A Stove With A House Around It

Now there are four

2011-12-02T12:35:00.001-08:00

I am Anti-Leftovers.

Husband loves them. Loves them so much that he affectionately calls them "lefties." While he will happily eat week-old chana masala for breakfast, the leftover has to be something special indeed for me to dig into it. Even one of my favorite foods in the world -- Mom's stuffing -- is languishing in its leftover form. I can't even think of a single thing that I truly enjoy the second time around. Oh. Turkey tacos. But that's it. I think maybe it's a mental problem.

Who wants this? I don't.

My vigorous Anti-Leftover stance reaches epic proportions around Thanksgiving time, when one is not only flooded with the leftovers themselves, but with 8,342,361 recipes for how to use them. Food magazines, food TV, food Internets, food iPad apps, all falling over themselves to inspire you to make a stuffing frittata or a turkey chili named after Guy Fieri's son. In my mind, there are exactly three things to do with Thanksgiving leftovers: (1) reheat and enjoy them as they are, if you must; (2) make a turkey sandwich; and (3) make turkey stock. (Actually, the stock is required. But that is another post.)

But now there are four. Welcome to the only recipe that utilizes Thanksgiving leftovers that I shall countenance: TURKEY COOKIES. FOR THE DOG.

This recipe is just perfect: making it ensures that no turkey will be wasted, as you can wait until the Pro-Leftovers people in your house have their fill, then use the remaining scraps for these "cookies." (I can't bear to waste meat -- an animal gave its life for what's on that plate, it's not right to throw any of it away.) Even if it's a day or so past its prime, I assure you, your pup won't care. As long as your best friend isn't on a restricted diet that would prohibit any of the component ingredients, this is a healthy doggie treat, made with love, that will make your companion love you even more than she already does.

And it will make me love you, because you are being rational about Thanksgiving leftovers. And I know how you crave my approval.

P.S. I am not alone in my T-giving leftover disdain: my rigid worldview was bolstered this year by a writer for Slate.com, Jill Pellettieri, who makes a persuasive and dare I say definitive case against Thanksgiving leftovers in a piece titled, "Let Leftovers Be Leftovers." Jill reasons: you wouldn't make a turkey quesadilla suiza any other day of the year, so why must you on the last Friday of November? Additionally, and most compelling, she advocates eschewing leftovers because one should keep the special and ceremonial Thanksgiving meal just that -- special. If you are going to spend most of November preparing for a single meal, why would you not enjoy what's left of that meal as it is? Why cobble it into something else, be it a pot pie or a hash or a soup? If you love Thanksgiving food so much as to spend the better part of a month making it, why discard it so callously after just one plateful?

"We spend weeks planning for Thanksgiving dinner. We travel great distances to enjoy it with loved ones. We postpone diets to gorge ourselves. We may even fast all day to make room for one more slice of pumpkin pie. Why not enjoy the leftovers for what they are, a delicious continuation of that feast?Why replace these rituals with recipes that are not only ridiculous, but create more work? Let Thanksgiving live out its natural life—you'll know when it's time to move on."

It's a good argument, I tell you, and Jill, I want you to be my new bestie.

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TURKEY COOKIES

Adapted from a recipe that appeared in my local vet's newsletter

2 c. cooked turkey, cut into a small dice
3 T. grated cheese (my pup Jet likes sharp cheddar)
1 T. fresh parsley, chopped
4 eggs
2 c. whole wheat flour
2 T. nutritional yeast (or brewer's yeast)
2 T. vegetable oil

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees Fahrenheit. Line a baking sheet with parchment paper. In a medium bowl, combine the turkey, cheese and parsley. Mix well. In a separate bowl, beat the eggs and pour over the turkey mixture.

"I hear these can also be served to cats. But I don't know nothin' 'bout no cats."

Add the flour, nutritional yeast and oil. Using your hands, mix until the ingredients are thoroughly combined and the mixture resembles a dough ball.

Using a spring-loaded scoop (or two spoons), portion the cookies, rolling each into a ball. Place on the prepared baking sheet. Using the bottom of a small juice glass, gently press each ball into a flat round about 1 inch thick.

Bake for 18-20 minutes, until the cookies are brown and firm. Remove to a wire rack to cool completely; feed to best friend.

Turkey cookies must be stored in the refrigerator.

Makes about 2 1/2 dozen.

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Previously, on A Stove With A House Around It:

One year ago: apple and cheddar scones

Two years ago: kaiser rolls

Three years ago: turkey meatballs

Dear fig-walnut pie of '10

2011-11-12T17:53:00.000-08:00

This is a pie that I made a year ago.

I was all gung-ho about this pie, creating the recipe and baking it the night before Thanksgiving and then nibbling on it contentedly the next day. I had every intention of sharing it with you last year, but then I was all, "Thanksgiving's over now, does anyone really want to know about a fig-walnut pie? Surely they've moved on to gingerbread and thoughts of reindeer hooves on the roof."

Thus, the recipe and these photos have languished, imprisoned in the tiny jail cell that is an 8-GB SD card. I'd look at them every so often. Hm, I could write about this pie. But it's May! Nobody bakes pies in the spring. And then, Here's this pie again. But it's August! It's a million degrees! Plus, Thanksgiving will be here in no time.

As it is, time flies. And here we are: less than two weeks from Thanksgiving. Time to talk about the pie! Huzzah!

This whole thing came about last year when I was sitting around thinking about how people love pecan pies (myself included), but I never hear anyone talk about a walnut pie. Why not? I demanded an answer. A preliminary Google search told me that walnut pies do indeed exist. There are plenty of recipes out there. But they don't seem to enjoy the same headline-grabbing pie-ttention that their pecan cousins command. I was going to change that, if only for myself and whoever else managed to get a fork in the pie before I devoured it, all un-ladylike.

I threw figs into the mix because I determined that an all-walnut pie might be too overpowering with slightly bitter walnut aftertaste -- which I normally love when I'm snacking on walnuts but that might become too much within the context of a walnut-only pie. I started thinking about where I find walnuts, culinarily. On cheese trays. Next to the yummy veined cheeses. Alongside a fig or two, cut in half to show off their rustic, seeded centers. I almost went down the path of making a savory tart, with the blue cheese incorporated -- maybe I'll do that this year! -- but in the end, baked up a rich, and sweet beauty chock full of walnuts and chewy flecks of dried fig.

And with that, dear fig-walnut pie of '10, I release you from the SD card.

(In context, second from right)

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FIG-WALNUT PIE

I used America's Test Kitchen's vodka pie crust recipe for this pie, and let me tell you: like everything else America's Test Kitchen does, it was perfect. Easy to work with, flaky, tasty, fantastic. But of course, you may use any pie crust that you love with all your heart.

Please note: if you do go with the vodka pie dough, the recipe makes enough for a double-crust pie, which this isn't. So go ahead and wrap the second disk in several layers of plastic wrap and freeze; it freezes quite well and then you'll be ready for impromptu pie-making. 'Cause that always happens.

For the crust:

2 1/2 c. all-purpose flour, divided

1 t. kosher salt

2 T. sugar

12 T. cold unsalted butter, cut into 1/4-inch pieces

1/2 c. cold vegetable shortening, cut into 4 pieces

1/4 c. vodka, cold

1/4 c. cold water

For the pie:

1/4 c. dried figs

2 T. dark rum

1/4 c. unsalted butter

1/2 c. light brown sugar

1/2 c. light corn syrup

Pinch kosher salt

2 large eggs

12 oz. raw unsalted walnuts, roughly chopped

First, make the crust. Place 1 1/2 c. of the flour, salt and sugar in a food processor and pulse until combined. Add the butter and the shortening and process until a homogeneous dough begins to collect in uneven clumps, about 15 seconds (the dough will resemble cottage cheese curds). With a rubber spatula, scrape the bowl to redistribute the dough around the blade. Add the remaining cup of flour and pulse until the mixture is evenly distributed around the bowl, 4 to 6 quick pulses. Empty the mixture into a medium bowl.

Sprinkle vodka and water over the mixture. With a rubber spatula and using a folding motion, mix the dough, pressing down on it until it is slightly tacky and sticks together. Divide the dough into 2 even balls and flatten each into a 4-inch disk. Wrap each in plastic wrap and refrigerate at least 45 minutes, or up to 2 days.

Remove the pie dough from the refrigerator about 15 minutes before you wish to work with it. At this time, preheat the oven to 350 degrees Fahrenheit. On a floured work surface, roll out the dough into a 10-inch round (you might need a little more flour than usual if you're using the vodka dough, as it's a bit stickier). Place the dough in a pie plate, trim and flute the edges and return to the refrigerator to chill while you assemble the filling.

In a small bowl, soak the figs in the rum. Let the figs sit while you assemble the rest of the filling.

Melt the butter in a medium saucepan over low heat. When the butter is melted, remove from the heat and add brown sugar, corn syrup, salt and eggs. Whisk the mixture until well-combined.

Remove the pie shell from the refrigerator and fill about 3/4 full with walnuts. Add the rum-soaked figs -- and any remaining rum in the bowl -- to the filling; stir to combine. Pour the filling over the walnuts and bake for 30-35 minutes. Cool on a wire rack for about 15 minutes before cutting and serving.

Makes one pie.

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Previously, on A Stove With A House Around It:

One year ago: apple and cheddar scones

Two years ago: twice-baked cauliflower

Three years ago: dark gingerbread pear cake

Thought wistfully of laminated dough

2011-10-30T21:01:00.000-07:00

Gather 'round, kids. I would like to tell you a story.

It's the late '90s. Let's say 1998. I live in Chicago, a stone's throw from Wrigley Field, a cosmopolitan's sip from the heart of Boystown (otherwise known as Sidetrack). My third-floor apartment, though a one-bedroom, is so small that the kitchen doesn't have a single drawer. I'm still in the futon stage. The living room wall is festooned with a ceremonial street sign from when they christened my street, Cornelia Ave., "The Jon Simmons Parade." (This sign was much funnier and much more festive before I learned that Jon Simmons was a slain gay activist.) (I loved that sign, though, and still have it.) (No, I didn't steal it. It was $5 at a thrift shop on Halsted and Addison.) Even though my apartment is tiny, I have a wine rack with a built-in bar, copper bowls for mixing egg whites to stiff peaks, and enough room, somehow, to braid a tsoureki.

When I'm not at work on W. Wacker overlooking the Chicago River, or watching "Mr. Show with Bob and David" with Sort-Of Boyfriend (who would become Husband seven years later), or belting out showtunes at the aforementioned Sidetrack, I am sitting in that teeny apartment, on the futon, watching the fledgling Food Network, specifically "Taste." "Taste" is the brainchild of the inimitable David Rosengarten, who, it would turn out, was rather imitable in that Alton Brown came along to do the same show, to great effect, with "Good Eats." I digress. The "Taste" episode I'm watching is devoted to croissants, and it is particularly compelling: croissant dough is a laminated dough! Laminating dough is a lengthy process that involves constructing many alternating sheets of dough and butter, which puff during baking to create the flaky layers associated with a good croissant. Who on earth has the time and patience to make such a thing?!?? I wonder. It should be said that I also wonder how it will ever be possible that it will be the year 2000 and I will be twenty-six. I watch the rest of the episode, turn off the TV and head out for the evening, probably with a bottle of sparkling wine or vodka in hand.

Wasn't that a great story?

I've often thought wistfully of laminated dough since that day. Could I do it? Would it work? Am I crazy? Then, one bright day in 2011 -- bolstered by the intervening decade-plus of cooking and the experience of writing this blog for several years -- I see a croissant recipe in my Baking Illustrated cookbook and realize that laminating dough is actually very simple.

I made croissants. They were so easy. They were so amazing.

Then I found a recipe for deep-dish pizza with a cornmeal-flecked laminated crust. I made that, too. It was so easy. It was so amazing.

Now all I want to do is laminate dough. I suggest you do the same.

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CROISSANTS
Adapted from Baking Illustrated

A note: this recipe allows you do to something called "FORMING THE BUTTER SQUARE." It is fun, and intense.

Another, more practical note: this dough needs to be cold when you work with it. Make sure it's thoroughly chilled before you begin rolling it out. If it gets warm or sticky, wrap it in plastic wrap and chill again. Your vigilance will be rewarded.

One last note: it helps to have a ruler for this recipe. Embrace your inner massive geek and buy a nice metal one and dedicate it to kitchen use.

And finally: this recipe includes the phrase "isosceles triangle." Do not be intimidated.

For the dough:
3 c. (15 oz.) all-purpose flour, plus extra for rolling
1 T. instant yeast
1/4 c. (1 3/4 oz.) sugar
1 1/4 t. kosher salt
1 1/4 c. whole milk, cold
2 T. unsalted butter

For the BUTTER SQUARE:
24 T. (3 sticks) unsalted butter, cut into 1-T pieces and kept cold
2 T. all-purpose flour

For the egg wash:
1 large egg, beaten

First, make the dough. In a medium bowl, whisk 2 3/4 c. of the flour with the yeast, sugar and salt. Place the milk in the bowl of an electric mixer fitted with the dough hook. Add the flour mixture to the milk and mix at low speed until a ball of dough forms, about 5 minutes.

