No one needs another recipe for pesto, but the basil, if not quite dead, is no longer thriving, and so it is time to pick the plants clean and lay in a stash for winter, or at least the next week. Last weekend I set aside time to do just this, which is incredibly easy now that I no longer use the mortar and pestle.
I love mortar and pestle sets, and find them incredibly useful, and satisfying. I have a small collection of them, including a small one made of virtreous ceramic, and a larger ceramic Japanese mortar with a grooved surface that helps facilitate grinding, but is a bitch to clean. What I really covet is a molcajete, and if I had unlimited counter space, I would leave it out on display because I find it's primitive, sculptural form so attractive. Once I purchased one in the supermarket for a very good price, and immediately set about using it, only to find that whatever I prepared in it was inedible due to the presence of tiny bits of pulverized stone.
For years I swore by the mortar and pestle method of making pesto, believing it yielded a sauce with a true, fresh basil flavor, as opposed to the slightly stale quality of dried basil, on the theory that bruising, as opposed to chopping the leaves preserves the plant's volatile oils. This is also why most recipes instruct for basil to be cut in a chiffonade, as opposed to finely chopped, like parsley.
It was time consuming, and a bit of a pain in the ass, to make pesto by hand, but also fun to do with the kids — pounding things is extremely therapeutic at any age. When she was small, Sarah used to ask for a turn marching the basil.
A few years ago I read Laura Schenone's lovely The Lost Ravioli Recipes of Hoboken, and although I probably shouldn't have been, I was surprised to read a description of Enrichetta, a Genoese woman who made pesto in a blender. Her secrets included working quickly, and adding a bit of water to the blender to give the sauce a smooth, creamy texture.
As Enrichetta's son Sergio says, "Better to make good pesto in a blender than bad pesto in a mortar." This seemed like eminently sensible advice, for pesto, or for life. And so I put away my mortar in favor of the food processor. I was getting tired of all that pounding anyway, and of the kids picking strands of basil they deemed insufficiently pulverized off their pasta.
And now, while making pesto is no longer an event, it is every bit as satisfying and delicious.
Pesto Genovese
You can use either a blender or a food processor for this. Depending on the size of your machine, you may want to make this in two batches to ensure you can work quickly, without clogging the machine.
Because I make this is large batches, and keep the sauce in a jar in the refrigerator covered with a layer of olive oil, I don't add the parmesan until I toss the pesto with pasta. If you are going to serve all the pesto immediately you can add the cheese after the basil. Made without the cheese, pesto keeps for a while in the refrigerator covered in a layer of oil, or can be frozen for longer periods.
1/2 cup pignoli
generous pinch salt
1 fat garlic clove
olive oil
3-4 fistfuls basil leaves, about 4 cups
water
parmigiano-reggiano for serving
Put the pignoli, salt, garlic and a tablespoon or two of oil in the blender or food processor. Grind well, and scrape down the bowl.
Add the basil in two batches, scraping down the sides of the container as necessary, adding a little water at this time. If serving immediately over pasta, add parmigiano-reggiano and process well.
Showing posts with label slinging hash. Show all posts
Showing posts with label slinging hash. Show all posts
06 October 2010
22 September 2010
slinging hash: figs and basil with pomegranate vinaigrette
I am having a love affair with a salad. It began with a dish of sausages and figs in a pomegranate dressing that appealed to me. I bought the figs, made the dressing, grilled sausages. And then I got distracted, and put a few onions and red peppers on the grill; I've never been good at following recipes.
We had sausages and grilled peppers and onions with pomegranate dressing and grilled flat bread for dinner, and as I washed the dishes, I remembered I'd forgotten about the figs.
The next day I sliced the figs and, in a fit of inspiration, arranged them on a plate with some basil leaves, drizzled with some of the leftover dressing, and my new favorite salad was born. I don't know what possessed me to pair basil with the figs. I am an intuitive home cook, not generally prone to inventing flavor pairings or restaurant flourishes. But the combination of meaty figs, with their gently popping seeds, and the sweet-pungent licorice tinged basil is exactly right; so clean, refreshing, and with the vinaigrette, just the right amount of sour, that I can't get enough of it. I have been eating this for lunch, dinner and anything in between.
I am so entranced by this dish that when I refused to leave the table to help Sacha with his bedtime ablutions, he accused me of being greedy. At the time I found this delightfully absurd, but considering that I ate an entire box of figs in one sitting, he may have had a point. Whatever the case may be, it was worth it.
Figs and basil with pomegranate vinaigrette
Adapted from Bon Appetit
fresh figs
basil leaves
salt and pepper
pomegranate vinaigrette
Pomegranate vinaigrette
Pomegranate molasses is available at Middle Eastern markets, and at Whole Foods. I like the Al-Wadi brand.
1/4 cup balsamic or white wine or champagne vinegar, or a combination
1/2-3/4 cup extra-virgin olive oil
1 tablespoon pomegranate molasses
1 teaspoon cumin
salt and pepper
Whisk ingredients in a bowl or measuring cup; season with salt and pepper
Arrange figs and basil leaves on individual plates or a platter. Season with salt and a few grinds of pepper, drizzle with vinaigrette.
It looks beautiful on the plate, that I must hurry up and arrange a dinner party soon, before figs are out of season, so I can watch people swoon.
We had sausages and grilled peppers and onions with pomegranate dressing and grilled flat bread for dinner, and as I washed the dishes, I remembered I'd forgotten about the figs.
The next day I sliced the figs and, in a fit of inspiration, arranged them on a plate with some basil leaves, drizzled with some of the leftover dressing, and my new favorite salad was born. I don't know what possessed me to pair basil with the figs. I am an intuitive home cook, not generally prone to inventing flavor pairings or restaurant flourishes. But the combination of meaty figs, with their gently popping seeds, and the sweet-pungent licorice tinged basil is exactly right; so clean, refreshing, and with the vinaigrette, just the right amount of sour, that I can't get enough of it. I have been eating this for lunch, dinner and anything in between.
I am so entranced by this dish that when I refused to leave the table to help Sacha with his bedtime ablutions, he accused me of being greedy. At the time I found this delightfully absurd, but considering that I ate an entire box of figs in one sitting, he may have had a point. Whatever the case may be, it was worth it.
Figs and basil with pomegranate vinaigrette
Adapted from Bon Appetit
fresh figs
basil leaves
salt and pepper
pomegranate vinaigrette
Pomegranate vinaigrette
Pomegranate molasses is available at Middle Eastern markets, and at Whole Foods. I like the Al-Wadi brand.
1/4 cup balsamic or white wine or champagne vinegar, or a combination
1/2-3/4 cup extra-virgin olive oil
1 tablespoon pomegranate molasses
1 teaspoon cumin
salt and pepper
Whisk ingredients in a bowl or measuring cup; season with salt and pepper
Arrange figs and basil leaves on individual plates or a platter. Season with salt and a few grinds of pepper, drizzle with vinaigrette.
It looks beautiful on the plate, that I must hurry up and arrange a dinner party soon, before figs are out of season, so I can watch people swoon.
14 July 2010
slinging hash: caesar salad
I prefer hot weather to cold, but cold weather cooking over hot weather cooking. I'm complicated that way. During summer, the less time spent in the kitchen the better, and last week, with the heat wave, any impulse I had to cook ground to a halt.
Would that I could afford to order in sushi whenever the temperature reaches triple digits. Until then, all I can stomach is a dinner of salad, bread and cheese.
Normally I can take or leave salads, which I think of as restaurant food. This may have something to do with having been tasked with salad prep as a child, which I still find extremely tedious. But lately, Caesar salad has me in its thrall, and for this I have the Canal House to thank.
The friend who introduced me to Canal House described it as food porn of the highest order. Canal House is a joint undertaking of Christopher Hirsheimer and Melissa Hamilton, who, as best I understand, share a sort of cook's atelier in Lambertville, New Jersey, where they have pulled off the enviable feat of crafting an incredibly seductive print facsimile of their happy, yet no doubt ordinary, domestic and professional lives.
In addition to being beautifully designed, written and photographed, their four volumes of Canal House Cooking are full of recipes for straightforward, delicious things to eat and drink. They do not rely on fancy ingredients, complicated techniques of fussy presentation.
Opening Canal House Cooking puts me in a fugue state, where when I am not sent straight to the kitchen, I desire not so much to curl up with a copy as climb inside.
Technically, this is not a true Caesar salad, because it lacks egg and Worcestershire sauce. With lots of anchovies, the dressing does not stint on flavor. Garlic is pounded with salt, anchovies and Dijon mustard, to which olive oil is added. Rather than add the parmesan directly to the dressing, I add it when I toss the salad, which allows me to save the extra in the fridge.
Serve over romaine, with parmesan cheese and with or without croutons, it makes a satisfying meal on an oppressively hot day.
Caesar Salad Dressing
adapted from Canal House Cooking Volume 3
makes enough for 2-3 salads
Dressing
1 large or 2 small garlic cloves
salt and pepper
6 anchovy fillets
2 teaspoons Dijon mustard
juice of 1 lemon
10-12 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
To serve:
romaine lettuce heartsparmigiano-reggiano cheese, grated
croutons
Smash the garlic in a mortar and pestle, add salt and pepper and grind into a paste. Add anchovies and pound into the garlic paste. Alternately, you can do this on a cutting board with the flat of a knife, and scrape the paste into a bowl before proceeding.
Stir in Dijon mustard and lemon juice. Slowly stir in ten tablespoons olive oil, one tablespoon at a time, until you have a thick dressing. In truth, I don't measure out the oil in advance, preferring to drizzle it in a bit at a time. Go slowly, tasting as you go. Adjust for salt and add up to two additional tablespoons olive oil if dressing is too acidic.
Cut or tear the lettuce into a bowl. Pour dressing over the leaves, add parmesan, and stir to combine. Top with croutons if you have them.
Would that I could afford to order in sushi whenever the temperature reaches triple digits. Until then, all I can stomach is a dinner of salad, bread and cheese.
Normally I can take or leave salads, which I think of as restaurant food. This may have something to do with having been tasked with salad prep as a child, which I still find extremely tedious. But lately, Caesar salad has me in its thrall, and for this I have the Canal House to thank.
The friend who introduced me to Canal House described it as food porn of the highest order. Canal House is a joint undertaking of Christopher Hirsheimer and Melissa Hamilton, who, as best I understand, share a sort of cook's atelier in Lambertville, New Jersey, where they have pulled off the enviable feat of crafting an incredibly seductive print facsimile of their happy, yet no doubt ordinary, domestic and professional lives.
In addition to being beautifully designed, written and photographed, their four volumes of Canal House Cooking are full of recipes for straightforward, delicious things to eat and drink. They do not rely on fancy ingredients, complicated techniques of fussy presentation.
Opening Canal House Cooking puts me in a fugue state, where when I am not sent straight to the kitchen, I desire not so much to curl up with a copy as climb inside.
Technically, this is not a true Caesar salad, because it lacks egg and Worcestershire sauce. With lots of anchovies, the dressing does not stint on flavor. Garlic is pounded with salt, anchovies and Dijon mustard, to which olive oil is added. Rather than add the parmesan directly to the dressing, I add it when I toss the salad, which allows me to save the extra in the fridge.
Serve over romaine, with parmesan cheese and with or without croutons, it makes a satisfying meal on an oppressively hot day.
Caesar Salad Dressing
adapted from Canal House Cooking Volume 3
makes enough for 2-3 salads
Dressing
1 large or 2 small garlic cloves
salt and pepper
6 anchovy fillets
2 teaspoons Dijon mustard
juice of 1 lemon
10-12 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
To serve:
romaine lettuce heartsparmigiano-reggiano cheese, grated
croutons
Smash the garlic in a mortar and pestle, add salt and pepper and grind into a paste. Add anchovies and pound into the garlic paste. Alternately, you can do this on a cutting board with the flat of a knife, and scrape the paste into a bowl before proceeding.
Stir in Dijon mustard and lemon juice. Slowly stir in ten tablespoons olive oil, one tablespoon at a time, until you have a thick dressing. In truth, I don't measure out the oil in advance, preferring to drizzle it in a bit at a time. Go slowly, tasting as you go. Adjust for salt and add up to two additional tablespoons olive oil if dressing is too acidic.
Cut or tear the lettuce into a bowl. Pour dressing over the leaves, add parmesan, and stir to combine. Top with croutons if you have them.
16 June 2010
slinging hash: walnut pesto
When planning menus for dinner parties, I tend to avoid serving the same old thing, and I'm somewhat cavalier about violating that rule about not serving anything you've never made before.
But when it comes to something to put out with drinks, before dinner, I serve up the equivalent of the missionary position — not bold or inventive, but delicious and eminently satisfying.
