the cake cool for 15 minutes before turning it out. Whisk the glaze again until completely smooth, then apply immediately. The authors recommend using a pastry brush, but I like the effect of drizzling it, too.

Poached

I like the idea of poaching. When a person or cookbook mentions poached fruit, I chuckle inwardly, envisioning myself with a rifle in the grocery store, taking out the pears and figs in someone else's cart. Really, I think Roald Dahl first introduced me to the idea of poaching in Danny the Champion of the World, my absolute favorite book when I read it in 4th grade. Danny didn't use a rifle, of course. The clever boy soaked raisins until plump, cut them, stuffed them with sedatives, sewed them up and then fed them to his nieghbor's pheasants. He hid, watching them fall from the trees, then stuffed them in a sack. I forget if he actually killed them or set them free somewhere else. Part of me hopes he killed them then simmered the plucked, trussed creatures in a wine reduction. Poaching on two fronts.

To poach something is basically just to cook it in liquid near its boiling point. Of course, to poach is also to trespass and plunder. I had no idea until just now, but it also means to sink into soft or wet earth when walking, to become soggy or full of holes when walking, or, in racket sports, to return a shot near the net that was intended for one's partner in the back court.

When done right in the kitchen, oh the glory. Eggs do not achieve a more tender state nor pears a more succulent texture.

I was cleaning out my fridge in preparation for a trip to New York. Stepping back to survey the damage, I tried to think of what concoction could employ my leftover, lay-about produce. Watching half a dozen forgotten Asian pears roll around my crisper, eyeing the almost-full bottle of wine, I decided that some spiced red-wine-poached pears were in order. I poured the bottle of wine into a pot along with leftover white wine syrup from the last time I poached pears, a small handful of sugar, a cinnamon stick, star anise, a few corns each of pepper and all spice and the last of the ginger from my fridge, peeled and simply sliced out of laziness. When it started to boil, I added my peeled, cored pears and simmered uncovered until tender. The tip of a knife should easily pierce the flesh, but cook according to your preference. I thought they were a bit too firm last time I made them, so cooked them until a little less resistant this time around, about 30 minutes.

When done, I removed the prettiest pears to sterilized jars and saved the uglier, just-starting-to-fall apart ones in a bowl (intended for almost-immediate consumption). I upped the heat in impatience and cooked down the wine until seriously reduced then poured the hot, thickened stuff into the jars to cover the pears. Cooking down the liquid is the most time consuming part, so some cooks (like the late James Beard) prefer to reduce the liquid to a syrup before adding pears. If canning, seal the jars with clean rings and new lids then turn upside down for at least two minutes. Out of laziness, again, I decided to skip a second sterilization and just store the jars in my fridge while on vacation.

Next I whipped up some heavy cream in a cold metal bowl (I love my small high-rimmed Rosle), opting for a whisk over my oft-used handheld beater so I could feel the cream thicken and come together. Just before it started to form peaks, I added confectioner's sugar and the scraped seeds from a vanilla bean, whipped some more, then added soft, beat cream cheese. Mmmm....

It wasn't quite thick enough to form quenelles (too much cream, not enough cheese), but the little football shapes make a great presentation when you can form them. The white cream is especially gorgeous drizzled with the garnet-red syrup. The spiced pears are a really tasty holiday treat and a great way to extend your enjoyment of December's produce. Spooning mine up, anticipating my trip to New York, I looked forward to eating more upon my return, completing the delicious cycle.

Breakfast Club

My brother flew up on Sunday, leaving the entire week surrounding Thanksgiving to loiter around Mama's house and even become quite acquainted with the 255 bus route to Seattle. I really wanted him and Wifey to stay at my apartment for a night, so we all met up at Pike Place Market on the Friday after Thanksgiving. The meeting venue was a terrible idea, but not mine. Seattlelites and tourists swarmed the market, soaking up precious sunshine vitamins, filling up time on a non-work day with family approved activities. Trying to walk through the interior stalls made me feel like a herding animal. Oof! And then we all got separated, so I missed the best part when Wifey was chased by a man with a mean-looking monkfish and shrieked so loud the whole market could hear. It was Wifey's first trip to Seattle, so the market trip was basically obligatory, but the produce vendors were lost among the overwhelming crowds and I wished we'd saved the tourist trip for another day. I was happy to head back to my apartment and watch the 2004 version of Helter Skelter (inferior to the 1976 version, just for the record).

In the morning, after I did some writing and Todd finished his prayers, we visited Top Pot for caffeine and cake, letting Wifey slept in. We dunked with fervor, favoring the blueberry bullseye over the cinnamon-sugar doughnut, lingering at our rickety table surrounded by books. Hunger tided over, we ventured to the grocery store to procure ingredients for a big American breakfast. Back in my kitchen, just large enough for the two of us to cook together, we leisurely prepared for the day's feast, lunch really for everyone but Wifey.

I set up two stations and we quickly fell into a pattern. Todd chopped a yellow onion as I scrubbed my little German Butterball potatoes. He chopped herbs as I flipped the quartered potatoes in hot oil, gently willing them to develop a reddish brown crust on each side. Todd cut up bananas and apples, coated them in plain yogurt, blackberry honey and cinnamon, and served them with apple-cinnamon granola on the side.

"How many eggs, Luce?" he asked as he fingered the large duck eggs in my fridge. I had bought them at the Ballard market the day he arrived, just before the homecoming lunch at Bastille. It's not so much a homecoming, I guess, as a visit, though I like to pretend that Seattle is my brother's home in part, even if only because I live here.

"Four or five," I said, peeking over to see how large they were. "Four," I confirmed, eyeing the eggs he hefted in each palm. We debated over the best bowl, and I assured him that the high sides of my small metal Rosle bowl would prove sufficient. The second egg had two yellow-orange yolks, each fully formed and then stuck together, leaving very little room for whites. The third egg was a twinsy, too! reminding me of an MFK Fisher quote. I declared it a good omen and was reminded of an MFK Fisher quote. "One of the most private things in the world," she said, "is an an egg before it is broken." Another favorite of mine is "first we eat, then we do everything else."

I removed the potatoes to the oven to warm, sprinkled them with plenty of salt and rosemary and wiped down the skillet in preparation for Todd's hand-whisked eggs. He went for lightness over richness and added a touch of water. I would have added heavy cream. He reserved salt for the end, saying it would affect the very structure of the animal cells and result in a toughly-textured omelet. I learn so much when he's around!

Having been declared the family omelet maker at the age of 10, I swirled the eggs around the buttered pan, adding a very generous amount of goat cheese and herbs when the eggs were almost cooked, then flipped the omelet in half and told Todd to summon Wifey. Todd removed sizzling turkey bacon from another skillet and we plated our all-American breakfast feast.

"They're like meat chips!" Wifey declared of the bacon, never having had it in any form before. I love the words that come out of her mouth, beautiful bits of humor and freshness. Their wedding was only the second time I met her and I have to admit that it was really hard to watch my brother marry a stranger. I'm so thankful for the opportunity to get to know her and to watch how she and Todd interact. She's family now, and I'm looking forward to more shared holidays and meals. More goat cheese, more monkfish, more meat chips.