Cut the 2 T. of butter into small pieces and add them to the dough. Continue to knead until the butter is fully incorporated and the dough becomes smooth and clears the sides of the bowl, about 5-6 minutes more. The dough should be sticky, but if more dough is sticking to the sides of the bowl than to itself, add the remaining 1/4 c. flour, 1 T. at a time. Wrap the dough in plastic wrap and refrigerate for 1 hour.

While the dough is chilling, have the time of your life while making the BUTTER SQUARE. Using a bench scraper, toss the butter pieces and flour together on a clean work surface. Smear the butter back and forth against the work surface until they combine into a smooth, homogeneous mixture. Wrap the butter mixture in plastic wrap and use the edges of the plastic to form it into an even 7-inch square. Refrigerate the butter square until ready to use, at least 30 minutes.

When everything is thoroughly chilled, it's time to make the turns. Lightly dust a work surface with flour. Roll the dough into an 11-inch square. Place the BUTTER SQUARE diagonally on top of the dough.

Fold the corners of the dough over the butter so they meet in the middle of the BUTTER SQUARE. Pinch the ends of the dough together to seal.

Using a rolling pin, tap the dough from the center outward until the butter begins to soften and become malleable. Gently roll the dough into a 14-inch square, dusting the work surface with flour as necessary to prevent sticking.

Fold one outside edge of the dough in toward the center and bring the opposite outside edge in over the top, as if folding a business letter.

Repeat the process, but folding over each end to make a square.

Congratulations! You have made 2 turns. Wrap the dough in plastic wrap and refrigerate for 2 hours.

After 2 hours, make 2 more turns. Remove the dough and place again on a work surface lightly dusted with flour. As before, roll the dough into a 14-inch square. Fold as before: first like a business letter, then folding over each end to make a square. Chill again for at least 2 hours.

Now it's time to shape the croissants. Line 2 baking sheets with parchment paper. Place the chilled dough onto a floured surface and gently roll it into a 20-inch square. Using a pizza cutter and your handy ruler, cut the dough into two equal rectangles. Cut each rectangle into thirds width-wise and then into triangles, for a total of 12 triangles.

Working one at a time, lift each triangle off the work surface, holding the base in one hand and the tip in the other. Gently stretch it into an isosceles triangle with two sides equal in length.

Place the triangle back on the work surface. With the base closest to you, cut a 1-inch slit into the center of the base of the triangle. Fold the two sides of the slit outward.

With both hands, roll the triangle from the base, gently stretching the dough as you roll and leaving the last 1/4-inch of the tip unrolled.

Transfer the croissant to the prepared baking sheet. Bring the ends of the croissant toward each other to form a crescent shape. Repeat with the remaining triangles.

Cover the croissants loosely with plastic wrap and let them rise at room temperature until puffy, 45-60 minutes. They will not double in size.

Finally, brush with egg wash and bake. Heat the oven to 400 degrees Fahrenheit. Brush the croissants with the beaten egg. Bake until the croissants are golden brown, about 18 minutes, rotating the baking sheet halfway through the baking time.

Cool on a wire rack for about 15 minutes before devouring them all in an embarrassing fashion.

Makes 12 croissants, best served fresh out the kitchen. However, they can be kept at room temperature for 2 days. You can also wrap them well in plastic and keep them in the freezer for up to 2 weeks, reheating them from frozen in a 300-degree oven for 5-10 minutes, but I wouldn't know anything about that because I consume all croissants without delay.

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Previously, on A Stove With A House Around It:

One year ago: walnut shortbread
Two years ago: macaron fail (boy, isn't that fun to re-live)
Three years ago: pizza Margherita and pizza with sage-walnut pesto and gorgonzola

Squarely in order

2011-10-25T19:46:00.000-07:00

The first thing my son learned how to do -- the first thing that wasn't instinctive, like eating or crying or turning over -- was feed the dog a treat. Honestly. His first party trick was not to play peekaboo or patty cake or shake a rattle. It was to take the Barkwheat handed to him, hold it out patiently and wait for the large Chesapeake Bay Retriever to extract it, gingerly, from his tiny human-paw. I could not be more proud of him, as it is clear that even as a wee tot, he has his priorities squarely in order.

So when he began to grow very weary of smoothly-pureed baby food, whether store-bought or prepared at home by me, I felt the least I could do to reward his dog-loving instincts was give him some good quality adult food (or "human food," as Husband calls it, as if babies are somehow not human, which they kind of aren't, but anyway). Somewhere around his first birthday he had started taking a keen interest in our food, reaching plaintively and somewhat pathetically for our plates, whimpering shyly as if quietly pleading, "What is that and why am I not having any and I am so tired of these carrots but I can't talk so please please try to figure it out you losers."

Soon his subtle non-verbal requests became outright mutiny, and I realized that if the lad was to eat well, he was going to have to start eating our food. So I wandered out onto the back porch, where a variety of stubborn herbs still thrive, defying this summer's wet and generally crappy garden-growing weather, and cut a massive bouquet of basil, parsley and chives. I mixed together some turkey meatballs, using scads of the finely-chopped fresh herbs as the meatballs' primary flavor. I took more of the herbs and whirred together a pesto, earthy and salty and bright. I cooked some spaghetti. And as I served a bowl of herby spaghetti with herby meatballs to Husband, I took a serving for a spin in the food processor for the baby.

I fed him a spoonful; he responded, "Mmmmmmmm" then waved his hands frantically while giggling and smiling.

He then gave the dog a meatball.

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SPAGHETTI WITH HERBED TURKEY MEATBALLS AND PESTO
Adapted loosely from Serious Eats

2 c. fresh basil, finely chopped (about 2 large bunches)
1/2 c. fresh parsley, finely chopped
1/2 c. chives, finely chopped
1 slice ciabatta or other crusty white bread
1/4 c. whole milk
1/2 lb. ground turkey
Kosher salt and freshly-cracked black pepper
1 lb. spaghetti
6 T. olive oil
2 garlic cloves
Freshly-grated Pecorino, to garnish

Combine the herbs into a bowl and mix well. Soak the bread in the milk for about 5 minutes, then remove it and lightly squeeze out the milk.

Place the bread in a medium bowl, and add the ground turkey, 1 c. of the herb mix and a pinch of salt and pepper. Using your hands, work the mixture until well-combined, adding the remaining milk, if necessary, to form a slightly sticky mixture. Shape into 1-inch meatballs.

Heat 2 T. of the olive oil in a large skillet over medium heat until shimmering. Add the meatballs (in batches if necessary) and cook until brown on all sides, about 5-10 minutes. Remove the meatballs to a baking sheet (keep warm in an oven heated to 250 degrees Fahrenheit). Reserve the pan drippings in the skillet.

In the meantime, bring a large pot of salted water to a boil and cook the spaghetti according to the package directions until it's al dente. Drain, reserving 1 c. of the pasta cooking water.

In a food processor, combine the remaining herbs, 4 T. of the olive oil, garlic, a pinch of salt and pepper and 1/4 c. of the reserved pasta water. Process until pureed, seasoning to taste if necessary.

Place the drained pasta into the skillet that you used to cook the meatballs, along with a splash of the reserved pasta cooking water. Add the herb sauce and toss over low heat, adding more pasta water if necessary to make a smooth sauce. Top with meatballs and serve with a generous dusting of Pecorino.

Makes 4 servings, but really more like 2 servings. To put it another way, it's enough for two hungry adults, a tot and a Jet.

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Previously, on A Stove With A House Around It:

One year ago: walnut shortbread
Two years ago: Bread Baker's Apprentice French bread
Three years ago: sibling rivalry chicken noodle soup

You are wrong

2011-08-28T16:41:00.000-07:00

I am going to imagine for a moment that you, gentle reader, are not so busy with earthquakes, hurricanes, craft beer, pennant races, gas prices, waning summer days, jobs, lives and Jim Thome's return to the Indians that you haven't been wondering, "Why is Dianne not blogging very much these days?"

You are undoubtedly thinking, "It's because she has a baby, right? Who I guess is now technically a toddler, because he turned one last week." ("Technically A Toddler" is the name of my new band, by the way.)

You are wrong, however.

I haven't been blogging of late because I am trying to read all seven Harry Potter books and watch all eight movies in a row, in one gigantic pop culture chunk. I missed the boat completely over the past decade of Pottermania, and it is just with the release of the final movie that I decided I needed to consume the entire epic saga at once. I've been working on it since the second week of July, and am currently on page 528 of Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix. Harry is learning Occlumency from Snape and fawning over Cho. Last night I had a dream that I was being harassed by a mob of evil blond Slytherins. And people say your priorities change when you have kids. Ha! Your priorities change when you read Potter.

Even though I'm spending a lot of my time developing a crush on Ron Weasley, that doesn't mean that I've stopped cooking. For example: I recently made this delicious cinnamon-scented fried chicken. It was flavorful, and juicy, and crunchy, and golden-reddish-brown and cooked in a cast-iron skillet (my favorite cooking vessel apart from my Potions cauldron). It was quick, coming together in no time. It satisfied me and Husband, giving him the energy to take care of the entire household while I retreated to the leather recliner, wondering why the imposter Moody didn't just make Harry's quill into a Portkey, thereby avoiding the whole Triwizard Tournament shenanigan and perhaps sparing the life of strapping young Cedric.

But then there would have been no point to the approximately 5,326 pages of ...The Goblet of Fire, and I'd be forced to resume normal adult responsibilities. Who needs that when you can have a good book and a good piece of chicken?

Next up: dragon steaks. Not just Hagrid's ice packs anymore!

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CINNAMON-SCENTED FRIED CHICKEN

2 c. water
2 T. kosher salt, divided
2 T. Worcestershire sauce
4 boneless, skinless chicken breasts (or, alternatively, 1 good whole chicken, cut into pieces)
2 c. all-purpose flour
2 T. ground cinnamon
1 t. freshly-ground black pepper
Vegetable oil

Place water, 1 T. salt and Worcestershire sauce into a large bowl. Whisk to combine, dissolving the salt. Add the chicken breasts (or chicken pieces) to the bowl; refrigerate, covered, for 30 minutes.

Remove the chicken from the brine. Discard brine. Pat the chicken dry with paper towels.

Add enough vegetable oil to a large cast-iron skillet to come to a depth of about 1/2 inch. Turn heat to medium-high.

While the fat heats, combine the flour, remaining 1 T. of salt, cinnamon and black pepper in a plastic bag. Toss the chicken in the bag, 2-3 pieces at a a time, until well-coated. Place the pieces on a rack as you finish.

When the oil is hot (a pinch of flour will sizzle when sprinkled in), turn the heat to high and slowly add the chicken, a few pieces at a time. (If you add them all at once, the oil temperature will fall.) Cover the skillet with a mesh screen, reduce the heat to medium-high and cook for about 5 minutes.

Turn the chicken and continue to cook for approximately another 5 minutes. Then, turn the chicken as needed to make sure it's golden brown on both sides, cooking until a probe thermometer inserted into the white meat reads 161 degrees Fahrenheit. (If you're cooking dark meat pieces, you'll have to cook them a little longer, until they temp at 165 degrees.) Remove chicken from skillet and drain on paper towels.

Serve hot, warm or at room temperature (or even cold, if you're like Husband). I like mine with a hefty dollop of rich mashed potatoes.

Makes 4 servings.

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Previously, on A Stove With A House Around It:

One year ago: blueberry-corn ice cream sundaes
Two years ago: Bread Baker's Apprentice English muffins
Three years ago: homegrown tomato salad with feta and cracked-black pepper

I need to reevaluate

2011-07-29T10:05:00.000-07:00

First, a little bit of blogkeeping: Though I really really really wanted it to work out, my little experiment with Tumblr has ended. I loved everything about it except the inability of the non-Tumblr-affiliated reader to comment on the posts. Deal-breaker, I suppose. So I shall toil here in Blogger until which time I can get my act together and contemplate a complete blog overhaul. Which might not happen until 2028. Stay tuned.

And now to talk about pie!

I am somewhat of a pain in the ass. I know, shocking! When you have picked your jaw up off the floor, please hear me out: I have had it in my mind for a good three decades now that I don't like anything with a creamy consistency. Sour cream: yuck! Chocolate mousse: the horror! Jello: not without a shot of grain alcohol!

But a few months ago Mom brought me a crumpled page, evidently torn hastily from a magazine. She stuck it on my refrigerator with the "What happens in Amish country stays in Amish country" magnet and stated authoritatively, "Make this for me." I took a look over at the scrap of paper and glimpsed a recipe for coconut-key lime pie -- which is completely in Mom's wheelhouse because she loves coconut and key lime and any sort of pie involving a massive pile of whipped cream -- but not at all in mine because of the aforementioned perceived disgust with creamy consistencies. I decided to make it for her birthday; one is permitted to have whatever baked good one wants on one's birthday, regardless if one's offspring is a pain in the ass.