For years now, my standard spread includes cornichon, the Union Square Cafe's bar nuts, and olives marinated with lemon and herbs. All are easy, and never disappoint. Until recently, I've never deviated from this roster. A few weeks ago, though, I threw caution to the wind, and made walnut pesto.
Although they're not my favorite nuts to eat out of hand, I really like walnuts in sauces; they add body, and have a pleasantly astringent bitterness. This walnut pesto is composed of nothing more than nuts flavored with garlic, sun-dried tomato and thyme and bound together by oil and sherry vinegar. The sun-dried tomato struck me as perhaps a mistake; I wondered if they would be too sweet, and throw off the balance of flavors. But as this was the first time I was making the recipe, I left them in, and it turns out, they are exactly right; punctuating the soft, sweet nutmeats with a little toothsomeness.
I hadn't eaten any lunch on the day I first made this. As a result I found myself making a second batch before I'd even cleaned the food processor. Which brings me to another good point about walnut pesto; it comes together in a trice. When I served this to guests that evening, we could have happily spent the evening eating this with drinks.
So far, I've only served this on toasted baguette, but I imagine it making a nice sandwich spread, a sauce for whole wheat pasta, or dressing for green beans or broccoli.
Walnut Pesto
adapted from smitten kitchen
1 cup shelled walnuts, toasted and cooled
2 tablespoons minced sun-dried tomatoes, oil or dry-packed. (If using dry-packed, soak in boiling water for 5-10 minutes prior to use.)
1 small clove garlic, peeled and crushed
plucked leaves from 3 sprigs of thyme
salt and pepper
small splash of sherry vinegar
Baguette
Coarsely grind walnuts, tomatoes, garlic, and thyme in food processor. Remove to a bowl, and season to taste with salt and pepper. Add a small splash of vinegar. Stir in cheese and oil.
Slice baguette, and grill or toast under broiler. Top toasts with a spoonful of pesto.
But when it comes to something to put out with drinks, before dinner, I serve up the equivalent of the missionary position — not bold or inventive, but delicious and eminently satisfying.
For years now, my standard spread includes cornichon, the Union Square Cafe's bar nuts, and olives marinated with lemon and herbs. All are easy, and never disappoint. Until recently, I've never deviated from this roster. A few weeks ago, though, I threw caution to the wind, and made walnut pesto.
Although they're not my favorite nuts to eat out of hand, I really like walnuts in sauces; they add body, and have a pleasantly astringent bitterness. This walnut pesto is composed of nothing more than nuts flavored with garlic, sun-dried tomato and thyme and bound together by oil and sherry vinegar. The sun-dried tomato struck me as perhaps a mistake; I wondered if they would be too sweet, and throw off the balance of flavors. But as this was the first time I was making the recipe, I left them in, and it turns out, they are exactly right; punctuating the soft, sweet nutmeats with a little toothsomeness.
I hadn't eaten any lunch on the day I first made this. As a result I found myself making a second batch before I'd even cleaned the food processor. Which brings me to another good point about walnut pesto; it comes together in a trice. When I served this to guests that evening, we could have happily spent the evening eating this with drinks.
So far, I've only served this on toasted baguette, but I imagine it making a nice sandwich spread, a sauce for whole wheat pasta, or dressing for green beans or broccoli.
Walnut Pesto
adapted from smitten kitchen
1 cup shelled walnuts, toasted and cooled
2 tablespoons minced sun-dried tomatoes, oil or dry-packed. (If using dry-packed, soak in boiling water for 5-10 minutes prior to use.)
1 small clove garlic, peeled and crushed
plucked leaves from 3 sprigs of thyme
salt and pepper
small splash of sherry vinegar
1/3 cup extra virgin olive oil
1/4 cup parmesan cheese
Baguette
Coarsely grind walnuts, tomatoes, garlic, and thyme in food processor. Remove to a bowl, and season to taste with salt and pepper. Add a small splash of vinegar. Stir in cheese and oil.
Slice baguette, and grill or toast under broiler. Top toasts with a spoonful of pesto.
31 March 2010
slinging hash: matzoh toffee
Passover is upon us, and in my admittedly limited experience, only gentiles, and Jews of the Greatest Generation actually enjoy matzoh. It has a mouth feel reminiscent of cardboard, tears up the roof of your mouth, and, if that weren't insult enough, swallowing it feels like being stabbed in the esophagus. It is messy, leaving a trail of crumbs in its wake. The less said about the havoc it wreaks on one's digestive tract, the better.
I reached a new low this year when I pulled out the vacuum mid-seder to clean up the mess Sacha made by stomping a piece of matzoh to dust on the rug. I think he did it for the pure sensory joy, but it pretty well summed up my sentiments toward this contemptible cracker.
Aside from the occasional piece of matzoh brei, or slathered with butter and salt, the only redeeming thing I've found to do with matzoh is make matzoh toffee. Although I only discovered it last year, apparently this recipe has been around for eons.
It is salty, sweet, chocolaty, and crunchy; easy to make, impossible to resist. This is wicked, wicked stuff, it's only drawback being that it is very hard to resist. Were it not for the fact that you can substitute saltines for the matzoh, I'd be tempted to say this is good enough to lay in a supply of matzoh.
In keeping with my spirit, as opposed to letter of the law nature, I observe my own made-up dietary restrictions for Passover. I won't eat anything yeasted or risen, but see nothing wrong with rice, so call me Sephardic for a week. I usually make it through the week, on my makeshift rules, but this year, my heart's not in it, and I'm presently working on the assumption that where I'm concerned, when the matzoh runs out, Passover's over. Matzoh toffee disappears quickly, so I may speed this along by making a second batch.
Matzoh Toffee
4 to 5 pieces of matzo
1 cup firmly packed dark brown sugar
1 cup (2 sticks) unsalted butter
generous pinch of kosher salt, plus more for sprinkling on top
1 cup semisweet chocolate chips
Preheat the oven to 375 degrees Fahrenheit. Line a baking sheet with aluminum foil.
Place the matzo in one layer on the baking sheet, breaking to fill the pan.
In a large sauce pan, melt butter and brown sugar over medium heat, stirring constantly. When mixture reaches a boil, continue to cook for an additional three minutes, stirrin, until thickened and just starting to pull away from the sides of the pan. Remove from heat, add pinch of salt, and pour over the matzo, spreading an even layer with a heat-proof spatula.
Put the pan in the oven, then immediately reduce the heat to 350 degrees. Bake for 10-15 minutes, checking frequently beginning at the 10 minute mark to make sure it doesn't burn. If it looks like it's starting to burn, turn heat down to 325.
Remove from the oven and immediately sprinkle with chocolate chips over the pan. Let sit for five minutes, spread the chocolate evenly with a spatula. Sprinkle with kosher salt.
Let cool, break into pieces. I store this in the fridge, but room-temperature is also fine.
I reached a new low this year when I pulled out the vacuum mid-seder to clean up the mess Sacha made by stomping a piece of matzoh to dust on the rug. I think he did it for the pure sensory joy, but it pretty well summed up my sentiments toward this contemptible cracker.
Aside from the occasional piece of matzoh brei, or slathered with butter and salt, the only redeeming thing I've found to do with matzoh is make matzoh toffee. Although I only discovered it last year, apparently this recipe has been around for eons.
It is salty, sweet, chocolaty, and crunchy; easy to make, impossible to resist. This is wicked, wicked stuff, it's only drawback being that it is very hard to resist. Were it not for the fact that you can substitute saltines for the matzoh, I'd be tempted to say this is good enough to lay in a supply of matzoh.
In keeping with my spirit, as opposed to letter of the law nature, I observe my own made-up dietary restrictions for Passover. I won't eat anything yeasted or risen, but see nothing wrong with rice, so call me Sephardic for a week. I usually make it through the week, on my makeshift rules, but this year, my heart's not in it, and I'm presently working on the assumption that where I'm concerned, when the matzoh runs out, Passover's over. Matzoh toffee disappears quickly, so I may speed this along by making a second batch.
Matzoh Toffee
4 to 5 pieces of matzo
1 cup firmly packed dark brown sugar
1 cup (2 sticks) unsalted butter
generous pinch of kosher salt, plus more for sprinkling on top
1 cup semisweet chocolate chips
Preheat the oven to 375 degrees Fahrenheit. Line a baking sheet with aluminum foil.
Place the matzo in one layer on the baking sheet, breaking to fill the pan.
In a large sauce pan, melt butter and brown sugar over medium heat, stirring constantly. When mixture reaches a boil, continue to cook for an additional three minutes, stirrin, until thickened and just starting to pull away from the sides of the pan. Remove from heat, add pinch of salt, and pour over the matzo, spreading an even layer with a heat-proof spatula.
Put the pan in the oven, then immediately reduce the heat to 350 degrees. Bake for 10-15 minutes, checking frequently beginning at the 10 minute mark to make sure it doesn't burn. If it looks like it's starting to burn, turn heat down to 325.
Remove from the oven and immediately sprinkle with chocolate chips over the pan. Let sit for five minutes, spread the chocolate evenly with a spatula. Sprinkle with kosher salt.
Let cool, break into pieces. I store this in the fridge, but room-temperature is also fine.
18 March 2010
slinging hash: british flapjacks
Until I saw this recipe — ignorant American! — I never knew flapjacks could refer to something other than pancakes. I have since learned that in the British sense, flapjacks are bar cookies. I prefer bar or roll cookies because they are not only easier to prepare, but are often made without leavening, which I find imparts a slight but noticeable chemical flavor.
And yet, as these contain brown sugar and golden syrup, I suspected I would find them too sweet. These objections were overruled because a friend raved about the recipe, from Molly Wizenberg, who I find has a near-unerring palate.
With the possible exception of golden syrup, making flapjacks requires only five ingredients, all pantry staples. Golden syrup, also known as light treacle, has a lovely, true, sweet flavor, and is not impossible to find in American markets. If you are British, or like me, prefer golden syrup to honey (which I'm not wild for; weird, I know), you've got everything you need.
I am glad I did not listen to myself, because these are delicious. Buttery and toothsome, they are like a decadent, sophisticated granola bar, and I would not at all be above serving them for breakfast in a pinch. An undercurrent of burnt sugar adds an appealing bitter edge, and in combination with the salt, keeps the sweetness in check.
What's even more remarkable, I have made them several times, and all my children still like them. With a house full of highly opinionated palates, a cookie that everyone agrees on is a rare thing indeed. Rarer still is that it takes almost no effort.
British Flapjacks
adapted from Molly Wizenberg's recipe for Bon Appetit
The original recipe calls for quick cooking oats; I prefer old-fashioned, so rather than make a trip to the market, used them. The recipe also calls for a metal pan, and mine is glass. I suspect these changes account for the fact that my flapjacks come out very dense and chewy, as well as the difficulty I had removing them from the pan when cool. I've gotten around this by buttering the pan and lining it with buttered parchment paper, and utilizing my mandible.
1/2 cup (1 stick) unsalted butter, cut into 8 pieces
1/2 cup (packed) golden brown sugar (I sometimes use dark brown sugar, and like it equally well)
1/4 cup golden syrup
Preheat oven to 350°F. Butter 8x8x2-inch metal baking pan. Line with buttered parchment paper.
Combine first 3 ingredients in heavy medium saucepan. Stir constantly over medium-low heat until butter melts, sugar dissolves, and mixture is smooth. Remove from heat. Add oats and salt; stir until coated. Transfer mixture to prepared pan, spread in an even layer, pressing lightly to compact a bit.
And yet, as these contain brown sugar and golden syrup, I suspected I would find them too sweet. These objections were overruled because a friend raved about the recipe, from Molly Wizenberg, who I find has a near-unerring palate.
With the possible exception of golden syrup, making flapjacks requires only five ingredients, all pantry staples. Golden syrup, also known as light treacle, has a lovely, true, sweet flavor, and is not impossible to find in American markets. If you are British, or like me, prefer golden syrup to honey (which I'm not wild for; weird, I know), you've got everything you need.
I am glad I did not listen to myself, because these are delicious. Buttery and toothsome, they are like a decadent, sophisticated granola bar, and I would not at all be above serving them for breakfast in a pinch. An undercurrent of burnt sugar adds an appealing bitter edge, and in combination with the salt, keeps the sweetness in check.
What's even more remarkable, I have made them several times, and all my children still like them. With a house full of highly opinionated palates, a cookie that everyone agrees on is a rare thing indeed. Rarer still is that it takes almost no effort.
British Flapjacks
adapted from Molly Wizenberg's recipe for Bon Appetit
The original recipe calls for quick cooking oats; I prefer old-fashioned, so rather than make a trip to the market, used them. The recipe also calls for a metal pan, and mine is glass. I suspect these changes account for the fact that my flapjacks come out very dense and chewy, as well as the difficulty I had removing them from the pan when cool. I've gotten around this by buttering the pan and lining it with buttered parchment paper, and utilizing my mandible.