AND THE PIE WAS DELICIOUS. Who knew? WTF? Do I like creamy, custard-y pies after all? Are pigs flying? Did hell freeze over? Is Guy Fieri wearing his sunglasses over his eyes?

Even more intriguing: does this mean I've liked cream pies all along? Is that even possible? I need to reevaluate my entire worldview.

While I do that, you should make this pie.

P.S. I recently started liking sour cream, too.

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COCONUT-KEY LIME PIE
Adapted from Everyday Food

A great tip from friend and key lime pie-lover Renee: When you find good key limes in the market, buy them, juice them and freeze the juice. (Freezing them in ice cube trays is particularly convenient.) You'll always have great key lime juice on hand to scratch that pie-making itch!

For the crust:
6 oz. graham crackers (about 12 crackers)
3 T. sugar
1/4 t. kosher salt
5 T. unsalted better, melted

For the filling:
3 T. sweetened shredded coconut, toasted
1 can (14 oz.) sweetened condensed milk
1 can (13.5 oz.) unsweetened coconut milk
1/3 c. fresh (or bottled if you can't find fresh) key lime juice, from about 9 key limes
7 large egg yolks
2 c. cold heavy cream
2 T. powdered sugar

First, make the crust. Preheat the oven to 350 degrees Fahrenheit. In a food processor, pulse the graham crackers until finely ground. Add the sugar, salt and butter and pulse until combined. Firmly press the mixture into the bottom and up the sides of a 9-inch pie plate. Bake until the crust is dry and set, 10-12 minutes. Let the pie crust cool completely before filling.

Reduce the oven temperature to 325 degrees Fahrenheit. Spread the shredded coconut in a single layer on a baking sheet and bake, stirring often, until it's toasted and lightly browned, about 5-7 minutes. Keep a eye on it; you don't want it to be too brown.

Make the filling. In a medium bowl, whisk together the condensed milk, coconut milk, key lime juice and egg yolks until smooth. Pour into the prepared crust and bake until it's set but still slightly wobbly in the center, about 50 minutes. (Start checking the pie at 40 minutes, just to make sure you don't over bake it.)

Let the pie cool on a wire rack for 1 1/2 to 2 hours, then refrigerate for 3 hours (or up to 1 day).

When ready to serve, in the bowl of an electric mixer fitted with the whisk attachment, beat the cream and powdered sugar on high until stiff peaks form, about 3 minutes. Top the pie with whipped cream and sprinkle with the toasted coconut.

Serves 6 to 8 regular people; fewer if they're cream pie lovers. And, really, who isn't a cream pie lover?

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Previously, on A Stove With A House Around It:

One year ago: a reminder of the American flag cake
Two years ago: mallows and Milan cookies
Three years ago: pesto

Garlic scapes, elsewhere, plus an experiment

2011-06-23T21:45:00.000-07:00

Hey guys.

Just for fun, just for a moment, I'm doing a little experimenting with Tumblr. Tonight I posted a little tome about pickled garlic scapes. Please head over there and take a look, especially if you have a trove of scapes littering your kitchen as a result of a few overzealous trips to a farmers' market.

We'll see how the Tumblr thing goes. I like the way it looks, and it's a heck of a lot easier to use than this here Blogger. But the ability for readers to leave comments is seriously curtailed, which could be a deal-breaker.

Anyway. This is all very fascinating. What I really want you to know is, there are dilly scapes over there, and changes might be afoot at the Circle K.

Stay tuned!

Bread Baker's Apprentice: 20/43: multigrain bread extraordinaire

2011-05-14T23:03:00.000-07:00

Multigrain bread extraordinaire!

Such a name deserves an exclamation point. I think all breads should have such names: casatiello magnifique! Kaiser rolls eleganza! English muffins especial! However, sadly, in his excellent The Bread Baker's Apprentice, bread enthusiast and expert baker Peter Reinhart opts for the more sensible, straightforward names: casatiello. Kaiser rolls. English muffins.

Until you get to page 187, where for some reason Reinhart was moved to title his multigrain loaf, "Multigrain bread extraordinaire." It seemed a little randomly enthusiastic, especially for a nutritious bread that might not otherwise inspire such joie de vivre. Speaking for myself, I tend to get a little more excited by, say, a brioche made with enough butter to fill the business end of a dump truck. Brioche extraordinaire! That, I could expect.

But then I made the dough for the extraordinary multigrain bread. And in its bountiful rustic healthful glory, it rose so high atop its pan as to make me blush a little.

I baked it, and witnessed its surprisingly soft crumb flake away from its delicate crisp crust. I then took Reinhart's advice: "This bread...makes the best toast in the world." I browned a few slices in the trusty toaster oven, anointed them with an "appropriate" amount of salted Irish butter, and promptly enjoyed the best toast in the world.

Extraordinaire!

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The Bread Baker's Apprentice challenge asks that we do not share Peter Reinhart's recipes, no matter how extraordinary or pedestrian. But you have the book. So turn to page 187 already!

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Previously, on A Stove With A House Around It:

One year ago: crispy chicken tacos
Two years ago: mustard chicken in phyllo
Three years ago: cream of mushroom soup

Turns out

2011-05-10T23:13:00.000-07:00

So OK, I have these little rules. I don't have obsessive-compulsive disorder or anything, I just like certain things to be certain ways. Because these certain ways of mine make good sense. To me.

Like, if I'm going to sprinkle grated Pecorino as a garnish over a dish of baked pasta, I turn the pasta over with my fork first, moving the cheesy baked topping to the bottom of the dish. That way, you don't have a layer of cheese (grated Pecorino) over a layer of cheese (crusty mozzarella). The salty goodness of the cheeses are therefore evenly distributed throughout the dish, instead of piled atop one another where you might eat them in one bite and then be left with cheese-less pasta on the bottom of the dish (the horror).

Or, if I'm untacking a horse, I must put the bridle back in the tack room first, before removing the saddle. I can't let the bridle just hang there on the hook, reasonably, while I alleviate the unceasing pressure of the cinch from the horsie's belly. No, the poor horse must stand there, looking around, continuing to suck in and wonder if that cinch makes her look fat, while I deliberately return the bridle to its appointed hook. I do this because if I don't, I forget to put the bridle away because I get too involved with talking to the goats and dodging the errant barn cats.

And just as a for-instance, even though we have a dishwasher, I insist that certain dishes be hand-washed. I have decided that my sea foam Fiestaware, for example, cannot withstand the horrific rigors of the dishwasher. I think I decided this because one piece got discolored on the edge from leaning up against a cookie sheet while it dried, leaving a teeny rust stain. Why I blamed this on the dishwasher is anyone's guess, but so it is. They are my favorite dishes and they are treated specially as a result. The sunflower coffee cups that we bought in Ecuador must also be hand-washed, mostly because I don't want the fragile "CUENCA" mark on their bases to be scrubbed away. The pots have to be washed by hand, and not on the perfectly capable "pots and pans" cycle, because they are big and take up too much space in the dishwasher, leaving no room for anything else. (Appropriate question: "Anything else? It would seem that you don't allow any dishes in your dishwasher, Dianne.") And the knives! The knives must be washed immediately, dried and returned to the blocks. They are not permitted to sit in the sink awaiting cleaning. But that's just good safety sense.

So anyway, it turns out that I am a little OCD, apparently. Except for that knife-safety bit. A knife is in your hand, on your board, or in your block. Or at the local cookware shop, getting sharpened on the first Monday of the month.

And because I like things just so, I insist that this delicious dinner of delicate angel hair pasta mixed with a sharp melange of artichoke hearts and capers be topped with toasted panko instead of my usual favored grated Pecorino. There are enough salty elements to the dish to render it just perfect. Pecorino would gild the lily, and not in a good way. I have my reasons, and they are sound.

Unlike when I gently and rationally and repeatedly remind Husband why the dish towel should stay by the sink, and not all the way across the room by the basement door.*

*What use is it way over there? When my hands are wet, at the sink, the towel should be waiting.

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CHICKEN WITH ARTICHOKES, ANGEL HAIR AND TOASTED PANKO

For the toasted panko:
3 T. olive oil
1/2 c. panko
1/4 c. fresh parsley, chopped
Sea salt and freshly-cracked black pepper, to taste

For the rest of the dish:
1/4 c. all-purpose flour
Pinch sea salt and freshly-cracked black pepper
4 boneless, skinless chicken breasts, pounded thin
3 T. olive oil
1 c. chicken stock
1 14-oz. can artichoke hearts packed in water, drained, rinsed and quartered
2 T. capers, drained and rinsed
3 T. unsalted butter
1 lb. angel hair pasta
1/2 c. fresh parsley leaves, chopped

First, make the toasted panko crumblies. Place the olive oil in a saucepan over medium heat. Add the panko, parsley, salt and pepper and toast, stirring occasionally, until the panko is toasty and browned. Set aside, off the heat.

Then, get to making the rest of the dish. Set a large pot of salted water to boil. In a shallow dish, combine the flour, salt and pepper. Dredge the chicken in the flour mixture, shaking off the excess. In a large skillet, heat the olive oil over medium-high heat. Cook the chicken in batches, adding a little more oil if the pan gets too dry, until the chicken is a pleasing light golden brown, about 3 minutes per side. Set aside.

Add the chicken stock to the empty skillet, scraping the skillet with a wooden spoon to loosen the crusty tasty bits. Bring the stock to a boil; cook until reduced by half. Add the artichokes, capers and chicken and juices to the pan. Gently swirl to combine, and bring just to the boil. Remove skillet from the heat and stir in butter; cover to keep warm.

Add the pasta to the boiling salted water and cook according to the package directions until al dente. Drain the pasta and add it to the skillet, mixing it with the chicken, artichokes and sauce. Top with parsley and serve sprinkled with the reserved toasted panko.

Serves 4.

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Previously, on A Stove With A House Around It:

One year ago: guacamole
Two years ago: honey biscuits
Three years ago: chocolate crinkles

Men Who Cook!

2011-05-09T07:02:00.000-07:00

Today I'm taking a teeny little step outside the realm of what I normally do around here, that is to say, cook things at home, in an amateur fashion, and then tell you about them.

Today I'll tell you about some other amateur cooks, all of them men, who are gathering this Friday to pit their best dishes against one another to benefit Akron's Summa Health System's Palliative Care and Hospice Services. Viva La Flavor, Summa's 11th Annual Men Who Cook event, will be held Friday, May 13, at the St. Joseph Family Center in Akron, from 5:00-9:00 p.m. This year's Las Vegas theme provides the setting for some of Akron's most talented amateur male chefs to work their culinary magic for the judges -- a panel of esteemed Akron women. (Summa's Web site has complete lists of the cooking men and judging women.)

In celebration of the home cook, Summa has graciously given me two tickets to this Friday's event to give away to a lucky reader. If you'd like to enter to win the tickets:

(1) Leave me a comment, below, and tell me about a man who cooks in your life.

(2) Follow me on Twitter and tweet me with the following message: I just entered to win tickets to @SummaHealth's Men Who Cook! http://bit.ly/lutNvm

One winner will be chosen at random at 6:00 p.m. on Wednesday, May 11. Tickets will be left at the event will call under the winner's name. And for more details on the event, be sure to follow Summa Health System on Twitter and Facebook!

Good luck to you, and to the cooking men on Friday night! May we all enjoy the food and raise lots of money for Summa's Palliative Care and Hospice Services.

Happy Passover!

2011-04-21T07:05:00.000-07:00

So we're already half-way though Passover, give or take a day. Your Seders are most likely over. But hey, you still have to eat for the next six days. To assist you in that regard, I hereby present the Passover-friendly recipes I've featured on this site over the years, in one convenient location for easy unleavened cooking:

Quinoa tabbouleh and Quinoa with caramelized onions, if you fall on the side of the debate that says quinoa is Kosher for Passover

Moroccan mashed potato casserole, the kugel for people who don't like kugel

Oregano baked chicken dinner, served without the crusty bread for sopping

And, desserts: Ashkenazic Passover apple cake, Sephardic almond macaroons and walnut and almond cake with orange-pomegranate compote.

They're not all entirely traditional, but they are entirely delicious.

Next year in Jerusalem!

Why? Guest blogging!

2011-04-06T17:15:00.000-07:00

Just popping up to say hello, and direct you, dear reader, to a guest post I've written for the excellent Why CLE ? blog. CLEgal, the site's fearless blogger, has taken a well-deserved vacation to the sunny parts, and I'm honored to be one of the bloggers keeping her readers entertained while she's away.

So! Please head on over and see why the delicious Polish cooking in Northeast Ohio is so important to me. Then, have a good look around the site to learn all about what makes Cleveland a fabulous place to live, indeed.

Thanks, CLEgal!

Beyond subsistence

2011-03-27T18:14:00.000-07:00

I could subsist on the chickpea.

Actually, beyond subsistence -- which has the connotation of being practical, necessary and essential but not particularly thrilling or absolutely desirable -- if I was forced to choose, among all food items, including chocolate and bread and cheese, which I would take with me to a deserted island, I would choose the chickpea.

Because to me, the chickpea is particularly thrilling and absolutely desirable. Absolutely.

At one point in my wayward youth/vegan early 20s, as a matter of fact, I almost got the humble legume tattooed on the back of my neck. It was either that or my other would-be choice for ink, the Pearl Jam stick figure. I never did get around to getting a tattoo, though the chickpea would have worn a lot better than the Alive Guy.

I enjoy the chickpea in just about every iteration other than tattoo. Pureed, with tahini and coriander, in hummus. Minced with garlic and parsley then fried, as falafel. Boiled with tomatoes, rosemary, black pepper and pasta, as pasta e ceci. Tossed with spices and roasted until nearly crisp, as a perfect savory snack. Milled into a flour and mixed into baked goods. Lined up on a fork, plain. Eaten out of the can, hobo-style.

Mixed with a warm vinaigrette, gratuitous slabs of feta and salty-sharp Sicilian olives for a perfect weekday lunch.

On second thought, can I take two things to the deserted island? 'Cause I need feta, too. And olives. Three things.

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CHICKPEA SALAD WITH CUMIN VINAIGRETTE
Adapted from New Classic Family Dinners via Serious Eats

You might want to double this recipe. I'm just saying.

For the cumin vinaigrette:

2 t. cumin seeds
1 t. cracked black peppercorns
2 t. dried oregano
1/2 c. + 1 T. olive oil
1 clove garlic, minced
2 T. red wine vinegar
Kosher salt and freshly-cracked black pepper, to taste

For the chickpea salad:

2 15-oz. cans chickpeas, drained and rinsed
1/2 c. kalamata olives, pitted and sliced
2 scallions, thinly sliced
1 T. fresh mint, slivered
2 oz. feta cheese, cubed

In a small skillet, toast the cumin and black pepper over medium-high heat until very fragrant. Transfer to a mortar and pestle or spice grinder and allow to cool 5 minutes, then crush. Crumble in oregano.

Heat 1 T. of the olive oil in a skillet over medium heat until shimmering, then add the garlic. Cook until the garlic begins to soften, about 30 seconds. Add the cumin and spices and cook for an additional 30 seconds. Add the red wine vinegar and stir to combine. Whisk in the remaining 1/2 c. olive oil to create an emulsion. Season to taste with salt and pepper.

Add the chickpeas to the skillet with the vinaigrette. Simmer until cooked and soft, 5-10 minutes. Transfer the warm chickpeas to a large mixing bowl and combine with the olives, scallions, mint and feta. Serve warm or at room temperature.

Serves 4, supposedly. But I will believe that when I see it.

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Previously, on A Stove With A House Around It:

One year ago: chicken souvlaki
Two years ago: deconstructed pesto lasagna
Three years ago: my nephews' birthday cakes: a treatise

Convenience is not my thing

2011-02-20T20:50:00.000-08:00

I always say that I love recipes that take at least three days to complete. Think: mole; homemade turkey stock; sourdough bread; pandoro. The more time-consuming and labor-intensive, the better. I even say as much in my little blog manifesto. Convenience is not my thing. I might have some kind of an illness. Please don't judge me.

It is in such a context, then, that my head nearly a'sploded when I saw a recipe for barbecue sauce that called for homemade coffee liqueur. After its ingredients are mixed together, the homemade coffee liqueur takes at least a month to mature, sitting on cool, dark shelf, allowing its component parts to mingle and become awesome. When I began making the liqueur early last December, I actually thought to myself, "Bitchin'. I can have homemade crispy chicken nuggets with coffee-liqueur barbecue sauce in February." And this thought was appealing to me.

As I said, some sort of illness.

Anyway. I realize that you can just use Kahlua to make the barbecue sauce, and that way you can have a finished product a mere hour after you decide to make it. That is a completely reasonable route to take. But if you're like me and you like to imagine what you'll dip nuggets into long after winter is gone and the tulips are blooming, you've come to the right place.

This sauce is dynamite: multi-layered, spicy, sweet, boozy, onion-y. It has depth: the depth that a food should have that was several months in the making. We've really enjoyed it over the past few nights as a dipping sauce for the aforementioned crispy chicken nuggets, which come from Cook's Country and are so good that you will not be able to stop thinking about them (I'm not exaggerating). Of course this barbecue sauce has a million applications that don't involve dipping: baste grilled chicken with it, use it to enliven an everyday turkey sandwich, eat it with a spoon.

As for the remaining homemade coffee liqueur: you can always invite Husband over. He loves "Caucasians." He'll finish it off for you in no time.

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Coffee Liqueur Barbecue Sauce + Homemade Coffee Liqueur
Adapted from Southern Living

A note about ingredients: the homemade coffee liqueur recipe calls for two tablespoons of chocolate liqueur (a la Godiva). If you don't want to buy a whole bottle for two tablespoons, do what I did: ask your favorite bartender or server for a shot from behind the bar. Maybe it says something about me and my relationship with food service professionals, but I had no qualms about asking our favorite Saturday morning breakfast waitress Becky for a shot and she didn't even charge me. Never mind that the people at the next table wondered why I was asking for chocolate liqueur at 8:15 a.m. They can judge all they want.

Another note: the barbecue sauce recipe only makes about one cup of sauce. Frankly, that is not enough. I recommend doubling it; it will keep in the fridge in an airtight container for a week.

For the homemade coffee liqueur:

4 c. sugar
1/4 c. instant espresso
2 c. vodka
2 T. chocolate liqueur (optional)
1 8-inch vanilla bean, split lengthwise

Bring 2 cups of water to a boil in a large saucepan over medium-high heat. Remove from heat, then whisk in sugar and instant espresso, whisking until completely dissolved. Let cool 10 minutes.

Stir in the vodka and chocolate liqueur (if desired), whisking until well-blended. Pour the mixture into a 2-quart glass bottle (or any glass bottle that's large enough and has a lid). Cover tightly with the lid and shake thoroughly.

Let stand in a cool, dark place at least one month, shaking at least once weekly.

After one month, you are ready to make barbecue sauce. Rejoice! This process has taught you the beauty of patience and anticipation.

Makes 6 cups of liqueur.

For the coffee liqueur barbecue sauce:

1 8-oz. can tomato sauce
1/3 c. homemade coffee liqueur (recipe above; store-bought coffee liqueur may be substituted)
1/4 c. red onion, finely chopped
2 T. Worcestershire sauce
1 T. freshly-squeezed lemon juice
2 t. all-purpose flour
1/2 t. kosher salt
1/4 t. chili powder
1/4 t. crushed red pepper flakes

In a medium saucepan, whisk together all ingredients. Bring to a boil over medium heat; reduce heat to low and simmer, whisking occasionally, until the sauce is slightly thickened, 5 or 6 minutes. Cool completely before serving (about 30 minutes).

Makes 1 cup of barbecue sauce.

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Previously, on A Stove With A House Around It:

One year ago: layered chocolate fudge cake
Two years ago: baklava
Three years ago: tomato sauce di Piazza Sant'Eulalia

An annual thing

2011-02-13T22:01:00.000-08:00

OK, so technically A Stove With A House Around It is three years and one month old.

My goal was to celebrate the old girl's third birthday in a more timely fashion, like, on the birthday itself (January 10, 2011). But it's February 13 and I'm just now getting around to acknowledging the milestone. What can I say; I am lame. But I am not so lame that I didn't bake pretzels in honor of the occasion!

For the site's first and second birthdays, I made pretzels. I decided it should be an annual thing: The Ritual Baking of the Pretzel in Honor of the Weblog's Birthday. Last year I wrote, "Yes. I believe I shall make birthday pretzels a yearly tradition: each year this blog grows a little older, I'll share another pretzel recipe I've found. Because I do believe a full life is one lived in the presence of many pretzel recipes." And I'm nothing if not true to my word.

And so! How fortuitous that I spent so much time during my maternity leave catching up on magazines that had been sitting on the shelf, languishing, for years. And how fortuitous to come across, in the course of this culinary publication backlog-clearing endeavor, an article in a five-year-old Food & Wine about the homey side of Grant Achatz, titled "Comfort Food from a Rebel Chef." "I've always been a fan of any food high in salt and starch," the adorable little molecular gastronomer says, "and soft pretzels right out of the oven are awesome."

Hey, if they're good enough for the man behind this, they're good enough for me.

I'm pretty psyched about the blog's turning three, even if I can't post as often as I used to, or as often as I'd like. It's still a labor of love, and I hope that a few of you out there find inspiration or humor from this space -- or maybe just a way to pass a little time. Thank you for stopping by, and here's to year four!

P.S. If you were wondering if I had mentally ranked the anniversary pretzel recipes from 2009, 2010 and 2011, well yes, I have. These Achatz beauties are clearly number one, followed by Alton Brown's from last year and Martha Stewart's from 2009. I wonder what next year will bring!

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GERMAN SOFT PRETZEL STICKS
From Grant Achatz's recipe as it appeared in Food & Wine

Though Mr. Achatz says he likes to eat these pretzels with ranch dressing (?), I'd go for a bit of mustard or just plain. They are delicious all on their own.

1/2 c. light brown sugar
2 c. warm water
4 1/2 t. instant yeast (or 2 envelopes active dry yeast)
1/4 c. vegetable oil
5 3/4 c. all-purpose flour (plus more, potentially, for kneading)
3/4 c. baking soda
1 large egg beaten with 1 T. water
Maldon salt, for sprinkling

In a large bowl, stir the brown sugar into the water until it dissolves. Sprinkle the yeast over the water and mix in with a whisk; let stand for about 5 minutes. Stir in the vegetable oil and 3 cups of the flour. I use my dough whisk to bring the dough together, but a wooden spoon will work just fine. Knead in the remaining 2 3/4 cups flour; the dough will be slightly sticky.

Transfer the dough to a lightly-floured work surface and knead until the dough is silky, about 3 minutes. If the dough is very sticky, knead in up to 1/4 cup more flour. (I did not need to use any extra flour.) Transfer the dough to a large oiled bowl, cover with plastic wrap and let stand at room temperature until doubled in bulk, 45 minutes to an hour.

Preheat the oven to 450 degrees Fahrenheit. Line three large baking sheets with parchment paper and spray with cooking spray. Punch down the dough and turn it out onto a work surface. Knead the dough lightly, then flatten it out and, using a bench scraper, cut it into 24 pieces.

Roll each piece into an 6-inch stick about 1/2-inch thick. Transfer the sticks to the prepared baking sheets, leaving about 2 inches between them. Let stand uncovered until puffed, about 25 minutes.

In a large, deep skillet stir the baking soda into 2 quarts of water and bring to a simmer over high heat. Reduce the heat to moderate. Using two slotted spoons or spiders, carefully transfer 6 pretzel sticks at a time to the simmering water for 30 seconds, turning once. Transfer the sticks to paper towels to drain, then return them to the parchment-lined baking sheets, spacing them as before.

Brush the pretzel sticks with the egg wash and sprinkle with salt. Bake until richly browned, about 10 minutes. Serve warm or at room temperature.

Makes 24 pretzel sticks. The sticks can be stored in a plastic bag overnight then reheated in a toaster oven the next day, but they are never as good as they are right out of the oven. So, prepare to gorge yourself on pretzel sticks or invite a few people over for snacking.

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Previously, on A Stove With A House Around It:

One year ago: layered chocolate fudge cake
Two years ago: pine nut cookies with rosemary
Three years ago: egg rolls

Bread Baker's Apprentice 19/43: marble rye

2011-02-02T15:13:00.000-08:00

"I could see why Seinfeld would steal one of those," Husband said.

He was, of course, referring to the time Jerry stole a marble rye from Mrs. Choate in order to sneak it into the Ross house so George could replace the one his parents took back when Mr. and Mrs. Ross didn't serve it with dinner. "Shut up, you old bag!" Jerry shouted, tucking the swirled rye under his arm.

Though I would consider committing a crime in order to procure a marble rye, now I don't have to, thanks to Peter Reinhart. Which is good for many reasons, not the least of which is: should I ever be brought up on some charges related to a Good Samaritan law in New England, the prosecution won't be able to haul any marble rye-spurned old ladies before the jury to disparage my character.

The most difficult part about making this bread is getting your hands on the specialty flours. Well, it's not difficult, per se, it just involves a bit of planning. To achieve the bread's lovely dark-light mottling -- as well as the distinctive, wonderful rye flavor -- you'll need white rye flour, clear flour and caramel coloring. Thanks to the ever-stellar King Arthur Flour, these flours are only an Internet order and a few days' wait away. (For the record, Reinhart's recipe calls for liquid caramel color to dye the dark portion of the marble rye. King Arthur Flour only had the caramel powder. It worked just fine and didn't leave behind any of the bitter flavor that coloring the dough with cocoa or instant coffee would.) The day I ordered my flour I decided that I would spoil myself and load up on all the specialty flours I'd need for the remainder of the Bread Baker's Apprentice challenge. The following bounty arrived on my front porch 72 hours later. You don't necessarily have to be this ridiculous, but I'm not gonna lie: it was glorious. And yes, I lined them all up on my counter like the massive nerd that I am.