1/2 cup (1 stick) unsalted butter, cut into 8 pieces
1/2 cup (packed) golden brown sugar (I sometimes use dark brown sugar, and like it equally well)
1/4 cup golden syrup
2 1/3 cups quick cooking or old-fashioned oats
Generous pinch of salt
Preheat oven to 350°F. Butter 8x8x2-inch metal baking pan. Line with buttered parchment paper.
Combine first 3 ingredients in heavy medium saucepan. Stir constantly over medium-low heat until butter melts, sugar dissolves, and mixture is smooth. Remove from heat. Add oats and salt; stir until coated. Transfer mixture to prepared pan, spread in an even layer, pressing lightly to compact a bit.
Bake until top is golden (edges will be darker), about 25 minutes. Cool in pan on rack 5 minutes. Cut into 4 squares; cut each into 4 triangles (mixture will still be soft). Cool completely in pan before serving.
03 March 2010
slinging hash: roasted potato tacos
Let's say I really sold you on the corn tortillas, and you are looking for something to fill them with. There's beef, in its many forms, especially this brisket, which I cannot get enough of lately, or chicken. Or you could keep it simple and make quesadillas.
I try to serve meat only once or twice a week, and as a result, we eat a lot of pasta. The rhythm of a week's worth of dinners in my house goes something like: beef, pasta, chicken, pasta, fish, pasta. By week's end, determined to make a vegetarian meal that does not involve pasta, I scour blogs and cookbooks to find something new. Often, I expend so much effort looking for a recipe that by the time I'm ready to cook, I've run out of steam, and imagination. When I reach this point, to spice things up, I make a baked pasta.
A few weeks ago, I came across a recipe for roasted potato tacos. It seemed slightly strange, and intriguing. It it quick, easy and tasty, and it works. Plus, it had the added advantage of appealing to one of my general guidelines for feeding children: the starchier, the better.
Roasted Potato Tacos
Adapted from thekitchn
The original recipe called for roasting the potatoes with red pepper as well as onion. I substitute roasted red peppers, but feel free to add one chopped pepper to the potato and onion, or skip it entirely.
I serve this with chipotle mayonnaise, made by whizzing one chipotle pepper in adobo sauce with a cup of mayonnaise and the juice of one lime in the blender.
3 russet potatoes, coarsely chopped
1 medium sized onion, coarsely chopped
1/2 teaspoon kosher salt
1 teaspoon ground cumin
1/2 teaspoon chili powder
1 tablespoon vegetable oil
Corn or flour tortillas for serving, and any, or all of the following:
grated cheddar cheese
roasted red peppers
lime wedges
Preheat oven to 420 degrees. Combine all ingredients and mix thoroughly with your hands until potatoes are well coated. Spread out potato mixture on a baking sheet and roast on middle rack in the oven for 30-40 minutes, until potatoes are tender.
Serve on tortillas, arranged to your liking.
I try to serve meat only once or twice a week, and as a result, we eat a lot of pasta. The rhythm of a week's worth of dinners in my house goes something like: beef, pasta, chicken, pasta, fish, pasta. By week's end, determined to make a vegetarian meal that does not involve pasta, I scour blogs and cookbooks to find something new. Often, I expend so much effort looking for a recipe that by the time I'm ready to cook, I've run out of steam, and imagination. When I reach this point, to spice things up, I make a baked pasta.
A few weeks ago, I came across a recipe for roasted potato tacos. It seemed slightly strange, and intriguing. It it quick, easy and tasty, and it works. Plus, it had the added advantage of appealing to one of my general guidelines for feeding children: the starchier, the better.
Roasted Potato Tacos
Adapted from thekitchn
The original recipe called for roasting the potatoes with red pepper as well as onion. I substitute roasted red peppers, but feel free to add one chopped pepper to the potato and onion, or skip it entirely.
I serve this with chipotle mayonnaise, made by whizzing one chipotle pepper in adobo sauce with a cup of mayonnaise and the juice of one lime in the blender.
3 russet potatoes, coarsely chopped
1 medium sized onion, coarsely chopped
1/2 teaspoon kosher salt
1 teaspoon ground cumin
1/2 teaspoon chili powder
1 tablespoon vegetable oil
Corn or flour tortillas for serving, and any, or all of the following:
grated cheddar cheese
roasted red peppers
lime wedges
Preheat oven to 420 degrees. Combine all ingredients and mix thoroughly with your hands until potatoes are well coated. Spread out potato mixture on a baking sheet and roast on middle rack in the oven for 30-40 minutes, until potatoes are tender.
Serve on tortillas, arranged to your liking.
25 February 2010
slinging hash: sugar cookies
I don't know anyone who doesn't like a cookie, and were I to run across such a person, I would be highly suspect of their character. Yet, at the risk of contradicting myself, or casting aspersions on my own character, there are a lot of down-home standby cookies which I could take or leave.
I blame it on the leavening. I find the slightly bitter, metallic taste of baking powder and soda compromises my cookie experience. That's why I favor baked goods in the shortbread/brownie vein. But after being deluged with shortbread for months on end, cookie fatigue sets in, myclientele children begin to revolt, and I am forced to come up with something new.
And thus the cycle begins anew.
The last time this happened, I turned to sugar cookies. Because they are, basically, shortbread with an egg yolk, I was not really moving far afield. The addition of the egg makes for a slightly richer, more tender cookie. Like shortbread, sugar cookies are roll, as opposed to drop cookies, which from my perspective as the cook, is neater and more streamlined.
You could accuse me of being selfish or lazy, and you would have a point, but I prefer to think that as a yogi, I'm merely trying to find the middle way for all manner of cookie lovers.
My preferred way of eating sugar cookies is sandwich style, with a layer of raspberry preserves, and so I prepared one batch this way. Sometimes, I really do not understand my children, because, in anticipation of any potential problems, I strained the seeds from the preserves before filling the cookies, yet two out of three still rejected them.
And so they have been happily eating plain sugar cookies for two weeks now. Lest I get too comfortable, as they finished the last batch, Sarah admonished that precisely because she likes sugar cookies, I should stop making them soon, because if she has to eat many more, she is going to be sick of them.
A woman's work is never done.
Sugar Cookies
adapted from Sunday Suppers at Lucques, by Suzanne Goin
Once the cookies are cool, I heat about a half a cup of raspberry preserves in the microwave for about 30 seconds, strain it through a fine mesh sieve, spread on the cookies and top with another round.
1 cup (2 sticks) softened butter
3/4 cup granulated sugar, plus extra for rolling
1 extra-large egg yolk
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
2 cups all-purpose flour
1/4 teaspoon kosher salt
raspberry preserves, optional
Cream the butter at high speed, preferably in a stand mixer with paddle attachment, about 1 minute.
Add the sugar, beat 3-4 minutes at medium high, until light and fluffy.
Add the egg yolk and vanilla, beat a few more minutes, until light and fluffy. Slowly add the flour and salt, mixing at low speed until dough comes together.
Shape dough into logs about 1-1/2 inches diameter. Roll logs in sugar, wrap in plastic wrap, and refrigerate until firm, at least one hour.
Prior to baking, preheat oven to 350 degrees fahrenheit. Slice logs into 1/4 inch thick rounds and space on baking sheet. I like to sprinkle the tops with a bit of kosher salt.
Bake 10-12 minutes, until lightly browned on bottom. Fill with raspberry jam, or not.
I blame it on the leavening. I find the slightly bitter, metallic taste of baking powder and soda compromises my cookie experience. That's why I favor baked goods in the shortbread/brownie vein. But after being deluged with shortbread for months on end, cookie fatigue sets in, my
And thus the cycle begins anew.
The last time this happened, I turned to sugar cookies. Because they are, basically, shortbread with an egg yolk, I was not really moving far afield. The addition of the egg makes for a slightly richer, more tender cookie. Like shortbread, sugar cookies are roll, as opposed to drop cookies, which from my perspective as the cook, is neater and more streamlined.
You could accuse me of being selfish or lazy, and you would have a point, but I prefer to think that as a yogi, I'm merely trying to find the middle way for all manner of cookie lovers.
My preferred way of eating sugar cookies is sandwich style, with a layer of raspberry preserves, and so I prepared one batch this way. Sometimes, I really do not understand my children, because, in anticipation of any potential problems, I strained the seeds from the preserves before filling the cookies, yet two out of three still rejected them.
And so they have been happily eating plain sugar cookies for two weeks now. Lest I get too comfortable, as they finished the last batch, Sarah admonished that precisely because she likes sugar cookies, I should stop making them soon, because if she has to eat many more, she is going to be sick of them.
A woman's work is never done.
Sugar Cookies
adapted from Sunday Suppers at Lucques, by Suzanne Goin
Once the cookies are cool, I heat about a half a cup of raspberry preserves in the microwave for about 30 seconds, strain it through a fine mesh sieve, spread on the cookies and top with another round.
1 cup (2 sticks) softened butter
3/4 cup granulated sugar, plus extra for rolling
1 extra-large egg yolk
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
2 cups all-purpose flour
1/4 teaspoon kosher salt
raspberry preserves, optional
Cream the butter at high speed, preferably in a stand mixer with paddle attachment, about 1 minute.
Add the sugar, beat 3-4 minutes at medium high, until light and fluffy.
Add the egg yolk and vanilla, beat a few more minutes, until light and fluffy. Slowly add the flour and salt, mixing at low speed until dough comes together.
Shape dough into logs about 1-1/2 inches diameter. Roll logs in sugar, wrap in plastic wrap, and refrigerate until firm, at least one hour.
Prior to baking, preheat oven to 350 degrees fahrenheit. Slice logs into 1/4 inch thick rounds and space on baking sheet. I like to sprinkle the tops with a bit of kosher salt.
Bake 10-12 minutes, until lightly browned on bottom. Fill with raspberry jam, or not.
18 February 2010
slinging hash: baked pasta with cauliflower
For most of my life, I was a devoted cauliflower hater. It had the texture of soy cheese, and bore an unfortunate resemblance to the cerebral cortex.
Or so I thought, that is, until, I began roasting brussels sprouts a few winters ago. Enamored of this easy, delicious preparation, my friend Sharon suggested I try giving cauliflower the same treatment. The next time I went to the market I picked up a head, and sure enough, I adored roasted cauliflower. The high, slow heat of the oven transforms it into something sweet and a little silky, and once I start eating it, it is difficult to stop.
After a year of nothing but roasting, I was ready to branch out. I tried, and enjoyed cauliflower in gratins and soups, and sauteed with Indian seasonings. But roasted cauliflower is always in heavy rotation in my winter vegetable repertory.
This year, it has been joined by another standby, baked pasta with cauliflower. I came across this dish in Matthew Amster-Burton's Hungry Monkey. The method is simple; pasta is parboiled with a cut up head of cauliflower, tossed with cheeses, and quickly blasted in the oven at a high heat.
The first time I served it Sarah declared it her favorite dish ever. This came as no surprise to me; as it was plain and gentle, completely inoffensive, but a little bland for my taste. In other words, perfect for Sarah's palate.
Because she loved it so, and I aim to provide the best service possible, I kept dutifully making it, and while it was perfectly good, it seemed to be missing something. The last time I made it, I reread the recipe, it turned out I was indeed missing something, namely, two cups of cream. While I tend to play fast and loose with a list of ingredients, as cream was the first ingredient listed, this seemed like more than a small oversight on my part.
Although I am not afraid of cooking with cream, or fats in general, two cups seemed excessive, so I cut it back to about a cup, and added some pasta cooking water to make up for the loss of liquid. The addition of cream made all the difference in the world, transforming this from dull and dry to rich and toothsome; that's cream for you.
Since I discovered and corrected my omission, I've been playing around with this dish, substituting gruyere cheese for parmigiano, and adding some grated nutmeg, which are both natural pairings cauliflower.
Baked Pasta with Cauliflower
Adapted from Matthew Amster-Burton
serves 4-6
1/2 cup gruyere or parmigiano reggiano
1 cup mozzarella cheese, cubed
1/4 cup ricotta cheese
1 box penne rigate
1 medium head cauliflower cut in small florets
4 tablespoons unsalted butter
1 cup heavy cream
salt and pepper
grated nutmeg
Preheat oven to 500 degrees fahrenheit.
Butter a 9x12 casserole dish.
Boil pasta and cauliflower together in salted water for five minutes, and drain, reserving 1 cup cooking water. Alternately, using a wide mesh skimmer, deposit pasta and cauliflower directly from pot and into baking dish, which should provide enough cooking liquid.
Toss the drained pasta in the baking dish with the cream and cheeses. If it seems dry, add a bit more pasta liquid. Taste and season with salt and pepper. Dot top with butter and freshly grated nutmeg.
Bake 10-12 minutes, until the pasta is beginning to brown. Serve immediately.
Or so I thought, that is, until, I began roasting brussels sprouts a few winters ago. Enamored of this easy, delicious preparation, my friend Sharon suggested I try giving cauliflower the same treatment. The next time I went to the market I picked up a head, and sure enough, I adored roasted cauliflower. The high, slow heat of the oven transforms it into something sweet and a little silky, and once I start eating it, it is difficult to stop.
After a year of nothing but roasting, I was ready to branch out. I tried, and enjoyed cauliflower in gratins and soups, and sauteed with Indian seasonings. But roasted cauliflower is always in heavy rotation in my winter vegetable repertory.
This year, it has been joined by another standby, baked pasta with cauliflower. I came across this dish in Matthew Amster-Burton's Hungry Monkey. The method is simple; pasta is parboiled with a cut up head of cauliflower, tossed with cheeses, and quickly blasted in the oven at a high heat.
The first time I served it Sarah declared it her favorite dish ever. This came as no surprise to me; as it was plain and gentle, completely inoffensive, but a little bland for my taste. In other words, perfect for Sarah's palate.
Because she loved it so, and I aim to provide the best service possible, I kept dutifully making it, and while it was perfectly good, it seemed to be missing something. The last time I made it, I reread the recipe, it turned out I was indeed missing something, namely, two cups of cream. While I tend to play fast and loose with a list of ingredients, as cream was the first ingredient listed, this seemed like more than a small oversight on my part.
Although I am not afraid of cooking with cream, or fats in general, two cups seemed excessive, so I cut it back to about a cup, and added some pasta cooking water to make up for the loss of liquid. The addition of cream made all the difference in the world, transforming this from dull and dry to rich and toothsome; that's cream for you.
Since I discovered and corrected my omission, I've been playing around with this dish, substituting gruyere cheese for parmigiano, and adding some grated nutmeg, which are both natural pairings cauliflower.
Baked Pasta with Cauliflower
Adapted from Matthew Amster-Burton
serves 4-6
1/2 cup gruyere or parmigiano reggiano
1 cup mozzarella cheese, cubed
1/4 cup ricotta cheese
1 box penne rigate
1 medium head cauliflower cut in small florets
4 tablespoons unsalted butter
1 cup heavy cream
salt and pepper
grated nutmeg
Preheat oven to 500 degrees fahrenheit.
Butter a 9x12 casserole dish.
Boil pasta and cauliflower together in salted water for five minutes, and drain, reserving 1 cup cooking water. Alternately, using a wide mesh skimmer, deposit pasta and cauliflower directly from pot and into baking dish, which should provide enough cooking liquid.
Toss the drained pasta in the baking dish with the cream and cheeses. If it seems dry, add a bit more pasta liquid. Taste and season with salt and pepper. Dot top with butter and freshly grated nutmeg.
Bake 10-12 minutes, until the pasta is beginning to brown. Serve immediately.
10 February 2010
slinging hash: carbonnade
Although I make it with some regularity every winter, I am not head-over-heels for beef stew.
Although there are many ways to flavor a beef stew, the method I've relied upon for years uses beer for the braising liquid, and is finished with a bit of tomato paste to brighten the flavors. It is sturdy, dependable and warming, and while I would never refuse a bowl, it bores me. The flavor strikes me as a bit too dull and brown. The tomato paste provides a jolt of acidity, but to my palate, it's inherent sweetness dampens the effect.
Recently I discovered carbonnade, a Belgian stew of beef and beer. The meat is braised in beer with a generous amount of onion, but finished with mustard, and this, I think, makes all the difference. The beer gives it bitterness, the onions provide sweetness, and the mustard provides tang, which pulls it all together.
The result is a gentle balance of sweet and sour. It is homey and unpretentious, with a touch of elegance. Thanks to carbonnade, I no longer merely tolerate beef stew, but look forward to it.
Carbonnade (Belgian beef stew with beer)
Adapted from Marc Bittman's How to Cook Everything
Serves 4-6
2 tablespoons neutral oil
1 clove garlic, crushed
2-2-1/2 pounds boneless beef chuck, cut in 1-1/2 inch cubes
salt and pepper
3-4 medium onions cut into eighths
1 bay leaf
1/2 teaspoon dried thyme
1-2 bottles dark beer, like Guinness Draught (not Extra Stout, which is too bitter)
Heat a large pot with a lid on medium high for 2-3 minutes. While the pan is preheating, generously salt and pepper the beef.
Add the oil, garlic clove, and about half of the beef, being careful not to crowd the pan. You want to brown the beef, so err on the side of more space in the pan, or the meat will steam. Cook undisturbed on one side about five minutes until a nice crust forms, before turning the cubes. Repeat with remaining beef.
Remove the beef to a plate, spoon of most of the fat off, and reduce heat to medium. Add the onions and cook, stirring occasionally until softened, about 10 minutes. Add enough beer to partially submerge, but not completely cover the beef. Start with one bottle of beer, adding more if necessary. Add the bay leaf and thyme and bring to a boil. Turn the heat down to low and cover. Cook undisturbed anywhere from 60-90 minutes, until beef is tender. Before serving, add the mustard, stirring to combine, which will give the stew a bit more body.
I like to finish this with chopped parsley and serve with mashed potatoes.
Although there are many ways to flavor a beef stew, the method I've relied upon for years uses beer for the braising liquid, and is finished with a bit of tomato paste to brighten the flavors. It is sturdy, dependable and warming, and while I would never refuse a bowl, it bores me. The flavor strikes me as a bit too dull and brown. The tomato paste provides a jolt of acidity, but to my palate, it's inherent sweetness dampens the effect.
Recently I discovered carbonnade, a Belgian stew of beef and beer. The meat is braised in beer with a generous amount of onion, but finished with mustard, and this, I think, makes all the difference. The beer gives it bitterness, the onions provide sweetness, and the mustard provides tang, which pulls it all together.
The result is a gentle balance of sweet and sour. It is homey and unpretentious, with a touch of elegance. Thanks to carbonnade, I no longer merely tolerate beef stew, but look forward to it.
Carbonnade (Belgian beef stew with beer)
Adapted from Marc Bittman's How to Cook Everything
Serves 4-6
2 tablespoons neutral oil
1 clove garlic, crushed
2-2-1/2 pounds boneless beef chuck, cut in 1-1/2 inch cubes
salt and pepper
3-4 medium onions cut into eighths
1 bay leaf
1/2 teaspoon dried thyme
1-2 bottles dark beer, like Guinness Draught (not Extra Stout, which is too bitter)
Heat a large pot with a lid on medium high for 2-3 minutes. While the pan is preheating, generously salt and pepper the beef.
Add the oil, garlic clove, and about half of the beef, being careful not to crowd the pan. You want to brown the beef, so err on the side of more space in the pan, or the meat will steam. Cook undisturbed on one side about five minutes until a nice crust forms, before turning the cubes. Repeat with remaining beef.
Remove the beef to a plate, spoon of most of the fat off, and reduce heat to medium. Add the onions and cook, stirring occasionally until softened, about 10 minutes. Add enough beer to partially submerge, but not completely cover the beef. Start with one bottle of beer, adding more if necessary. Add the bay leaf and thyme and bring to a boil. Turn the heat down to low and cover. Cook undisturbed anywhere from 60-90 minutes, until beef is tender. Before serving, add the mustard, stirring to combine, which will give the stew a bit more body.
I like to finish this with chopped parsley and serve with mashed potatoes.
20 January 2010
slinging hash: corn tortillas
I know, I know; you're never going to do this, but hear me out.
In the early days of our marriage, David would occasionally return from the supermarket with a sack of masa harina, and a plan toroll our own make tortillas.
I must have no trace of Mexican ancestry in my genes, because although I am game to cook many things of different nationalities, tortillas never called to me. And so the sack of masa would sit in our pantry until enough time expired that it was surely stale, at which point, I would toss it.
This cycle went on for many years, until we had children, and were both too busy to entertain thoughts of homemade tortillas.
Until last year, when a fresh sack appeared, and David declared, "I am going to make tortillas."
"Yes, dear," I replied, accompanied by the bemused look a woman gives her spouse when she is confident that she knows him better than he knows himself.
And then an evening came to pass that I was making something intended to be wrapped in tortillas, only, once preparation was well underway, I discovered I had none. It was close to dinner, the weather was shitty, and I did not feel like dragging my clan to the market. I pulled out the masa harina.
Wouldn't you know, tortillas were fast and extremely easy, and so much better than anything I'd ever purchased in a market. They were thicker and fluffier, tender but still sturdy, with the sweet, fresh flavor of corn, and none of the chemical tang of store-bought tortillas.
I really liked them. And so, I made them again, and again, and again, until I realized that tortillas had become such a regular part of my repertory that it was time to renege on my policy against single-use appliances, and buy a tortilla press.
And now, they are even easier to make.
Corn tortillas
2 cups masa harina
1/4 teaspoon salt
1-1/4 - 1-1/2 cups water
Rip off 8-10 sheets of wax or parchment paper about 7 inches long, and cut in half. Preheat a pan or griddle over medium high heat. Preheat oven to 200 degrees farenheit.
Place the masa and salt in a bowl, and whisk to combine. Add the 1-1/4 cups water, mixing until incorporated into a smooth dough with roughly the consistency of playdough. If the dough seems dry, add a bit more water. Masa harina has an amazing capacity to soak up liquid, and I often find that what starts off seeming like a wet dough winds up requiring additional liquid.
Break off a lump the size of a plump baby's fist, place between two sheets of wax or parchment paper and smash lightly to flatten. Press in a tortilla press, or use a rolling pin, working from the center out, to flatten into a circle about 5 inches in diameter.
Cook a few minutes on heated pan or griddle, until bottom begins to set, flip and cook one minute longer. Keep warm in oven until ready to serve.
Cooked tortillas keep well in the fridge or freezer in a sealed plastic bag.
In the early days of our marriage, David would occasionally return from the supermarket with a sack of masa harina, and a plan to
I must have no trace of Mexican ancestry in my genes, because although I am game to cook many things of different nationalities, tortillas never called to me. And so the sack of masa would sit in our pantry until enough time expired that it was surely stale, at which point, I would toss it.
This cycle went on for many years, until we had children, and were both too busy to entertain thoughts of homemade tortillas.
Until last year, when a fresh sack appeared, and David declared, "I am going to make tortillas."
"Yes, dear," I replied, accompanied by the bemused look a woman gives her spouse when she is confident that she knows him better than he knows himself.
And then an evening came to pass that I was making something intended to be wrapped in tortillas, only, once preparation was well underway, I discovered I had none. It was close to dinner, the weather was shitty, and I did not feel like dragging my clan to the market. I pulled out the masa harina.
Wouldn't you know, tortillas were fast and extremely easy, and so much better than anything I'd ever purchased in a market. They were thicker and fluffier, tender but still sturdy, with the sweet, fresh flavor of corn, and none of the chemical tang of store-bought tortillas.
I really liked them. And so, I made them again, and again, and again, until I realized that tortillas had become such a regular part of my repertory that it was time to renege on my policy against single-use appliances, and buy a tortilla press.
And now, they are even easier to make.
Corn tortillas
2 cups masa harina
1/4 teaspoon salt
1-1/4 - 1-1/2 cups water
Rip off 8-10 sheets of wax or parchment paper about 7 inches long, and cut in half. Preheat a pan or griddle over medium high heat. Preheat oven to 200 degrees farenheit.
Place the masa and salt in a bowl, and whisk to combine. Add the 1-1/4 cups water, mixing until incorporated into a smooth dough with roughly the consistency of playdough. If the dough seems dry, add a bit more water. Masa harina has an amazing capacity to soak up liquid, and I often find that what starts off seeming like a wet dough winds up requiring additional liquid.
Break off a lump the size of a plump baby's fist, place between two sheets of wax or parchment paper and smash lightly to flatten. Press in a tortilla press, or use a rolling pin, working from the center out, to flatten into a circle about 5 inches in diameter.
Cook a few minutes on heated pan or griddle, until bottom begins to set, flip and cook one minute longer. Keep warm in oven until ready to serve.
Cooked tortillas keep well in the fridge or freezer in a sealed plastic bag.
23 December 2009
Slinging hash: peppermint bark
Ours is a chocolate mint family. I ate a vast quantity of mint chip ice cream when Sarah was in utero, and it is hard to imagine a combination those flavors that I would find unappetizing.
And so last year around this time, when I came across a recipe for peppermint bark, I had to try it, and it was unsurprised to love it. Although I am Jewish, I am not immune to the Pavlovian Christmas baking reflex, and Sarah has earned a reputation as the Jew Who Loves Christmas, and so last weekend, on a snowy Saturday, we broke out the double boiler.