Of my two-loaf yield, I ate one marble rye right away and stashed the second in the freezer for a snowy day. The crust was shiny and rich, with a sturdy but soft crumb inside. I usually enjoy thick-sliced and dark-toasted bread, but the marble rye was very tasty cut thinly and toasted lightly. Like seemingly everything else in my life, I loved this bread even more with a little bit of fancy salted butter.

And because I baked it myself, I didn't have to fish for it out the bedroom window of my in-laws' townhouse. Hey, it's a Schnitzer's.

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The Bread Baker's Apprentice challenge asks that we do not share Reinhart's recipes on the dot-com. Meanwhile, you don't need it anyway, because you've already purchased the book. (And if you haven't done so yet, go do it now. I'll look the other way and pretend you've had it all along.) The marble rye recipe starts on page 183.

I've submitted these marble rye loaves to Yeastspotting because they are so lovely, if I do say so myself.

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Previously, on A Stove With A House Around It:

One year ago: layered chocolate fudge cake
Two years ago: graham crackers
Three years ago: whole-wheat spaghetti with Meyer lemon, arugula and pistachios

Ridiculous, circuitous, absurd

2011-01-12T22:11:00.000-08:00

Husband always says that he has a particular knack for getting at the same result many different ways. Many ridiculous, circuitous, absurd ways. He likes to make simple things difficult for no discernible reason. For example, he used to think that Pepsi Blue (remember that?) tasted like Southern Comfort. So instead of mixing himself a normal Southern Comfort and Coke, he'd mix Southern Comfort and Pepsi Blue to create something he referred to as "even more Southern Comfortable." He's the kind of man who would attempt to cook a piece of chicken on his carburetor when there's a Weber set up 10 feet away. And the most fun thing ever, according to him? Viewing downloaded television shows saved on a spare computer, shared on a wireless network, via the Xbox. So much better than just watching the show when it aired.

I suppose that 15 years with the fellow has taken its toll on me, though, because a few weeks ago I read a recipe for something called "Cannelloni, straight up," which was a randomly difficult, vertical method for serving the large pasta tubes. I mused, "That's right! Why should I eat plain old reclining cannelloni? How boring is that, when I can balance them next to each other, perpendicular to the pan, for extra fun and excitement?"

It was so fun that I made it twice in two weeks. I should also mention that it was delicious, with its vegetable-heavy, slightly sweet sauce (that reminds me a little of this) and its rich cheese cloak and its crusty, baked, almost-burned edges and bits. It's a big mess on the plate, but it looks gorgeous in its baking dish, symmetrical and bubbly and golden. It is effort for no reason. Except that the reason is, because it's fun and new and different and who couldn't use a little of that on a freezing, run-of-the-mill January Wednesday?

No word on whether it goes with a Southern Comfortable.

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CANNELLONI, STRAIGHT UP
Adapted from "The Australian Women's Weekly"

Needless to say, you don't have to prop the cannelloni up if you don't want to. You can make "Cannelloni, prone" if you want. I won't tell anyone and it will still be delicious.

I like the cannelloni made by Molisana. It's cut straight on the ends, which makes it possible to stand on end in the baking dish (as opposed to angled ends). And, according to Molisana's Web site, it's the "eternal protagonist of banquets." Tell me, how could you go wrong with that?!

Finally, feel free to make this dish with ground beef instead of ground turkey.

The filling:

1/4 c. extra-virgin olive oil
1 large white or yellow onion, finely chopped
4 cloves garlic, minced
2 medium carrots, finely chopped
2 celery stalks, finely chopped
1 lb. ground turkey
2 15-oz. cans diced tomatoes
3/4 c. tomato paste
4 c. water
2 t. dried oregano
1 c. fresh flat-leaf parsley, chopped
Salt and pepper, to taste

The cheese sauce:

4 T. unsalted butter
1/3 c. all-purpose flour
3 c. whole milk
1 c. Pecorino cheese, grated
Pinch of grated nutmeg
Salt and pepper, to taste

To assemble the dish:

1 1/2 lbs. cannelloni
1 c. mozzarella cheese, grated
2 T. Pecorino cheese, grated

First, make the filling. Heat the olive oil in a large saucepan. Add the onion, garlic, carrot and celery and cook over low heat until the vegetables are soft. Remove the vegetables from the pan, transferring into a bowl. Set aside.

Add the turkey; cook, stirring, over medium-high heat until the meat is browned, breaking up any lumps.

Return the reserved vegetables to the pan with the cooked turkey. Add the tomatoes, tomato paste, water and oregano and bring to a boil. Reduce the heat and simmer, partially covered, for about 1 hour. (While the filling is cooking, make the cheese sauce, below.) The sauce will thicken slightly. Remove from heat. Add the parsley and season to taste with salt and pepper.

While the filling is cooking, make the cheese sauce. Melt the butter in a medium saucepan over medium-low heat. Add the flour; whisk together with the butter and cook for a few minutes to remove the raw flour taste. Gradually whisk in the milk, whisking constantly until the sauce boils and thickens. Remove from heat and stir in the cheese and nutmeg. Season to taste with salt and pepper.

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees Fahrenheit and assemble the dish. Spoon a quarter of the filling into a Dutch oven, or any oven-proof pan deep enough to accommodate the "height" of the cannelloni tubes. Gently press the uncooked cannelloni tubes upright into the filling.

Gently spoon the remaining filling into the tubes. (I find it easiest to pour the filling in a few installments over the top of the tubes, smoothing it out with a spoon which forces it down into the tubes.)

Pour the cheese sauce over the cannelloni. Sprinkle with mozzarella and Pecorino.

Place the Dutch oven on a baking sheet and bake, uncovered, for about 40 minutes, until the cannelloni is tender and the cheese is golden, brown and bubbly.

Cool for about 10 minutes before serving in a messy but happy heap on your plate.

Serves 6-8.

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Previously, on A Stove With A House Around It:

One year ago: caramel corn with pecans
Two years ago: spaghetti brownies
Three years ago: dukkah

They're just cookies

2010-12-14T00:17:00.000-08:00

When I was in high school, I was the show choir accompanist. I was nowhere as cool as the piano player with the beard in "Glee" who Husband loves, but I was pretty hardcore nevertheless. For example, I totally got mono from my boyfriend one December, during the show choir's busy season. I remember sitting at a baby grand at a country club somewhere robotically playing "Here Comes Santa Claus" while the choir director waved her hand in front of my face, trying to get my attention. I was really sick, but I would not stop. Must. Play. Christmas songs. And. Showtunes. At. All. Costs.

Anyway. Every so often I'd get to come out from behind the piano. One Christmas, the choir gathered in a charming vignette to sing an a capella version of "Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas." Several of us were chosen to interject lovely little spoken-word memories of Christmas. While my fellow show choir-ers talked about Santa Claus and gifts and youthful memories and elven magic, when it came my turn I said something like, "I remember coming home from church of Christmas Eve to delicious trays of cookies and coffee."

Yes, cookies and coffee. Baked goods are really important at Christmastime.

We would always bake our Christmas cookies from Betty Crocker's Cooky Book, a tome about which I've gushed effusively in the space in the past. There were always chocolate crinkles, Russian teacakes, jubilee jumbles and lemon squares displayed artfully on a porcelain tray shaped like a Christmas tree. Well, it was artful for a second, but then we got our hands on the tray and all hell broke loose. Powdered sugar everywhere.

And then there were the cream wafers. Too delicate and pretty to be scarfed like the jubilee jumbles, I always thought of the cream wafers as "adult" cookies. They were fancy, and scalloped, and filled with a pastel frosting and coated in a thin layer of sparkling, sandy sugar. They were called "wafers." Clearly too grown-up to be inhaled by the children. For that reason, I hardly ever ate them when I was little. Which is completely ridiculous, you know, because they're just cookies. But in my little head, they were to be relished and savored in a way that demanded a certain maturity.

So now that I'm, like, mature and stuff, I made a batch. And they are amazing. And now I am kicking myself for missing out for so long. Decades lost to inaccurate cream wafer perception. Tragic.

Just think how compelling my spoken-word show-choir vignette contribution would have been had I been eating the cream wafers.

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CREAM WAFERS
Adapted from Betty Crocker's Cooky Book

The note in the book says, "Delicate pastry-like rounds with a rich filling. A lovely addition to the cooky trays for a tea or reception." Indeed. The dough bakes up almost like puff pastry, to the point that you have to dock it to prevent too much rise. Dainty and charming and melty on the tongue. Divine.

The dough has to chill for at least an hour, or overnight if you like. And if life gets in the way and you don't get back to your cream wafer dough for a few days, don't worry. The dough really can hold in the refrigerator for up to 3 days.

The wafers:
1 c. unsalted butter
1/3 c. whipping cream
2 c. all-purpose flour, sifted
About 1/2 c. sugar, to roll the cookies
1 batch creamy butter filling (below)

Creamy butter filling:
1/4 c. unsalted butter, at room temperature
3/4 c. powdered sugar, sifted
1 egg yolk (pasteurized, if you are so inclined)
1 t. vanilla

First, make the dough. Place the butter and cream in the bowl of an electric mixer fitted with the paddle attachment. Cream until they are well combined. Add the flour and mix thoroughly. Place the dough in a bowl and cover with plastic wrap; chill at least 1 hour, or up to 3 days.

When you are ready to make the cookies, remove the dough from the refrigerator about 30 minutes before you want to work with it, to allow it to warm up enough to be rolled. Preheat the oven to 375 degrees Fahrenheit.

Place the sugar on a plate. Roll the dough to 1/8" thickness on a lightly floured board. Cut into 1 1/2" rounds, using a fluted cutter if desired. Place the cookies on the plate with the sugar, turning to coat both sides (you might have to press a bit to get the sugar to stick).

Place the cookies on an ungreased baking sheet. Prick the cookies with a fork to "dock" the dough. Bake 7-9 minutes, until slightly puffy.

Remove to a wire rack to cool completely.

While the cookies are cooling, make the filling. In the bowl of an electric mixer fitted with the paddle attachment, combine the butter, powdered sugar, egg yolk and vanilla. Mix until well-combined. Divide the filling in half; tint half with red food coloring and half with green.

To assemble the cookies, sandwich two cookies together with about 1/2 t. of filling.

Makes about 3 dozen filled cookies.

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Previously, on A Stove With A House Around It:

One year ago: cocoa blocks
Two years ago: chocolate-almond saltine toffee

This just makes me happy

2010-11-24T22:57:00.000-08:00

So it's Thanksgiving eve. I put the 16-pound bird in my traditional Ace Hardware five-gallon poultry bucket, poured over the all spice-, ginger- and black peppercorn-spiced brine, and headed to my parents' house to leave it overnight in their "walk-in" (a.k.a. their screened-in back porch, winterized with heavy duty plastic that keeps it around a perfect 40 degrees).

When I got there, Mom and Dad were kicking it old school:

Dad hasn't made pies in years. Years, I tell you. But when I was growing up, he made pies all the time. In fact, his pie and bread exploits inspired my love of baking. I have him to thank for this little obsession of mine, and it was awesome to see him in full effect. (Mom, for her part, was excelling at one of her most valuable skills: MAKING STUFFING.)

I am thankful for Dad and his pies, and Mom and her stuffing. And Husband. And Jet pup. And, perhaps most of all, little Son.

May you all enjoy this holiday with your loved ones and a big pile of delicious food. Happy Thanksgiving!

Abiding love for an apple

2010-11-10T00:08:00.000-08:00

October 25 can never come fast enough. For October 25 is the day each year when the Mutsus arrive.

Do you know the Mutsu? If you don't, I strongly suggest you make its acquaintance. The Mutsu is a tart green apple, a late-fall beauty whose tangy bite slowly gives way, if stored properly, to a subtle sweetness. She's a glory with which to bake, and a treat to eat. I go a little bit crazy waiting for her each year, counting down the days until the end of October, bypassing the lesser apples that are ready earlier. Then, finally, the cool fall sun rises on the 25th and I know what I must do: get to the orchard and buy a peck or two. And while I'm at it, I better get some for my dad. I didn't get him any this year, and I really heard about it. Had to make a special trip back to the orchard just for him.

The Mutsu is so important to me (well, as important as fruit can be to a person) that people who know me well often give me bags of them for my birthday. I load up my car with them and then take photos. It's a little embarrassing, really, such an abiding love for an apple. But I let my Mutsu flag fly.

Now. Even with all this apple-love -- even though I can easily eat my way through peck after peck of Mutsus, biting off big, tart chunks as I journey toward the core -- I still look for ways to bake with them. I feel that the Mutsu deserves a little diversity; maybe she wants to be tossed together with a little flour, sugar and butter and turned into something sweet, something delectable, something new. When I saw this recipe for apple and cheddar scones I got excessively excited. It was yesterday morning, really early (like 6:30 a.m. early) when I spied it. "Oooh," I thought. "The beer fridge is half-full of Mutsus. And I have that cheddar from Cheddar that the cute old British cheese man was sampling at West Point Market the other day." The freshly-baked scones were out of the oven by the time Husband and Jet meandered downstairs for their breakfast.