Peppermint bark is essentially a sandwich of white chocolate with a chocolate ganache filling. It contains two things I'm not crazy about on their own — white chocolate and peppermint candies — but it all comes together nicely. Making it isn't hard, but it does require an hour or so of patience, as you spread melted chocolate and wait for each layer to cool before laying on the next.
By the time we were through with dinner, the bark was chilled enough to slice. It was a messy job, sending bits of starlight mints about my just washed kitchen floor, but that's what you get for cleaning up prematurely. Hands flew to catch shards as I broke up the sheet of chocolate, but seeing as mine were among them, I could hardly scold. If you are at all like me, you eat this until you are hovering at the edge of sugar shock, have a glass of water, and then eat a bit more.
Peppermint Bark
adapted from Orangette, who adapted from Bon Appetit
Make sure your white chocolate contains cocoa butter, not hydrogenated oils. Whole Foods white chocolate chips, or Ghiradelli white chocolate bars are good quality and not too expensive.
Crushing the mints is a bit of a pain in the ass, as you have to remove each one from its wrapper and then crush them. I place them in a plastic ziploc bag and have my kids enthusiastically go at them with the blunt end of a rolling pin.
24 oz white chocolate, finely chopped or white chocolate chips
30 red-and-white-striped hard peppermint candies (starlight mints), coarsely crushed
7 oz bittersweet chocolate chips, such as Ghirardelli 60%
6 tbsp heavy cream
¾ tsp peppermint extract
Turn a large baking sheet bottom side up and cover with aluminum foil. Mark a 12 x 9-inch rectangle on the foil. Melt white chocolate in metal bowl set over saucepan of barely simmering water (do not allow bottom of bowl to touch water) until chocolate is melted and smooth. Pour approximately 2/3 of the melted white chocolate onto the rectangle on the foil. Use an icing spatula to spread the chocolate to fill the rectangle. Sprinkle with 1/4 cup crushed peppermints. Chill until set, about 15 minutes.
Microwave the cream in a glass measuring cup in thirty second intervals until steaming, about 60 seconds. Pour cream over bittersweet chocolate, leave for a minute, and then stir until the chocolate melts. Add the peppermint extract. Cool to barely lukewarm, about 5 minutes. Pour bittersweet chocolate mixture over chilled white chocolate rectangle. Use icing spatula to spread bittersweet chocolate in an even layer. Refrigerate until very cold and firm, about 25 minutes.
Rewarm remaining white chocolate in bowl set over barely simmering water. Working quickly, pour white chocolate over firm bittersweet chocolate layer; spread to cover. Immediately sprinkle with remaining crushed peppermints. Chill just until firm, about 20 minutes.
Lift foil with bark onto work surface, break or cut into pieces, eating as you go.
And so last year around this time, when I came across a recipe for peppermint bark, I had to try it, and it was unsurprised to love it. Although I am Jewish, I am not immune to the Pavlovian Christmas baking reflex, and Sarah has earned a reputation as the Jew Who Loves Christmas, and so last weekend, on a snowy Saturday, we broke out the double boiler.
Peppermint bark is essentially a sandwich of white chocolate with a chocolate ganache filling. It contains two things I'm not crazy about on their own — white chocolate and peppermint candies — but it all comes together nicely. Making it isn't hard, but it does require an hour or so of patience, as you spread melted chocolate and wait for each layer to cool before laying on the next.
By the time we were through with dinner, the bark was chilled enough to slice. It was a messy job, sending bits of starlight mints about my just washed kitchen floor, but that's what you get for cleaning up prematurely. Hands flew to catch shards as I broke up the sheet of chocolate, but seeing as mine were among them, I could hardly scold. If you are at all like me, you eat this until you are hovering at the edge of sugar shock, have a glass of water, and then eat a bit more.
Peppermint Bark
adapted from Orangette, who adapted from Bon Appetit
Make sure your white chocolate contains cocoa butter, not hydrogenated oils. Whole Foods white chocolate chips, or Ghiradelli white chocolate bars are good quality and not too expensive.
Crushing the mints is a bit of a pain in the ass, as you have to remove each one from its wrapper and then crush them. I place them in a plastic ziploc bag and have my kids enthusiastically go at them with the blunt end of a rolling pin.
24 oz white chocolate, finely chopped or white chocolate chips
30 red-and-white-striped hard peppermint candies (starlight mints), coarsely crushed
7 oz bittersweet chocolate chips, such as Ghirardelli 60%
6 tbsp heavy cream
¾ tsp peppermint extract
Turn a large baking sheet bottom side up and cover with aluminum foil. Mark a 12 x 9-inch rectangle on the foil. Melt white chocolate in metal bowl set over saucepan of barely simmering water (do not allow bottom of bowl to touch water) until chocolate is melted and smooth. Pour approximately 2/3 of the melted white chocolate onto the rectangle on the foil. Use an icing spatula to spread the chocolate to fill the rectangle. Sprinkle with 1/4 cup crushed peppermints. Chill until set, about 15 minutes.
Microwave the cream in a glass measuring cup in thirty second intervals until steaming, about 60 seconds. Pour cream over bittersweet chocolate, leave for a minute, and then stir until the chocolate melts. Add the peppermint extract. Cool to barely lukewarm, about 5 minutes. Pour bittersweet chocolate mixture over chilled white chocolate rectangle. Use icing spatula to spread bittersweet chocolate in an even layer. Refrigerate until very cold and firm, about 25 minutes.
Rewarm remaining white chocolate in bowl set over barely simmering water. Working quickly, pour white chocolate over firm bittersweet chocolate layer; spread to cover. Immediately sprinkle with remaining crushed peppermints. Chill just until firm, about 20 minutes.
Lift foil with bark onto work surface, break or cut into pieces, eating as you go.
02 December 2009
slinging hash: poached pears
For Thanksgiving dessert, I usually serve pumpkin pie and pears baked in red wine. Pie, because I like it, and pears, because the majority of my family DOES NOT LIKE PIE. While I try to steer clear of anything smacking of jingoistic, I believe this to be un-American, but I am willing to overlook it, because I love them.
This year, although my Thanksgiving preparations proceeded with unprecedented smoothness, not having a double oven, I was crunched for oven space, and wanted to go to sleep. This made baking the pears problematic, so I decided to poach them.
It's extremely simple to poach fruit, and pears are especially delicious prepared this way; these are the two criteria I look for in most things I cook. I like Bosc pears best for this, because they're firm fleshed, and hold their shape well. You prepare a flavorful liquid, add some spices, bring it to a boil, immerse cut fruit, and simmer for a spell.
Poached pears have the added advantage of being able to sit on the stove top overnight with no ill effect, a distinct advantage if like me, you were tight on refrigerator space on Thanksgiving eve.
In a last minute fit of derring-do, because I'd also made these for the kids, I decided to serve the pears as an appetizer, with blue cheese, which is something David and I used to eat at La Bouillabaisse, on Atlantic Avenue in Brooklyn. As we reminisced about these pears, David reminded me of the last time we ate there, shortly before we moved to New Jersey, when, eight months pregnant with Sarah, I freaked the wait staff out by having a glass of wine with dinner. That was fun.
Oh, my, these are good.
Poached pears
Adapted from The Cook's Bible
4 cups water
2 cups white wine
1 cup sugar
2 bay leaves
1 strip orange rind
1 piece of vanilla bean
a few sprigs of rosemary
handful of crushed black peppercorns
3 pounds of Bosc pears
Blue cheese (I like gorgonzola dolce)
Combine the ingredients for the poaching liquid in a saucepan large enough to hold the fruit. Bring to a boil, and turn heat down to a simmer.
Peel, halve and core the pears, add to the poaching liquid. Simmer for about 25 minutes, until pears are tender.
Prior to serving, remove pears from liquid and reduce over medium-high heat by about half. Serve with a bit of syrup, and a wedge of blue cheese
This year, although my Thanksgiving preparations proceeded with unprecedented smoothness, not having a double oven, I was crunched for oven space, and wanted to go to sleep. This made baking the pears problematic, so I decided to poach them.
It's extremely simple to poach fruit, and pears are especially delicious prepared this way; these are the two criteria I look for in most things I cook. I like Bosc pears best for this, because they're firm fleshed, and hold their shape well. You prepare a flavorful liquid, add some spices, bring it to a boil, immerse cut fruit, and simmer for a spell.
Poached pears have the added advantage of being able to sit on the stove top overnight with no ill effect, a distinct advantage if like me, you were tight on refrigerator space on Thanksgiving eve.
In a last minute fit of derring-do, because I'd also made these for the kids, I decided to serve the pears as an appetizer, with blue cheese, which is something David and I used to eat at La Bouillabaisse, on Atlantic Avenue in Brooklyn. As we reminisced about these pears, David reminded me of the last time we ate there, shortly before we moved to New Jersey, when, eight months pregnant with Sarah, I freaked the wait staff out by having a glass of wine with dinner. That was fun.
Oh, my, these are good.
Poached pears
Adapted from The Cook's Bible
4 cups water
2 cups white wine
1 cup sugar
2 bay leaves
1 strip orange rind
1 piece of vanilla bean
a few sprigs of rosemary
handful of crushed black peppercorns
3 pounds of Bosc pears
Blue cheese (I like gorgonzola dolce)
Combine the ingredients for the poaching liquid in a saucepan large enough to hold the fruit. Bring to a boil, and turn heat down to a simmer.
Peel, halve and core the pears, add to the poaching liquid. Simmer for about 25 minutes, until pears are tender.
Prior to serving, remove pears from liquid and reduce over medium-high heat by about half. Serve with a bit of syrup, and a wedge of blue cheese
28 October 2009
slinging hash: garlic soup
In an exquisite feat of timing, my children fell ill this week in highly choreographed fashion. Gabriel went first, spiking a fever on Sunday evening. Sarah came home early from school on Monday, and Sacha woke up sick in the middle of the night. I thought this most considerate of them, as it means we'll get this round over with quickly, whereas if they'd staggered their sickness, I would be housebound for the better part of a week.
We had a very pleasant day, in part because the kids were too sick to be demanding, and spent the time alternating between napping and sitting in front of the television in a stupor. I did get breathed and coughed on a lot, however, which left me wondering how many days it will be until I fall ill.
And so when it came time to prepare dinner, I thought of garlic soup. I started making garlic soup years ago, inspired by a recipe in John Thorne's excellent Outlaw Cook. Research is beginning to confirm the folk wisdom that garlic may help ward off colds. I knew my kids would hate it, but as they had no appetite, I didn't have to worry about feeding them, so why not try to stack the odds against getting sick in my favor?
Garlic soup is quick and easy. You boil garlic in water, mash the garlic into a paste and return to the water, which is then enriched with eggs. Boiling the garlic tames its pungency into something delicate, while the eggs give the soup body. In all, it is a great demonstration of one of the most awesome things about soup, in that you can make something delicious from practically nothing.
Garlic Soup
serves 4
I serve this with bread or croutons, but plain boiled rice would also work.
6 cups water
12 cloves of garlic, peeled
bay leaf
a few sage leaves or sprigs of thyme, optional
salt and pepper
6 eggs
a few slices of crusty bread
1-2 tablespoons olive oil
Bring the water, garlic, bay leaf, herbs and a teaspoon of salt to a boil. When the water comes to a boil, turn it down to a simmer and cook until the garlic softens, 15-20 minutes. Remove garlic and mash to a paste in a mortar, or with the flat of a knife. Return garlic to the pot.
Beat the eggs in a bowl, and slowly add to this a ladle-full of the cooking liquid, whisking constantly. Whisk the eggs into the pot and stir over very low heat. If the soup comes to a boil, the eggs will curdle, which is not a tragedy. Adjust seasoning.
Meanwhile, broil or toast the bread, and drizzle with olive oil, salt and pepper, and place in the bottom of soup bowls. Ladle the soup over the bread, garnish with additional herbs and a drizzle of olive oil, or not.
Serve immediately.
We had a very pleasant day, in part because the kids were too sick to be demanding, and spent the time alternating between napping and sitting in front of the television in a stupor. I did get breathed and coughed on a lot, however, which left me wondering how many days it will be until I fall ill.
And so when it came time to prepare dinner, I thought of garlic soup. I started making garlic soup years ago, inspired by a recipe in John Thorne's excellent Outlaw Cook. Research is beginning to confirm the folk wisdom that garlic may help ward off colds. I knew my kids would hate it, but as they had no appetite, I didn't have to worry about feeding them, so why not try to stack the odds against getting sick in my favor?
Garlic soup is quick and easy. You boil garlic in water, mash the garlic into a paste and return to the water, which is then enriched with eggs. Boiling the garlic tames its pungency into something delicate, while the eggs give the soup body. In all, it is a great demonstration of one of the most awesome things about soup, in that you can make something delicious from practically nothing.
Garlic Soup
serves 4
I serve this with bread or croutons, but plain boiled rice would also work.
6 cups water
12 cloves of garlic, peeled
bay leaf
a few sage leaves or sprigs of thyme, optional
salt and pepper
6 eggs
a few slices of crusty bread
1-2 tablespoons olive oil
Bring the water, garlic, bay leaf, herbs and a teaspoon of salt to a boil. When the water comes to a boil, turn it down to a simmer and cook until the garlic softens, 15-20 minutes. Remove garlic and mash to a paste in a mortar, or with the flat of a knife. Return garlic to the pot.
Beat the eggs in a bowl, and slowly add to this a ladle-full of the cooking liquid, whisking constantly. Whisk the eggs into the pot and stir over very low heat. If the soup comes to a boil, the eggs will curdle, which is not a tragedy. Adjust seasoning.
Meanwhile, broil or toast the bread, and drizzle with olive oil, salt and pepper, and place in the bottom of soup bowls. Ladle the soup over the bread, garnish with additional herbs and a drizzle of olive oil, or not.
Serve immediately.
21 October 2009
slinging hash: potato gratin
Although there are thousands of ways to cook them, I am not very imaginative when it comes to potatoes. If I'm serving chicken, I make mashed potatoes; with beef, it's roasted or baked potatoes.
When I'm feeling frisky I switch it up by serving mashed potatoes with beef, and vice versa. Last Friday night, I made lamb, and by my logic, it called for an entirely different potato preparation. (If you're wondering, how about rice?, I have one word for you: Sacha. Rice doesn't always vacuum well, and it takes a long time to pick those grains up from the rug.)
And so I remembered potato gratin, and as I always do when I make one, I wondered, why don't I make this more often? Potato gratin is easy and delicious, and coming in somewhere between roasted and mashed, is the perfect fence straddler.
And for a slatternly cook like myself, a gratin has the advantage of coming together more by method than recipe. It is flexible and forgiving. If you have a lot of time — ha! — you can cook it longer on a lower heat. If you're in a hurry, you can raise the temperature, cook it at a higher temperature for a shorter period of time. You can make it with milk, half and half, or cream. Add garlic, or not, though I highly recommend it as there are few things that smell more heavenly than garlic warmed in milk. It is fashionable in the food pages to say that with a salad, potato gratin would make a great light supper, but in reality, I wouldn't bother with the salad. I'd be happy eating it all by itself.
Potato Gratin
serves 4-5
You can easily increase this; my general rule is one fewer potato than the number of people you are serving.
4-5 medium potatoes
2-3 cloves of garlic
whole milk, half and half or cream
salt and pepper
butter, for greasing dish
Preheat the oven to 400 degrees fahrenheit.
Scrub the potatoes, and peel them or not, according to your mood and their level of filth. Slice potatoes about 1/8 inch thick.
Slice the garlic into thin slivers.
Butter an 8" square or gratin dish. Place a layer of potatoes on the bottom of the dish, scatter a few slivers of garlic, sprinkle with salt and pepper. Repeat with remaining potatoes and garlic. Slowly pour in milk, half and half or cream to reach the top layer of potatoes, leaving them exposed. Gently press the potatoes down to submerge them a bit; you don't want the potatoes to be completely covered, as they will bake down as they cook.
Bake 40-60 minutes, checking after 40 minutes. Gratin is done when the top layer is nicely browned, and potatoes can be easily pierced with a knife.
When I'm feeling frisky I switch it up by serving mashed potatoes with beef, and vice versa. Last Friday night, I made lamb, and by my logic, it called for an entirely different potato preparation. (If you're wondering, how about rice?, I have one word for you: Sacha. Rice doesn't always vacuum well, and it takes a long time to pick those grains up from the rug.)
And so I remembered potato gratin, and as I always do when I make one, I wondered, why don't I make this more often? Potato gratin is easy and delicious, and coming in somewhere between roasted and mashed, is the perfect fence straddler.
And for a slatternly cook like myself, a gratin has the advantage of coming together more by method than recipe. It is flexible and forgiving. If you have a lot of time — ha! — you can cook it longer on a lower heat. If you're in a hurry, you can raise the temperature, cook it at a higher temperature for a shorter period of time. You can make it with milk, half and half, or cream. Add garlic, or not, though I highly recommend it as there are few things that smell more heavenly than garlic warmed in milk. It is fashionable in the food pages to say that with a salad, potato gratin would make a great light supper, but in reality, I wouldn't bother with the salad. I'd be happy eating it all by itself.
Potato Gratin
serves 4-5
You can easily increase this; my general rule is one fewer potato than the number of people you are serving.
4-5 medium potatoes
2-3 cloves of garlic
whole milk, half and half or cream
salt and pepper
butter, for greasing dish
Preheat the oven to 400 degrees fahrenheit.
Scrub the potatoes, and peel them or not, according to your mood and their level of filth. Slice potatoes about 1/8 inch thick.
Slice the garlic into thin slivers.
Butter an 8" square or gratin dish. Place a layer of potatoes on the bottom of the dish, scatter a few slivers of garlic, sprinkle with salt and pepper. Repeat with remaining potatoes and garlic. Slowly pour in milk, half and half or cream to reach the top layer of potatoes, leaving them exposed. Gently press the potatoes down to submerge them a bit; you don't want the potatoes to be completely covered, as they will bake down as they cook.
Bake 40-60 minutes, checking after 40 minutes. Gratin is done when the top layer is nicely browned, and potatoes can be easily pierced with a knife.
14 October 2009
slinging hash: corn chowder
I don't know what my children have against soup. Aside from miso or the occasional bowl of chicken noodle, the mere suggestion of soup leaves them mortally offended. But because hope springs eternal, I am thick-headed, and I just like making soup, I persevere.
Last week I had a hankering for corn chowder when a recipe for Cheddar Corn Chowder in the Barefoot Contessa Cookbook caught my eye. I began to get my hopes up. My children like corn; they like potatoes. Maybe this will be the soup that wins them over. And that was foolish of me, because in child rearing, as with many human pursuits, logic does not prevail.
I would make a terrible recipe tester, because I am incapable of following a recipe to the letter. Except when it comes to baking, for me, a recipe is more of an idea than a blueprint. You should not necessarily trust me if I tell you I made something from so-and-so's book and it was awful, because in reality, I am not that good at following the directions. But this is the beauty of soup; it is easy, and takes well to improvisation. You saute some aromatics, add vegetables, liquid, herbs, spices, or other flavorings, and simmer away.
When my children asked what was for dinner, and I brightly replied, "Corn chowder!" I was met with the predictable mix of skepticism and disdain, although Sacha won a prize for originality when he shook his head and said, "I don't like corn showers."
Did they eat it? Of course not. But seeing as David and I enjoyed it, and I got a week's worth of lunches for about 45 minutes of effort, it was worth it.
Corn Chowder
serves 6-8
In keeping with my improvisatory nature, this recipe, and the directions are a little loose. I'm sorry if it drives you crazy. But soup is very forgiving, and subject to individual taste. Measurements for half and half and cheese are approximate; truthfully, I don't pay that close attention. My motto is start with less, add more as you go. You can always add more of something, but you can't take it away.
Ina Garten's recipe calls for bacon. As Jews, we are generally not people of the pig, so I omitted it. But since little is not improved by bacon, you can saute some and serve as a garnish.
People often think you need stock to make a decent soup, which is not true. Stock gives soup a different quality, but is not at all necessary; most of the time, I use water. When I use stock, I like Better Than Bouillon. I don't reconstitute it before using, but instead, stir the paste into the onions, and then add water.
1 tablespoon olive oil
1 tablespoon butter
2 chopped yellow onions
1 teaspoon kosher salt
1/2 teaspoon black pepper
1/4 teaspoon tumeric
3 cups (2-3 medium sized) potatoes, cut in medium-dice
6 cups chicken stock or water
2 bags of frozen corn kernels
1/2-1 cup half and half
8 ounces (approximately 2 cups) grated cheddar or cheddar jack cheese, optional
Heat butter and olive oil in a stockpot or saute pan on medium high heat.
Add onions, salt and pepper, and saute until onions are translucent.
[True confession: often, I walk away at this point, to put in a load of laundry, or some such, and come back to find my onions not quite burnt, but well past translucent. C'est la vie; it still tastes good.]
Add water or stock, and potatoes, and bring to a boil. Reduce heat to medium, and simmer uncovered for 15-20 minutes, until potatoes are tender. How long this takes will depend on how small you cut your potatoes. When the potatoes are tender, mash some against the side of the pot, and incorporate, to add body to the soup.
Add corn, half and half and cheese, if using. Cook about five minutes more, until cheese is melted.
Adjust seasoning before serving.
Last week I had a hankering for corn chowder when a recipe for Cheddar Corn Chowder in the Barefoot Contessa Cookbook caught my eye. I began to get my hopes up. My children like corn; they like potatoes. Maybe this will be the soup that wins them over. And that was foolish of me, because in child rearing, as with many human pursuits, logic does not prevail.
I would make a terrible recipe tester, because I am incapable of following a recipe to the letter. Except when it comes to baking, for me, a recipe is more of an idea than a blueprint. You should not necessarily trust me if I tell you I made something from so-and-so's book and it was awful, because in reality, I am not that good at following the directions. But this is the beauty of soup; it is easy, and takes well to improvisation. You saute some aromatics, add vegetables, liquid, herbs, spices, or other flavorings, and simmer away.
When my children asked what was for dinner, and I brightly replied, "Corn chowder!" I was met with the predictable mix of skepticism and disdain, although Sacha won a prize for originality when he shook his head and said, "I don't like corn showers."
Did they eat it? Of course not. But seeing as David and I enjoyed it, and I got a week's worth of lunches for about 45 minutes of effort, it was worth it.
Corn Chowder
serves 6-8
In keeping with my improvisatory nature, this recipe, and the directions are a little loose. I'm sorry if it drives you crazy. But soup is very forgiving, and subject to individual taste. Measurements for half and half and cheese are approximate; truthfully, I don't pay that close attention. My motto is start with less, add more as you go. You can always add more of something, but you can't take it away.
Ina Garten's recipe calls for bacon. As Jews, we are generally not people of the pig, so I omitted it. But since little is not improved by bacon, you can saute some and serve as a garnish.
People often think you need stock to make a decent soup, which is not true. Stock gives soup a different quality, but is not at all necessary; most of the time, I use water. When I use stock, I like Better Than Bouillon. I don't reconstitute it before using, but instead, stir the paste into the onions, and then add water.
1 tablespoon olive oil
1 tablespoon butter
2 chopped yellow onions
1 teaspoon kosher salt
1/2 teaspoon black pepper
1/4 teaspoon tumeric
3 cups (2-3 medium sized) potatoes, cut in medium-dice
6 cups chicken stock or water
2 bags of frozen corn kernels
1/2-1 cup half and half
8 ounces (approximately 2 cups) grated cheddar or cheddar jack cheese, optional
Heat butter and olive oil in a stockpot or saute pan on medium high heat.
Add onions, salt and pepper, and saute until onions are translucent.
[True confession: often, I walk away at this point, to put in a load of laundry, or some such, and come back to find my onions not quite burnt, but well past translucent. C'est la vie; it still tastes good.]
Add water or stock, and potatoes, and bring to a boil. Reduce heat to medium, and simmer uncovered for 15-20 minutes, until potatoes are tender. How long this takes will depend on how small you cut your potatoes. When the potatoes are tender, mash some against the side of the pot, and incorporate, to add body to the soup.
Add corn, half and half and cheese, if using. Cook about five minutes more, until cheese is melted.
Adjust seasoning before serving.
07 October 2009
slinging hash: bloody mary
I have always had a fondness for the breakfast cocktail. I wouldn't want to make a habit of it, but sometimes, on special occasions, it can be just the thing. Champagne cocktails are lovely, as is the Ramos Gin Fizz. But I have an especially soft spot for the Bloody Mary, which got David and myself through some fraught family gatherings early in our marriage. In keeping with this tradition, on the mornings of both Gabriel's and Sacha's brit milot, when extra fortification seemed like a good idea, we started the day with a Bloody Mary, our own breakfast of champions.
My affection for the Bloody Mary may be in part why Prune is one of my favorite restaurants, as their brunch menu is not only delicious, but features no less than ten different Bloody Marys, including my personal favorite, the Danish, made with aquavit and garnished with a marinated white anchovy.
A gussied-up Bloody Mary is a nice treat, but the original formula needs no tampering. Once, while mixing up a few drinks, I accidentally added two shots of vodka to once glass, and discovered that extra vodka makes a Bloody Mary even more delicious.
One of the hallmarks of the drink is a bit of heat, usually in the form of Tabasco sauce. I'm not partial to Tabasco, which to me tastes too much of vinegar, and chemicals. And so, I've experimented with different brands of hot sauce, as well as cayenne pepper, wasabi powder, and my current favorite, sriracha sauce.