Now I know that the only thing better than a Mutsu, is an apple and cheddar scone baked with a Mutsu. These babies are amazing: sweet, tart, savory, buttery, possessing a depth of flavor not necessarily expected from a modest triangular lump of dough. I plan to bake a whole lot of them, until the beer fridge doesn't have any apples in it anymore.

However, please note that I stopped at the orchard again today. So it could be awhile.

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APPLE AND CHEDDAR SCONES
Adapted from The Perfect Finish, by Bill Yosses and Melissa Clark, via Smitten Kitchen

I doubled the recipe, baked half right away and stashed half in the freezer to bake another day (and by "another day," I mean tomorrow). To bake the frozen scones, just place them on a parchment-lined baking sheet and bake for a few minutes longer than the suggested time, keeping an eye on them to make sure they don't burn.

Update: Just baked the batch from frozen, and they're even lovelier and tastier than yesterday. So don't hesitate to pursue the bake-some-now, freeze-some-for-later option.

1 lb. firm, tart apples (like, ahem, Mutsus)
1 1/2 c. all-purpose flour
1/4 c. sugar plus a few more tablespoons for sprinkling
1/2 T. baking powder
1/2 t. kosher salt plus a pinch for egg wash
6 T. unsalted butter, chilled and cut into 1/2-inch cubes
1/2 c. sharp cheddar, shredded
1/4 c. heavy cream
2 eggs

Preheat the oven to 375 degrees Fahrenheit. Line a baking sheet with parchment paper.

Peel and core the apples, and cut each into 16 pieces. Place them in a single layer on the prepared baking sheet and bake until they take on a little color and are dry to the touch, about 20 minutes. Remove from the oven and let them cool completely on the baking sheet. Leave the oven on.

In a medium bowl, sift the flour, sugar, baking powder and salt together. Set aside.

Place the butter in the bowl of an electric mixer fitted with the paddle attachment. Add the cooled apple chunks, cheese, cream and 1 egg. Sprinkle the flour mixture over the top and mix on low speed just until the dough comes together. Do not over-mix. The dough will be very sticky.

Generously flour a work space and place the dough on top of it. Pat the dough into a circle about 1 1/2 inches thick and 6 inches in diameter, adding more flour if necessary. Using a bench scraper or a knife, cut the circle into 6 wedges. Transfer the scones to a baking sheet that has been lined with a fresh piece of parchment paper, leaving at least 2 inches between each scone. (Note: if you're doubling the recipe, divide the dough in half and make 2 6-inch circles, cutting 6 wedges out of each for a total of 12 scones.)

Beat the remaining egg in a small bowl with a pinch of salt. Brush the scones with the egg wash and sprinkle with sugar. Bake until firm and golden, about 30 minutes. Use a spatula to remove the baked scones to a wire rack; cool for 10 minutes before tucking in.

Makes 6 scones. Which is totally not enough.

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Previously, on A Stove With A House Around It:

One year ago: twice-baked cauliflower
Two years ago: ribollita

Bread Baker's Apprentice 18/43: light wheat bread

2010-11-06T00:30:00.000-07:00

Please forgive the vulgarity, but I just have to say it: Holy crap! I baked some bread today!

I mean, seriously! I baked bread! It's been so freaking long since the last time I baked bread that I really thought my days of absolutely needing such specialty items as a dough whisk and a couche in my kitchen were over. There wasn't even any good reason for my hiatus. I can't blame lack of time: making homemade bread requires very little active time -- just lots of rising time. I can't blame lack of supplies: my pantry is full of flours, from cake all the way up to high-gluten. I can't blame anything, really, except my sorry-ass self. I forgot how easy -- and how tremendously rewarding -- it is to bake your own bread.

So, back I go to The Bread Baker's Apprentice challenge. I swear I am going to finish this thing, I swear. You see, I attended* a three-night cooking class with Peter Reinhart himself at the Western Reserve School of Cooking in June and was inspired anew to immerse myself in all things yeast. Unfortunately, I was way way pregnant and that inspiration was sapped rather quickly by my need to watch old episodes of "Saved By the Bell" in bed. What can I say.

Peter was awesome, though, and very supportive of The Bread Baker's Apprentice challengers (one of my fellow bakers -- Phyl of Of Cabbages and King Cakes, who very long ago rather impressively completed the challenge -- was also in attendance). I learned a lot during those three nights, but my favorite lesson was the realization that I can totally make these breads just as well as Peter can. The delicious samples he shared with the class were amazing, but not much different than the finished breads that come out of my kitchen. Which is not to say that I am so awesome, but rather to say that Peter is a fabulous teacher whether in person or via the pages of a book. It is also to say: bread-making, while seemingly difficult and often perceived as beyond the scope of everyday home cooking, is completely accessible and easily accomplished with just a small investment of time and patience.

Peter was focused almost solely on his Artisan Breads Every Day book, which emphasizes the no-knead method. Not having any experience with no-knead breads, I was fascinated to see just how much gluten can be developed just with a little time and zero effort. Light bulb! The first night was dedicated to multi-purpose lean dough, challah and sweet dough for cinnamon and sticky buns. The star of night number two was focaccia. And on the last night Reinhart gave us pizza dough. So much pizza dough, topped with everything from caramelized onion marmalade to pesto to fresh Roma tomatoes and bright parsley.

Having already completed part of The Bread Baker's Apprentice challenge prior to the classes, there was a lot in the Peter Reinhart canon that I already knew. But that certainly didn't mean there wasn't a lot to learn. For example:

Use parchment on your peel. I have yet to master the smooth use of the pizza peel; I dust my peel liberally with corn meal or semolina before placing the pizza dough on it, but I can never get the dough to slide effortlessly onto the pizza stone without making a giant mess. Peter's solution: place parchment on the peel, then add the dough, then slide the whole thing off the peel onto the stone. Well, duh. Why didn't I think of that? Brilliant.
Contrast is a powerful culinary principle. I knew there was a reason I liked salty with my sweet, and crispy-crunchy with my soft and tender. It is the reason why I work to create a thick, chewy crust on a loaf of hole-y ciabatta.
Whole wheat flour absorbs more water than white flour, so to convert a white flour recipe to whole wheat you'll have to add an extra 8-10% hydration to the mix. Very good to know.
The baker's job is to evoke the full potential of flavor that's trapped inside the grain.
Peter's definition of baking, oft repeated during the course of the three nights is as follows: "Baking is the application of heat in an enclosed environment for the purpose of driving off moisture."

As interesting and informative as these random tidbits are -- culled from the margins of my class notes -- Peter was at his very best when he was letting his seminarian past shine. A one-time member of a holy order, Peter described the act of baking his breads with spiritual metaphor that is more earthy than preachy. Call it the gospel of grain: "Bread is a transformational food," he says, describing the process of taking the living wheat, grinding and milling the life out of it in the process of making flour, then infusing it anew with yeast. Baking then kills the yeast, creating bread, which we eat to sustain our own lives. In the wrong hands, such metaphor could be annoying. But with Peter, it is passionate and honest and sincere, born of a simple love of bread and respect for wheat that produces some of the best loaves you'll ever taste.

And you know what? Bread is transformational, as much as it is elemental to human existence, nourishment and joy. The very best thing I learned those nights is a practical message that any novice bread baker can appreciate: even if your bread fails, people will still love it because it's homemade. "It is always a hit no matter how it comes out."

*Please note: Dad bought the classes for me for Christmas last year. Let it not be said that I failed to acknowledge him publicly for this awesome, most perfect gift. And not only is he generous, but he's handsome, too!

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So it seems I've used the occasion of the next challenge recipe -- light wheat bread -- to pontificate about Peter in person. Alliteration aside, let me tell you a little about this bread. It's the only loaf I had made prior to starting The Bread Baker's Apprentice challenge, as it's the only recipe in the book that doesn't require more than one day of fermentation. The dough produces a lovely golden sandwich loaf, flecked with whole wheat and ever so slightly sweetened with a touch of honey. The crust is crunchy and firm and the crumb is soft and pocked with small, pleasing holes (see above regarding the importance of contrast).

This is the bread I made when I vowed, oh so long ago, that I would bake all my own bread. I even kept up with it for about a month, churning out a loaf every few days. I need to pick up that habit once again, for light wheat bread is delicious, and satisfying, and easy, and what the hell. Stop reading this and go and bake some.

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The Bread Baker's Apprentice challenge asks that we do not share the recipes for the challenge loaves. However, I have it on good authority that you can find the recipe for Reinhart's light wheat bread on the excellent and lovely Smitten Kitchen blog. I'm just sayin'. However, if you're feeling that now is the time to buy Reinhart's book -- hello, finally here's a bread that can be baked in just one day! -- head on over to Amazon and pick up a copy. The recipe starts on page 181.

Finally, in honor of my triumphant return to bread-baking, I have submitted this here light wheat bread to Yeastspotting.

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Previously, on A Stove With A House Around It:

One year ago: sesame butter cups
Two years ago: pizza Margherita and pizza with sage-walnut pesto and gorgonzola

What I have today

2010-10-24T22:06:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I have a dynamite recipe that I want to share, but nothing earth-shattering to say about it. No nostalgic recounting of an event in the kitchen of my youth; no profound connection between the recipe and recent goings-on in my life. No convenient seasonal connection or association with far-flung lands. Just a delicious recipe.

This is one of those times. What I have today is just a recipe. A simple recipe for cookies. Cookies that are crumbly and velvety and melty, but that have nothing groundbreaking to say and harbor no clever metaphor or life lesson. What they lack in inspiring gravitas, however, they make up for in butter and toasty, crispy, teased-with-a-pleasing-hint-of-bitterness walnuts.

These cookies are technically called cream cheese-walnut cookies, but I prefer to call them walnut shortbread. They are shortbready in that awesome shattering-with-butter way that brings a tear of joy to my eye as only shortbread can. The toasted walnuts emerge from the buttery crumb, wedged perfectly in the cookie, asserting their own nutty selves. It is a match made in heaven: butter fat with walnut oil. I'm kind of drooling a little right now as I write this.

Thankfully this recipe makes two logs of dough -- one you can bake right away and share with family and friends. You can even take some of them to your dog's vet's office, as I did, because vets deserve treats for safeguarding our best friends. You can then freeze the second dough log and save it for a rainy day: tuck it under your arm and take it over to a friend's house for fresh-baked cookies when they're least expected; or wait until you have to write about them, start to drool, then realize you still have the second log in the freezer, just waiting to be sliced and baked.

Some for now, some for later. Not necessarily profound, but always delicious.

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WALNUT SHORTBREAD
Adapted from Martha Stewart Living

4 c. all-purpose flour
1 1/4 t. kosher salt
1 lb. (4 sticks) unsalted butter, at room temperature
6 oz. cream cheese, at room temperature
1 1/4 c. sugar
2 T. plus 1/2 t. pure vanilla extract
2 1/2 c. walnut halves (1 1/2 c. toasted and chopped, 1 c. finely chopped)

Preheat the oven to 325 degrees Fahrenheit. Line two baking sheets with parchment paper or a Silpat; set aside.

Place 1 1/2 c. of chopped walnuts on a third baking sheet and toast until brown and aromatic, 6-8 minutes. Remove the walnuts from the oven and set aside.

Whisk together the flour and salt in a large bowl; set aside.

Place butter and cream cheese in the bowl of an electric mixer fitted with the paddle attachment. Mix on medium speed until pale and fluffy, about 2 minutes. Mix in the sugar and vanilla. Reduce the speed to low and add the flour mixture. Mix until just combined; do not over-mix. Add the toasted walnuts and mix until just combined.

Transfer dough to a clean work surface and divide in half. Shape each piece into a 8 1/2-inch-long log, about 2 inches in diameter. Wrap each log in parchment paper and freeze until firm, about 30 minutes. (If you are going to freeze one of the logs for baking at a later date, wrap it in the parchment followed by two layers of plastic wrap.)

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees Fahrenheit. Remove one log from the freezer and roll in the remaining 1 c. finely chopped walnuts, coating completely. Cut the log into 1/4-inch rounds. Transfer the rounds to the prepared parchment-lined baking sheets.

Bake, rotating halfway through, until the cookies are just golden around the edges, 18-20 minutes. Do not over-bake! Transfer to wire racks and let cool completely. Repeat the process with the remaining dough on cooled baking sheets (or freeze the remaining dough until later).

Consume, preferably all in one sitting. Forget what I said earlier about sharing them with your dog's vet.

Makes about 4 dozen cookies.

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Previously, on A Stove With A House Around It:

One year ago: French bread
Two years ago: sibling rivalry chicken noodle soup

In the middle of the night

2010-10-02T01:57:00.000-07:00

There is something really, really awesome about the Australian Football League. The rules are nearly impossible to grasp, especially to a foreigner like me. (It's not as incomprehensible as cricket, but it's close.) The players tackle each other with abandon, yet nobody wears helmets or pads. The field is elliptical, and there is something called a "behind" which is worth fewer points than a goal. To figure the final score, one has to do math. ("As an example of a score report, consider a match between St Kilda Football Club and the Sydney Swans. St Kilda's score of 15 goals and 11 behinds equates to 101 points. Sydney's score of eight goals and ten behinds equates to a 58 point tally. St Kilda wins the match by a margin of 43 points. Such a result would be written as 'St Kilda 15.11 (101) defeated Sydney Swans 8.10 (58)' and said 'St Kilda fifteen eleven, one hundred and one defeated Sydney Swans eight ten, fifty-eight.'" Solve for x to determine how many behinds your team scored.) The players wear tall socks, often striped. Their supporters sit in the stands wearing fashionable scarves in team colors. And the most crazy business of all? If the teams tie -- even in the Grand Final -- they play a rematch a week later.

So last week, my dear friend Nate's beloved St. Kilda Saints played their hearts out in the Grand Final, only their seventh appearance in the final in their 113-year history. They've only won once, in 1966 (reminds me of a certain Cleveland baseball franchise). And true to the madness of AFL, last week the Saints came from behind, scoring enough behinds, to force a tie against the hated Collingwood Magpies. (The last time there was a tie was in 1977.) It was a freaking awesome game, with a shocking result that left the 100,016 people in the Melbourne Cricket Ground totally silent. And Husband and I were sitting here in Ohio, in the middle of the night, watching the game live and eating homemade meat pies.

Because when you're watching a quintessentially Australian sport, you want to be eating a quintessentially Australian snack. (And drinking a quintessentially Australian beer.) Though my homemade pies were not exactly the same as, say, a Harry's pie, they were a perfectly serviceable and totally delicious approximation. And if you don't mind rolling out shortcrust pastry at midnight, you can even make them to enjoy during the few live footy matches that ESPN airs in this country. The best part of all: the recipe makes eight pies, so you just might have a few left over that you can stash in the freezer, unbaked, to whip out the next week in the event of a Grand Final rematch.

Go Saints!

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HOMEMADE MEAT PIES
Adapted from Delicious. magazine; shortcrust pastry from The Cook's Companion, by Stephanie Alexander

I made half of these pies with ground beef and beef stock, and half with ground turkey and chicken stock. And, OK, so I've never seen a turkey pie in Australia. But I don't eat beef (for the most part), and I did a little substituting. Please don't revoke my imaginary Australian passport.

Note: apologies for the strange measurements. I had to convert from metric.

One more note: you'll need 8 disposable pot pie tins for this recipe. I find mine in the baking aisle of the supermarket.

For the shortcrust pastry:

16 1/2 oz. all-purpose flour
Big pinch of kosher salt
12 1/2 oz. unsalted butter, chilled
1/2 c. water

Sift the flour and salt directly onto a work surface. Using a box grater, grate the chilled butter into the flour mixture (or you can chop the butter into small pieces and add it to the flour mixture, but honestly, it's randomly fun to grate butter). Toss the butter pieces lightly in the flour, lightly rubbing to combine partly.

Make a well in the center of the flour mixture and pour in the water. Using a pastry scraper, work the water into the flour until you have a very rough heap of buttery lumps of dough. Using the heel of your hand, smear the pastry away from you across the workbench; this will slowly bring the dough together. (It does work; be patient.) Don't knead the dough, you want to just bring it together. Kneading it will develop the gluten too much and create a tough -- instead of tender and flaky -- pastry.

Divide the dough in half and form each half into a flat disc. Dust the discs with a little flour and wrap with plastic wrap. Refrigerate at least 20-30 minutes, or until ready to use.

For the meat pies:

1 T. vegetable oil
1 onion, finely chopped
1 garlic clove, minced
1 lb. ground beef
1/4 c. all-purpose flour
1 1/2 c. beef stock
1/4 c. tomato puree
2 1/2 T. Worcestershire sauce
1 T. soy sauce
1/2 t. dried parsley
1/2 t. dried thyme
1/2 t. dried oregano
4 sheets store-bought puff pastry
1 batch shortcrust pastry (recipe above)
1 egg, beaten
Ketchup (optional), to serve
Your favorite mashed potatoes (optional), to serve

Heat the oil in a large skillet over medium heat. Add the onion and cook for 5 minutes, stirring often. Add the garlic and beef and cook for an additional 15-20 minutes until the meat has completely browned. Stir in the flour and cook for 2 minutes. Add the stock and stir to deglaze the pan. Add the tomato puree, Worcestershire sauce, soy sauce and dried herbs. Cover and cook for 15 minutes, stirring often to break up any large lumps of meat. (If the pan gets too dry, feel free to add a little more stock.) Set aside to cool completely.

Preheat the oven to 375 degrees Fahrenheit. Using the circumference of the pot pie tins as a guide, cut 8 rounds of the puff pastry dough. Set aside.

Roll out the shortcrust pastry to about 1/4-inch thick, flouring the work surface and the rolling pin as needed to prevent sticking. Turn over one of the pot pie tins onto the dough and cut about 1 inch beyond the tin's circumference with a knife. Place the shortcrust pastry round into the pot pie tin, then repeat with the remaining 8 pies. (You might have to re-roll the pastry scraps; this is fine but try to be as gentle as possible with the dough to avoid over-working it.)

Add the meat to the pies, filling them to the top.

Top the pies with the reserved puff pastry rounds, pinching round the edge to seal as best as possible. Brush the pies with the beaten egg then, using a paring knife, cut a small slit in the top of each pie to allow it to vent in the oven.

Place the pies on baking sheets and bake for 25 minutes until golden.

Serve with a few scoops of mashed potatoes and a little ketchup on top. Then, watch the footy.

Makes 8 pies.

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Previously, on A Stove With A House Around It:

One year ago: oregano baked chicken dinner
Two years ago: zatar crackers with ful medames

Using nothing more

2010-09-21T16:09:00.000-07:00

This is my reality right now:

(1) The garden, which Husband planted and maintained during my pregnancy this summer, is overflowing with gorgeous ripe tomatoes and tiny but flavorful red and yellow onions.

(2) My eyes always seem to be bigger than my stomach, and I purchase more delicious crusty bakery bread than we can eat before it gets stale.

(3) I like to cook with things I have on hand, things which will go bad otherwise. It makes me feel frugal, and wise, and enterprising.

(4) I don't have a hell of a lot of time to cook at this very moment.

You can imagine my pleasure, then, when it occurred to me that I could make a very quick and very delicious dinner using nothing more than our tomatoes, our onions, our back porch basil and that half-loaf of rustic bread that's been sitting on the counter since last Friday. It hit on all four of my current realities beautifully: made entirely of produce we grew ourselves (I say "we;" I should say "Husband"), a way to tastily salvage the stale bread and use ingredients on hand and, finally, fast. I made it while the baby slept, nary a peep escaping his teeny lips before the meal was complete.

Now if I had made this salad using a loaf of my own home-baked bread, my head might have exploded. But I'll have to save that thrill for another time.

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TOMATO AND BREAD SALAD WITH RICOTTA
Adapted from Everyday Food magazine

I could call this "panzanella," but I am not full-time fancy.

Half a loaf of day-old crusty bread (about 1/2 lb.), cubed into large chunks
About 2 lbs. of fresh tomatoes, cubed into large chunks
1/2 a large (or 1 small) red onion, sliced thinly
3 T. red wine vinegar
3 T. olive oil, plus more for drizzling
Sea salt, to taste
Freshly-cracked black pepper, to taste
1 c. fresh basil leaves, torn or chopped roughly
15 oz. ricotta cheese

Preheat the oven to 375 degrees Fahrenheit. Place the bread cubes on a baking sheet (with NO oil) and bake until browned, 15-20 minutes. Set aside.

In a large bowl, combine the tomatoes, onion, vinegar, oil and salt and pepper to taste. When the bread has cooled, add it to the tomato mixture along with the basil. Stir to combine, then let sit for about 15 minutes to allow the tomato juices to soften the hard bread cubes.

Serve with a few spoonfuls of ricotta cheese, a drizzle of olive oil and a little more salt and pepper to taste.

Serves 6.

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Previously, on A Stove With A House Around It:

One year ago: I was eating damper bread with golden syrup in the Northern Territory
Two years ago: roasted tomato marinara

I can somehow write about corn ice cream

2010-08-29T16:14:00.000-07:00

I don't know in what convoluted world I live, but cooking and blogging were nearly impossible feats while I was pregnant. However, now that I am the mother of a newborn, well, cooking remains elusive but the ability to blog has somehow reappeared. I shall not question why -- when (in retrospect) I had all the time in the world -- I couldn't update this space to save my life, but now that I can't find time to eat a peach I can somehow write about corn ice cream. Mysteries, all of it.

First, the news: I am absolutely thrilled to announce the arrival of my son, Michael, who entered this world in search of a good meal on August 18. He has a full head of dark hair, and something that the Cleveland Clinic nurses referred to as a "lusty" cry. He is a tiny peanut, and I cannot believe that he is finally here. To celebrate his arrival, I would like to share the dessert I made for his father's birthday this past July 4.

The blueberry-corn ice cream sundae seemed the perfect treat for someone born at the height of summer. Blueberries are in season, ripe and lovely, get them before the birds eat them off the bush. The corn, at least in these parts, is "knee-high by the 4th of July," with early sweet crops making their way to market at local farms. I couldn't think of a better or more unique confection with which to celebrate Husband's birthday. How I managed to make the component parts from scratch while large in girth and slow on my feet from advancing pregnancy I'll never know. Suffice it to say: the blueberry-corn ice cream sundae is love, and I love Husband.

As the warm summer days begin to wane, take advantage of the markets before they close for the season and stock up on some corn and blueberries. Then spend a day or so puttering about in the kitchen, making corn ice cream and blueberry compote. Finally, invite over some people whom you really love. Dish up this creamy yellow and purple layered gorgeousness in a tall parfait glass and toast, well, whatever. Someone's birthday. Labor Day. The imminent return of Glee. You could even toast your own awesomeness at making corn ice cream. Whatever it takes.

For us, with our corn ice cream still left in the freezer, we'll be toasting Michael.

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BLUEBERRY-CORN ICE CREAM SUNDAES
Adapted from Nancy Olson, Gramercy Tavern

Note: the ice cream base has to chill overnight before being placed in your ice cream maker, so please plan accordingly.

For the sweet corn ice cream:

6 c. fresh sweet corn kernels (from about 6 ears), cobs reserved
4 c. milk
2 c. heavy cream
6 T. light corn syrup
1 vanilla bean, split and scraped
1 1/8 c. sugar
12 large egg yolks
1 1/2 t. pure vanilla extract
1/2 t. kosher salt

For the mini cornbread muffins (optional, for garnish):

3/4 c. all-purpose flour
1/2 c. fine yellow cornmeal
1 1/2 t. baking powder
1/2 t. kosher salt
1/4 c. sugar
2 T. unsalted butter, at room temperature
1 T. honey
1 T. pure maple syrup
1 large egg
1/2 c. milk
1 1/4 c. fresh sweet corn kernels (from about 1 1/2 ears)
2 t. turbinado sugar

For the blueberry-corn compote:

2 1/2 c. blueberries
1/4 c. + 2 T. sugar
1 1/4 c. fresh sweet corn kernels (from about 1 1/2 ears)

For the toffee popcorn:

1/3 c. sugar
3 T. unsalted butter, plus more for bowl
About 6 c. popped popcorn (go for an unbuttered/unsalted variety if using microwave popcorn)
2 T. light corn syrup
1/4 t. pure vanilla extract
1/4 t. kosher salt

For the black pepper whipped cream:

1/3 c. heavy cream
1 t. powdered sugar
1/8 t. freshly-ground black pepper

At least one day before you wish to serve the sundaes, make the ice cream. Set a large bowl in an ice-water bath; set aside. In a large saucepan, bring the corn kernels, corn cobs, 3 1/2 c. of the milk, heavy cream, corn syrup, vanilla bean seeds and pod and sugar to a boil over medium heat. Cook, stirring, to prevent the sugar from sticking to the bottom of the pan.

In a large bowl, whisk together the egg yolks and remaining 1/2 c. milk until well combined. Remove the corn mixture from the heat; slowly add about 1/3 of the hot corn mixture to the egg yolk mixture, tempering them, whisking well to combine. Pour the egg mixture back into the saucepan with the corn cob mixture, stirring constantly. Return the saucepan to medium-high heat. Stirring constantly, cook until this custard mixture coats the back of a wooden spoon, 4 to 5 minutes. Stir in the vanilla extract and salt.

Pour the custard mixture into the bowl set over the ice-water bath; let cool completely. Transfer the custard mixture to the refrigerator and chill overnight.

The next day, remove the corn cobs from the custard mixture, squeezing them well to extract as much liquid as you can. Discard the cobs.

Transfer the custard mixture to the work bowl of a food processor; process until smooth. Strain through a fine wire mesh strainer, discarding solids.

Transfer the custard mixture to an ice cream maker and freeze according to the manufacturer's directions. Keep the ice cream frozen in an airtight container until ready to use.

If using, make the mini cornbread muffins. Preheat the oven to 350 degrees Fahrenheit. Butter 20 1/4-cup muffin tins; set aside.

In a medium bowl, whisk together flour, cornmeal, baking powder and salt; set aside.