I have to say, I like this current incarnation quite a lot.
Bloody Mary
Makes one drink
2 ounces vodka
6 ounces tomato juice
juice of 1/2 lemon
generous pinch of celery salt
pinch of kosher salt
dash of Lea & Perrins Worcestershire sauce
squirt of sriracha sauce
Stir all ingredients together in a cocktail shaker or glass. Serve over ice, or not.
My affection for the Bloody Mary may be in part why Prune is one of my favorite restaurants, as their brunch menu is not only delicious, but features no less than ten different Bloody Marys, including my personal favorite, the Danish, made with aquavit and garnished with a marinated white anchovy.
A gussied-up Bloody Mary is a nice treat, but the original formula needs no tampering. Once, while mixing up a few drinks, I accidentally added two shots of vodka to once glass, and discovered that extra vodka makes a Bloody Mary even more delicious.
One of the hallmarks of the drink is a bit of heat, usually in the form of Tabasco sauce. I'm not partial to Tabasco, which to me tastes too much of vinegar, and chemicals. And so, I've experimented with different brands of hot sauce, as well as cayenne pepper, wasabi powder, and my current favorite, sriracha sauce.
I have to say, I like this current incarnation quite a lot.
Bloody Mary
Makes one drink
2 ounces vodka
6 ounces tomato juice
juice of 1/2 lemon
generous pinch of celery salt
pinch of kosher salt
dash of Lea & Perrins Worcestershire sauce
squirt of sriracha sauce
Stir all ingredients together in a cocktail shaker or glass. Serve over ice, or not.
23 September 2009
slinging hash: shortbread
I don't know if it is because my children are getting older, or I'm just paying better attention, but this year it struck me in an altogether new way how stressful the beginning of the school year is. Between whipping the kids back in to shape and figuring out everyone's schedules, it is like trying to fit together the pieces of an extremely complicated three dimensional Chinese puzzle, and it has me longing for the simpler days of summer.
But school is underway, and my clientele have demanded that I put my apron back on. Because I aim to provide the best customer service possible, that means the cookies are coming. I really don't have a lot of time or energy for weekday baking, so I turn to shortbread. They are as close to a no-brainer as possible; they come together quickly, with very few ingredients.
But my favorite thing about shortbread, aside from its simplicity and utter deliciousness, is that once you have the basic formula down, it is infinitely variable. This means you can perform all sorts of kitchen sorcery, and trick your children into thinking you are making a different, carefully crafted batch of cookies every week. They catch on eventually, but you can have a good run of it.
My favorite way to make shortbread is with instant espresso powder and chocolate chips, and that is how I prepared them for the first week of school. Predictably, Sarah issued one of her proclamations, heretofore unbeknownst to me, that she finds this particular shortbread disgusting — I believe her exact words were they hurt her throat. This was something of a surprise to me as she has happily eaten these for years, but I took it as a sign of the dreaded cookie fatigue.
Because I am a good listener, this week, I made plain butter shortbread, and it was really no surprise to hear my kids complain about this.
Gabriel: "They're so boring."
Sarah: "Why didn't you make the coffee ones again? Plain ones taste like nothing."
Sacha: "Cookies!"
Sometimes, a mother can't win, and in the best of circumstances, one's children have no idea how good they have it, and that is how it should be.
Espresso chocolate chip shortbread
adapted from Dorie Greenspan and Melissa Clark
The basic formula for shortbread is 2 sticks of butter, 2/3 cup sugar, 2 cups flour. I like confectioners' sugar because it gives the cookies a smoother, more tender crumb, but granulated sugar works equally well. To make plain butter shortbread, omit the espresso and chocolate chips. To this basic formula, you can add grated citrus zest (about 1-1/2 teaspoons), a spice or seed (up to one teaspoon), a tablespoon of chopped rosemary or lavender, the seeds of a vanilla bean, and so on, and so forth.
1 tablespoon instant espresso powder
2 sticks (8 ounces) unsalted butter, at room temperature
generous pinch of salt
2/3 cup confectioners’ sugar
2 cups all-purpose flour
4 ounces bittersweet chocolate chips
1. Beat the butter and confectioners' sugar in a stand mixer fitted with a paddle attachment, or with a hand mixer in a large bowl, on medium speed until very smooth.
2. Add the espresso powder, mix until incorporated.
3. Reduce mixer speed to low, add flour, and mix until just incorporated. Fold in the chocolate.
4. Use a rubber spatula to transfer the dough to a gallon-size zipper-lock plastic bag. Leave the top of the bag open, and use a rolling pin to roll the dough into an approximately 9 x 10 1/2 inch, 1/4 inch thick rectangle. The dough may crease a bit. Smooth it out as you go if this sort of thing bothers you. Otherwise, don't worry too much about it. Seal the bag, pressing out as much air as possible, and refrigerate at least 2 hours, or up to 2 days.
5. When ready to bake, position oven racks on second and fourth notches, and preheat to 325 degrees F. Line two baking sheets with parchment or silicone mats.
6. Slit open the plastic bag and use a knife to cut the dough into 1 1/2-inch squares and transfer to baking sheets.
6. Bake for 18 to 20 minutes, rotating the sheets from top to bottom and front to back halfway through. The shortbread should be pale, rather than golden. Transfer cookies to a rack to cool.
But school is underway, and my clientele have demanded that I put my apron back on. Because I aim to provide the best customer service possible, that means the cookies are coming. I really don't have a lot of time or energy for weekday baking, so I turn to shortbread. They are as close to a no-brainer as possible; they come together quickly, with very few ingredients.
But my favorite thing about shortbread, aside from its simplicity and utter deliciousness, is that once you have the basic formula down, it is infinitely variable. This means you can perform all sorts of kitchen sorcery, and trick your children into thinking you are making a different, carefully crafted batch of cookies every week. They catch on eventually, but you can have a good run of it.
My favorite way to make shortbread is with instant espresso powder and chocolate chips, and that is how I prepared them for the first week of school. Predictably, Sarah issued one of her proclamations, heretofore unbeknownst to me, that she finds this particular shortbread disgusting — I believe her exact words were they hurt her throat. This was something of a surprise to me as she has happily eaten these for years, but I took it as a sign of the dreaded cookie fatigue.
Because I am a good listener, this week, I made plain butter shortbread, and it was really no surprise to hear my kids complain about this.
Gabriel: "They're so boring."
Sarah: "Why didn't you make the coffee ones again? Plain ones taste like nothing."
Sacha: "Cookies!"
Sometimes, a mother can't win, and in the best of circumstances, one's children have no idea how good they have it, and that is how it should be.
Espresso chocolate chip shortbread
adapted from Dorie Greenspan and Melissa Clark
The basic formula for shortbread is 2 sticks of butter, 2/3 cup sugar, 2 cups flour. I like confectioners' sugar because it gives the cookies a smoother, more tender crumb, but granulated sugar works equally well. To make plain butter shortbread, omit the espresso and chocolate chips. To this basic formula, you can add grated citrus zest (about 1-1/2 teaspoons), a spice or seed (up to one teaspoon), a tablespoon of chopped rosemary or lavender, the seeds of a vanilla bean, and so on, and so forth.
1 tablespoon instant espresso powder
2 sticks (8 ounces) unsalted butter, at room temperature
generous pinch of salt
2/3 cup confectioners’ sugar
2 cups all-purpose flour
4 ounces bittersweet chocolate chips
1. Beat the butter and confectioners' sugar in a stand mixer fitted with a paddle attachment, or with a hand mixer in a large bowl, on medium speed until very smooth.
2. Add the espresso powder, mix until incorporated.
3. Reduce mixer speed to low, add flour, and mix until just incorporated. Fold in the chocolate.
4. Use a rubber spatula to transfer the dough to a gallon-size zipper-lock plastic bag. Leave the top of the bag open, and use a rolling pin to roll the dough into an approximately 9 x 10 1/2 inch, 1/4 inch thick rectangle. The dough may crease a bit. Smooth it out as you go if this sort of thing bothers you. Otherwise, don't worry too much about it. Seal the bag, pressing out as much air as possible, and refrigerate at least 2 hours, or up to 2 days.
5. When ready to bake, position oven racks on second and fourth notches, and preheat to 325 degrees F. Line two baking sheets with parchment or silicone mats.
6. Slit open the plastic bag and use a knife to cut the dough into 1 1/2-inch squares and transfer to baking sheets.
6. Bake for 18 to 20 minutes, rotating the sheets from top to bottom and front to back halfway through. The shortbread should be pale, rather than golden. Transfer cookies to a rack to cool.
16 September 2009
slinging hash: coconut macaroons with chocolate ganache
Last spring as I was planning the menu for my Passover seder, it occurred to me that I did not want to make yet another flourless chocolate cake. Delicious as they are, I was bored of them, and wanted to my menu to be a bit less predictable.
I happened to be reading A Homemade Life, Molly Wizenberg's lovely book. Wizenberg's blog Orangette, is a constant source of inspiration to me. And so I turned to her recipe for macaroons, that mainstay of the seder dessert plate. It had never occurred to me to make macaroons; when I think of them, they come out of a vacuum sealed can, and taste like sweetened sawdust.
In addition to being extremely easy to make, oh my, were they good, like the juiciest, most tender and sublime Mounds bar.
I filed the recipe away for next year, but at the end of the summer, I was going to have my friend Nicole and her fiance over for dinner, and Nicole is on a gluten and dairy free diet. As a cook, I love the challenge of satisfying people's dietary requirements and still making a delicious meal. Dessert was especially challenging. Poached fruit would have been easy and obvious but it wasn't striking my fancy. And then I realized that if if I left some macaroons naked, they would still be mighty tasty, and fit the bill.
And so I made them, and then Nicole had to cancel, and poor me, I was left with a dozen macaroons all to myself. It only took me a few days to finish them.
Since then I have not been able to stop making these, and it is really annoying my children, not to mention violating my two out of three rule on purely selfish grounds. I guess that is the nature of obsession.
As far as Sarah is concerned, I've already slacked off on baking for far too long. But she's a trooper, and let me know that she while she will eat macaroons under duress, they are not her favorite. Sacha, consistent with his approach to baked goods, eats the frosting, leaving behind its mutilated carcass. My macaroon obsession is most unfair to Gabriel though, because he is allergic to egg whites, cannot even partake.
I made these at the end of summer vacation for a party at the pool, and as I passed them around the table to a group of adults, the reaction was much like that which I remember from my college days, when you passed around a bong full of really good weed. And that is just about the best response a cook can hope for.
Coconut Macaroons with Chocolate Ganache
Adapted from A Homemade Life by Molly Wizenberg
3 cups lightly packed sweetened coconut
3/4 cup sugar
5 large egg whites
1-1/2 teaspoons vanilla extract
pinch of salt
Ganache
4 ounces chopped bittersweet chocolate, finely chopped (I like Lindt Excellence Intense Dark 70%)
1/2 cup heavy cream
Place the coconut, sugar and egg whites in a heavy 2- to 3-quart saucepan and stir well. Cook over medium low heat, stirring frequently for 10 minutes. The mixture will start off looking very creamy, and as it dries out, you will be able to see individual flakes of coconut. Stop cooking when it is still sticky and moist, not dry. If the coconut mixture begins to brown in spots, turn the heat down a bit and stir more frequently.
Remove from heat, stir in the vanilla and salt. Spread the mixture in a pie plate and refrigerate until cool enough to handle, about 30 minutes.
Preheat oven to 300 degrees. Line a baking sheet with parchment or a silicone baking mat.
Use your hands to firmly pack the coconut mixture into small domes, about 1-1/2 inches in diameter, spacing evenly on the baking sheet.
Bake until evenly golden, about 30 minutes. Cool completely on the pan on a wire rack.
To make ganache, put the chocolate in a medium bowl. Heat the cream in a saucepan or the microwave until it is steaming, but not boiling. If you do this in the microwave, cooking in 20 second bursts. It should not take more than 45 seconds on high power. Pour the cream over the chocolate, let sit for 1 minute, and then stir until smooth.
Dip each macaroon into the ganache and lay back on the baking sheet. Refrigerate until ganache sets, at least 2 hours.
Yield: 14-18 macaroons
I happened to be reading A Homemade Life, Molly Wizenberg's lovely book. Wizenberg's blog Orangette, is a constant source of inspiration to me. And so I turned to her recipe for macaroons, that mainstay of the seder dessert plate. It had never occurred to me to make macaroons; when I think of them, they come out of a vacuum sealed can, and taste like sweetened sawdust.
In addition to being extremely easy to make, oh my, were they good, like the juiciest, most tender and sublime Mounds bar.
I filed the recipe away for next year, but at the end of the summer, I was going to have my friend Nicole and her fiance over for dinner, and Nicole is on a gluten and dairy free diet. As a cook, I love the challenge of satisfying people's dietary requirements and still making a delicious meal. Dessert was especially challenging. Poached fruit would have been easy and obvious but it wasn't striking my fancy. And then I realized that if if I left some macaroons naked, they would still be mighty tasty, and fit the bill.
And so I made them, and then Nicole had to cancel, and poor me, I was left with a dozen macaroons all to myself. It only took me a few days to finish them.
Since then I have not been able to stop making these, and it is really annoying my children, not to mention violating my two out of three rule on purely selfish grounds. I guess that is the nature of obsession.
As far as Sarah is concerned, I've already slacked off on baking for far too long. But she's a trooper, and let me know that she while she will eat macaroons under duress, they are not her favorite. Sacha, consistent with his approach to baked goods, eats the frosting, leaving behind its mutilated carcass. My macaroon obsession is most unfair to Gabriel though, because he is allergic to egg whites, cannot even partake.
I made these at the end of summer vacation for a party at the pool, and as I passed them around the table to a group of adults, the reaction was much like that which I remember from my college days, when you passed around a bong full of really good weed. And that is just about the best response a cook can hope for.
Coconut Macaroons with Chocolate Ganache
Adapted from A Homemade Life by Molly Wizenberg
3 cups lightly packed sweetened coconut
3/4 cup sugar
5 large egg whites
1-1/2 teaspoons vanilla extract
pinch of salt
Ganache
4 ounces chopped bittersweet chocolate, finely chopped (I like Lindt Excellence Intense Dark 70%)
1/2 cup heavy cream
Place the coconut, sugar and egg whites in a heavy 2- to 3-quart saucepan and stir well. Cook over medium low heat, stirring frequently for 10 minutes. The mixture will start off looking very creamy, and as it dries out, you will be able to see individual flakes of coconut. Stop cooking when it is still sticky and moist, not dry. If the coconut mixture begins to brown in spots, turn the heat down a bit and stir more frequently.
Remove from heat, stir in the vanilla and salt. Spread the mixture in a pie plate and refrigerate until cool enough to handle, about 30 minutes.
Preheat oven to 300 degrees. Line a baking sheet with parchment or a silicone baking mat.
Use your hands to firmly pack the coconut mixture into small domes, about 1-1/2 inches in diameter, spacing evenly on the baking sheet.
Bake until evenly golden, about 30 minutes. Cool completely on the pan on a wire rack.
To make ganache, put the chocolate in a medium bowl. Heat the cream in a saucepan or the microwave until it is steaming, but not boiling. If you do this in the microwave, cooking in 20 second bursts. It should not take more than 45 seconds on high power. Pour the cream over the chocolate, let sit for 1 minute, and then stir until smooth.
Dip each macaroon into the ganache and lay back on the baking sheet. Refrigerate until ganache sets, at least 2 hours.
Yield: 14-18 macaroons
05 July 2009
Slinging hash: key lime pie
I have an unofficial tradition of making key lime pie for Independence Day. Unofficial because some years I don't bother and no one suffers for it, but if there is a day during the year that a key lime pie is going to get made by me, this is the one.
I settled on key lime pie for several reasons. There are few desserts more American than pie, and it is one of the few types of pie that David likes (I maintain that his dislike of pie is un-American, but because we accept the flaws in those we love the most, I have come to terms with this). It involves no exotic ingredients: graham crackers, sugar, eggs, butter, limes, sweetened condensed milk. This is not 1955, and sweetened condensed milk is not exactly a pantry staple, but it has such a long shelf life that if you buy a can now it will be good next year, if the urge to bake strikes you.
Most importantly though, is it is extremely easy to make, and involves little mess. You don't have to prep a large amount of fruit. It takes all of 20 minutes of hands-on work, and a lot of time chilling, so you can do it in the morning, go out and enjoy your day, and feel like a very good hausfrau come time for dessert.
We did enjoy our day very much. We went to the parade, and perhaps it is my imagination, but living here in the Berkeley of New Jersey, the mood seemed decidedly more optimistic then during the past eight years. My children were excited to go, and annoyed that my pie baking kept us from arriving earlier. The parade seemed sweet to me, as opposed to lame, as it has in years past, where I was going through the motions of being proud to be American under the auspices of an administration that seemed hell-bent on destroying this country's standing in its misguided attempt to promote democracy.
We went to a party, and on the way back to the car, I accomplished a long-time goal of finally walking down Mid-Park Lane, the alley that winds between Park Street and Midland Avenue, where I had the pleasure of watching Gabriel pee into the stream. Sacha was so amused by this that he almost pulled down his pants to give it a go, until he noticed how excited that would have made me and David. (Note to self: work on poker face.) He decided his diaper did the job very well, thank you very much.
I made pizza for dinner, which is always a hit. Then I brought out the pie, and cut everyone a slice.
And that is when things darkened. What is this, my elder two asked, eying the pie suspiciously.
“It's key lime pie,” I replied noncommittally. (Already working on poker face!)
“Do I like it?” Gabriel asked.
“You love it.” I lied.
“What's it taste like?”
“It's very sweet, and a little tart.” I offered.
David added, “It's a little like lemonade.”
“Or limeade,” I added, “And you love limeade.”
The pie sat a few more minutes on their plates, as they performed mental cost-benefit analysis, and ultimately decided to give it a try. It was not a hit.
“Too sour.” Sarah declared.
“It's a little too sweet,” explained Gabriel, whose naturally optimistic demeanor prevents him from criticizing anything too harshly. “I'll just eat the whipped cream,” he added.
Sarah could not miss this opportunity to lob another criticism: “I wish you'd make the whipped cream with sugar.”
Sacha's reaction was the most damning. Although he'd declared himself full and the dinner dishes had been cleared, he ignored the pie entirely, and requested another slice of pizza.
I am long past the point of getting upset when my kids reject my cooking. Children outnumber the adults in our house, so the odds are stacked too high against me. But this was tooth-achingly sweet pie, topped with whipped cream. Not, as you might have surmised had you witnessed the scene with the volume turned off, braised monkey brains with brown butter served in a cranial cavity bowl.
Although I knew it would not satisfy my two out of three criteria, and David and I would likely be the only ones eating it, the pie was still worth it. Not only because it was good, but because watching the show my children put on was part of the entertainment.
And now, the two of us can enjoy leftover pie for breakfast.
Key Lime Pie
Adapted from Cooks Illustrated, March 1997
Feel free to use a pre-baked pie crust, or a can of whipped cream. I won't tell anyone, and you are still a good person.
You do not need key limes to make key lime pie; regular Persian limes are perfectly fine. Go figure.
The recipe calls for sweetened whipped cream and a garnish of slivered limes dipped in confectioners sugar. I never add sugar to whipped cream as I think cream is sweet enough as is, and like the contrast when serving with something sweet, and really, when else do you serve whipped cream. Sarah, of course, disagrees.
As for the limes, I'm sure it would be attractive, but A: I've likely used the last of my limes for the pie, and B: I can't be bothered.
If pressed for time I don't cool the pie shell completely before filling and baking, and I haven't noticed any significant difference.
Lime Filling
Crust
Preheat oven to 325 degrees F.
Serve with whipped cream, enjoy listening to your children complain.
I settled on key lime pie for several reasons. There are few desserts more American than pie, and it is one of the few types of pie that David likes (I maintain that his dislike of pie is un-American, but because we accept the flaws in those we love the most, I have come to terms with this). It involves no exotic ingredients: graham crackers, sugar, eggs, butter, limes, sweetened condensed milk. This is not 1955, and sweetened condensed milk is not exactly a pantry staple, but it has such a long shelf life that if you buy a can now it will be good next year, if the urge to bake strikes you.
Most importantly though, is it is extremely easy to make, and involves little mess. You don't have to prep a large amount of fruit. It takes all of 20 minutes of hands-on work, and a lot of time chilling, so you can do it in the morning, go out and enjoy your day, and feel like a very good hausfrau come time for dessert.
We did enjoy our day very much. We went to the parade, and perhaps it is my imagination, but living here in the Berkeley of New Jersey, the mood seemed decidedly more optimistic then during the past eight years. My children were excited to go, and annoyed that my pie baking kept us from arriving earlier. The parade seemed sweet to me, as opposed to lame, as it has in years past, where I was going through the motions of being proud to be American under the auspices of an administration that seemed hell-bent on destroying this country's standing in its misguided attempt to promote democracy.
We went to a party, and on the way back to the car, I accomplished a long-time goal of finally walking down Mid-Park Lane, the alley that winds between Park Street and Midland Avenue, where I had the pleasure of watching Gabriel pee into the stream. Sacha was so amused by this that he almost pulled down his pants to give it a go, until he noticed how excited that would have made me and David. (Note to self: work on poker face.) He decided his diaper did the job very well, thank you very much.
I made pizza for dinner, which is always a hit. Then I brought out the pie, and cut everyone a slice.
And that is when things darkened. What is this, my elder two asked, eying the pie suspiciously.
“It's key lime pie,” I replied noncommittally. (Already working on poker face!)
“Do I like it?” Gabriel asked.
“You love it.” I lied.
“What's it taste like?”
“It's very sweet, and a little tart.” I offered.
David added, “It's a little like lemonade.”
“Or limeade,” I added, “And you love limeade.”
The pie sat a few more minutes on their plates, as they performed mental cost-benefit analysis, and ultimately decided to give it a try. It was not a hit.
“Too sour.” Sarah declared.
“It's a little too sweet,” explained Gabriel, whose naturally optimistic demeanor prevents him from criticizing anything too harshly. “I'll just eat the whipped cream,” he added.
Sarah could not miss this opportunity to lob another criticism: “I wish you'd make the whipped cream with sugar.”
Sacha's reaction was the most damning. Although he'd declared himself full and the dinner dishes had been cleared, he ignored the pie entirely, and requested another slice of pizza.
I am long past the point of getting upset when my kids reject my cooking. Children outnumber the adults in our house, so the odds are stacked too high against me. But this was tooth-achingly sweet pie, topped with whipped cream. Not, as you might have surmised had you witnessed the scene with the volume turned off, braised monkey brains with brown butter served in a cranial cavity bowl.
Although I knew it would not satisfy my two out of three criteria, and David and I would likely be the only ones eating it, the pie was still worth it. Not only because it was good, but because watching the show my children put on was part of the entertainment.
And now, the two of us can enjoy leftover pie for breakfast.
Key Lime Pie
Adapted from Cooks Illustrated, March 1997
Feel free to use a pre-baked pie crust, or a can of whipped cream. I won't tell anyone, and you are still a good person.
You do not need key limes to make key lime pie; regular Persian limes are perfectly fine. Go figure.
The recipe calls for sweetened whipped cream and a garnish of slivered limes dipped in confectioners sugar. I never add sugar to whipped cream as I think cream is sweet enough as is, and like the contrast when serving with something sweet, and really, when else do you serve whipped cream. Sarah, of course, disagrees.
As for the limes, I'm sure it would be attractive, but A: I've likely used the last of my limes for the pie, and B: I can't be bothered.
If pressed for time I don't cool the pie shell completely before filling and baking, and I haven't noticed any significant difference.
Lime Filling
4 teaspoon grated lime zest
1/2 cup lime juice (3-4 limes)
4 egg yolks
14 ounce can sweetened condensed milk
Crust
1 sleeve of graham crackers, processed to fine crumbs
3 tablespoons granulated sugar
5 tablespoons melted butter
Preheat oven to 325 degrees F.
Whisk zest and yolks in medium bowl until tinted light green (about 2 minutes). Whisk in the sweetened condensed milk, then lime juice. Set aside at room temperature to thicken for a few minutes, while you make the crust.
Pulse the graham crackers in the food processor, or place in a sealed ziploc bag and beat them silly with a blunt object. Turn the crumbs into a bowl, add the sugar and then melted butter. Stir to blend. Press into pie pan, starting in the center and moving up the sides. Use a finger to tamp the mixture around the rim of the pan while pressing it up the sides of the pan to form a flat top edge, and give the crust structure.
Bake 15 minutes. Cool to room temperature, or not.
Pour filling into crust, bake 15-17 minutes, until center is just set. Cool to room temperature, refrigerate at least 3 hours.Pulse the graham crackers in the food processor, or place in a sealed ziploc bag and beat them silly with a blunt object. Turn the crumbs into a bowl, add the sugar and then melted butter. Stir to blend. Press into pie pan, starting in the center and moving up the sides. Use a finger to tamp the mixture around the rim of the pan while pressing it up the sides of the pan to form a flat top edge, and give the crust structure.
Bake 15 minutes. Cool to room temperature, or not.
Serve with whipped cream, enjoy listening to your children complain.
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