In a large bowl, mix together sugar and butter; stir in honey and maple syrup until well combined. Add egg and continue mixing until well combined. Alternately add flour mixture and milk to sugar mixture, mixing well after each addition and beginning and ending with the flour mixture. Stir in corn kernels until just combined.

Fill prepared muffin cups 3/4 full with batter; sprinkle tops with turbinado sugar. Transfer to oven and bake until tops are golden brown, about 14 minutes. Let cool slightly in pans before removing and cooling completely on wire racks. Store in an airtight container until ready to serve alongside the ice cream sundaes.

Next, make the blueberry-corn compote. Place 1 1/2 c. blueberries and sugar in a medium heavy-bottomed saucepan and cook over medium-high heat, stirring constantly and pressing on berries until they burst and the mixture begins to look syrupy. Add corn kernels, stir to combine and immediately remove from heat.

Stir in the remaining cup of blueberries. Transfer to an airtight container and refrigerate until cool, up to 24 hours.

Make the popcorn. Line a baking sheet with a Silpat; set aside. Butter a large bowl and add popped popcorn; set aside.

Heat sugar, 3 T. butter and corn syrup in a medium heavy-bottomed saucepan over low heat until butter and sugar melt. Increase heat to medium and cook, stirring, until sugar mixture becomes golden brown. Remove from heat and carefully add vanilla and salt, taking care because the mixture may splatter slightly. Pour the sugar mixture over the popcorn and stir quickly until popcorn is coated.

Turn the popcorn out onto the prepared baking sheet, working quickly to separate kernels as much as possible. Let cool completely. Transfer popcorn to an airtight container until ready to use, up to one week.

Make the whipped cream. Place all whipped cream ingredients in the bowl of an electric mixer fitted with the whisk attachment. Whisk until soft peaks form. Transfer to an airtight container and refrigerate until ready to use.

FINALLY! Assemble the ice cream sundaes. Place two spoonfuls of the blueberry-corn compote into a large parfait glass. Top with two scoops of corn ice cream. Add a handful of toffee popcorn to each glass and top with another scoop of ice cream. Top with another spoonful of compote and a dollop of whipped cream. Garnish with a little more toffee popcorn and a mini cornbread muffin; serve immediately.

Makes 6 sundaes, with some corn ice cream left over for good measure.

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Previously, on A Stove With A House Around It:

One year ago: English muffins
Two years ago: homegrown tomato salad with feta and cracked black pepper

A classic for the 4th: American flag cake!

2010-07-02T17:31:00.000-07:00

Well hello there.

It's been awhile. A long while. Life -- and this ever-increasing belly of mine -- keeps getting in the way of cooking and, by extension, blogging. But I have so much to tell you about, and so much deliciousness to share. After my firstborn makes himself known to the outside world (and maybe even sooner, if I get some energy), I will be telling you all about my three baking classes with Bread Baker's Apprentice author Peter Reinhart. I'll be sharing some delicious granola and an Australian Weet-Bix slice courtesy of dear friends Kerrie and Barbara, respectively. I might even discuss the birthday treat I'm planning on making for Husband this Sunday, as he -- and our fair nation -- grow one year older.

But until then, I remind you of this: the American flag cake. An oldie but a goodie. I figure some of you out there might be searching for a 4th of July sweet that doesn't necessarily involve a carefully-placed matrix of blueberries and strawberries that resembles the stars and stripes (not that there's anything wrong with that).

If you're so inclined in the next few days, get to baking this showstopper of a cake. And enjoy the fireworks!

Happy long weekend, everyone.

They inevitably linger

2010-05-26T21:55:00.000-07:00

I don't know about you, but this seems to happen a lot in our house:

We begin with the best of intentions. We want more fresh fruit on hand, to encourage healthy snacking. Husband wants bananas available for necessary post-run fuel. They're good for smoothies. So we buy five or six of them, then they inevitably linger, uneaten on the counter top, turning from lovely green-tinged yellow to gently speckled brown to black in the time it took me to write this sentence.

Then I make matters worse by getting up on my Tasteful Decor Horse, placing the bananas in a pretty frosted yellow glass dish on the shelf above the stove. Out of Husband's line of sight. And we all know that when something is out of Husband's sight, it is out of Husband's mind. Unless that something is Howard Stern. Or Mr. Met. Or greasy Chinese food from Rockland County, New York.

This rotten parade of banana flesh has been therefore enriching our compost pile. I often think that I should bake something (muffins, dog treats) with the darkening fruit, but I always end up missing the window as the bananas go from perfect-for-baked-goods to liquefied before I can get out the mixer.

Sunday night, though, I was victorious.

While mentally preparing for the series finale of "Lost," I happened to glance at the bananas, which I had moved from their stylish perch atop the stove back to their utilitarian counter top real estate. I was really tired, and I think I was mid-sentence talking about how tired I was, but I got up, walked across the room, grasped the bananas and started peeling them. I was determined to have freshly-baked banana bread -- made from not-wasted bananas -- in my hand before I learned if Jack had the ability to kill the Man in Black.

I can't help but think that if the Smoke Monster had some of this banana bread, studded with toasted pecans and flakes of sweetened coconut, maybe he wouldn't have been so cranky.

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BANANA BREAD WITH COCONUT AND PECANS
Adapted from More From Magnolia, by Allysa Torey

Baked in a tube pan, this banana bread can also pass for cake, especially if served with a little ice cream or homemade whip cream. Personally, though, I like it sliced in thin pieces, toasted and spread with salted butter. The breakfast of champions.

ALSO: This bread is even better with chocolate. So if you're feeling it, add in some (8 oz. or so) chips or chunks of your favorite chocolate when you stir in the coconut and pecans.

3 c. all-purpose flour
1 1/2 t. baking soda
3/4 t. cinnamon
3/4 t. kosher salt
3/4 c. canola or vegetable oil
1 1/2 c. sugar
3 large eggs at room temperature, well beaten
1 1/2 t. vanilla extract
1 1/2 c. mashed ripe bananas (about 4 bananas)
3/4 c. sour cream
1 1/2 c. pecans, toasted and coarsely chopped
3/4 c. sweetened shredded coconut

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees Fahrenheit. Place the chopped pecans on a baking sheet and bake until toasty brown, 7-8 minutes (be careful not to burn them). Remove from the oven and let cool. Keep the oven at 350.

Grease and lightly flour a 10-inch tube pan.

In a medium bowl, sift together the flour, baking soda, cinnamon and salt. Set aside.

In the bowl of an electric mixer, beat together the oil and sugar. Add the eggs and vanilla, and beat well. Add the bananas and sour cream, and mix well. Add the dry ingredients and mix until just combined. Stir in the pecans and coconut.

Pour the batter into the prepared pan and bake for 60-70 minutes, being sure to check after 60 minutes to ensure that it's not over-baked. (A skewer inserted into the center of the bread should come out with moist crumbs attached.) Let cool in the pan for at least 1 hour before removing from the pan and serving.

Makes one 10-inch cake/bread.

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Previously, on A Stove With A House Around It:

One year ago: Christopsomos
Two years ago: Indian tacos, breakfast-style

Some type of taco/taquito bender

2010-05-12T22:48:00.000-07:00

As I noted last time, you can't just have guacamole for dinner.

I mean, you could. But what fun would that be? Guacamole is a gateway concoction, an excuse, if you will, to consume any manner of complementary Mexican treats. Mexican treats like tacos.

I've been on some type of taco/taquito bender of late. I blame a trip that Husband and I took to Chicago in March, during which time we ate a magnificent meal at Rick Bayless's perfect and delicious Frontera Grill. Rick's taquitos de pollo ahumado were simply bewitching and I still think about them a little each day. The ingredients are simple (smoked chicken, black beans, poblano chiles, homemade sour cream, salsa verde, anejo cheese, guacamole) but Rick is an alchemist, I swear: he somehow transforms the simplest foodstuffs into creations that, well, are still on your mind months later. Remember this alchemy, for in a paragraph or two I'm going to bring it up again.

Back home from Chicago, I began seeking a local taquito that could scratch my Frontera itch. I remembered Momocho, a Cleveland restaurant known for its "mod mex" cuisine that had been on my to-try list for some number of years. A random night a few weeks ago I decided I could wait no longer. Husband looked at the menu online and I was half-way out the front door as soon as he mumbled the word "taquito." Between chef Eric Williams's goat cheese guacamole (holy hell) and the Mexican fighting masks leering down at my empanada from the restaurant's dimly-lit walls, I knew I had found a new favorite place to eat. And the taquitos, lord, the taquitos. I had the tinga (16-spice grilled chicken) and Husband had the machaca (coffee- and ancho-braised brisket). It is embarrassing, but as I am typing this I am drooling a little bit, Pavlov-style. I know: classy.

So if I can't get to Frontera Grill, I can get to Momocho. And if I can't get to Momocho, I can get to my kitchen. Because thanks to the glory that is the Rick Bayless cookbook empire, his Authentic Mexican includes a simple recipe for crispy tacos that are easily whipped up, even on a weeknight, to sate the most voracious of taco and/or taquito appetites.

Remember what I said about alchemy? The filling for these tacos is nothing more than shredded chicken, salt and a puree of roasted tomato, red onion and garlic that has been cooked and thickened in a cast-iron skillet. And yet, it is amazingly delicious and complex, and completely belies its humble component ingredients. Which is to say: the chicken filling for these tacos has no right or reason to be as tasty as it is, but it is, nevertheless, completely beguiling. No wonder Mr. Bayless is doing so well for himself.

And no wonder I've been eating so well.

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CRISPY CHICKEN TACOS
Adapted from Authentic Mexican, by Rick Bayless

I've made these tacos with flour and with corn tortillas, and I must say I prefer the corn. That said, if you only have flour tortillas on hand, go for it. The filling is so good it doesn't matter what you wrap it in, short of a piece of aluminum foil or a Sham-wow. I serve the tacos with no small measure of guacamole and a sprinkling of feta cheese (I can't find queso anejo or queso fresco around here), though Rick also suggests serving them on a bed of romaine leaves with sliced radishes and thinned sour cream.

Note also that the chicken filling can be made a day in advance and stored in an airtight container in the refrigerator.

Finally, Rick fries his assembled chicken tacos, but I choose to bake them. They get just as crispy and are a little less greasy.

1 ripe, large tomato
4 boneless, skinless chicken breasts
1 t. kosher salt, divided
1/2 t. freshly-cracked black pepper
2 T. + 1 T. + 1/4 c. vegetable oil, divided
1/2 a medium red onion, coarsely chopped
1 clove garlic, roughly chopped
12 corn tortillas
About 1 1/2 c. guacamole
1/4 c. crumbled feta cheese (or queso anejo or queso fresco, if you can find it)
1/2 c. sour cream thinned with 2 T. milk (optional)

Preheat the oven to 325 degrees Fahrenheit.

Place a piece of aluminum foil in a cast-iron skillet (or other large skillet). Over medium heat, place the whole tomato on the foil and roast it, turning often, until the skin is blackened. Remove the tomato from the foil and place on a plate to cool enough to handle it. Peel the tomato, then core and roughly chop it. Set aside.

Season the chicken breasts on both sides with 1/2 t. of the kosher salt and the black pepper. Heat the same cast-iron skillet (or other large skillet) over medium-high heat. Place 2 T. of the vegetable oil into the skillet and then add the chicken breasts. Cook about 6 minutes per side, until the chicken breasts register 161 degrees Fahrenheit on a probe thermometer. Remove the chicken to a plate and allow it to cool enough to handle it. Shred the chicken into bite-sized pieces.

Place the chopped roasted tomato, red onion and garlic in the bowl of a food processor. Process until the mixture is completely smooth. Heat 1 T. of the vegetable oil in the same cast-iron skillet (or other large skillet) that you used to roast the tomato and cook the chicken. Add the tomato puree to the pan and stir constantly until it is thick and reduced, about 4 minutes.

Stir the shredded chicken into the thickened tomato mixture. Remove from heat and season with the remaining 1/2 t. kosher salt.

Heat the remaining 1/4 c. of the vegetable oil in a small skillet over medium heat. When hot, quick-fry the tortillas one at a time to soften them, 2-3 seconds per side. Drain well on paper towels.

Immediately assemble the tacos by placing about 2 T. of the chicken mixture across each tortilla. Roll up the tortillas and place on a baking sheet, seam side down. Bake the tacos for about 10 minutes, or until crispy.

Serve with guacamole, crumbled feta and thinned sour cream (if desired). I also suggest serving with Luta's margaritas.

Makes 12 tacos.

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Previously, on A Stove With A House Around It:

One year ago: granola
Two years ago: chocolate crinkles

Make guacamole.

2010-05-05T00:57:00.000-07:00

"Hello Mother."

"Hello. How are you today? What do you need?"

[To be fair, I don't always necessarily need something from Mom when I call her. But mostly I do.]

"I need to know what you put into your avocado."

"What I put in my avocado? What the hell does that mean?"

"Sorry. I'm at work and distracted. I meant to ask, what do you put in your guacamole?"

[To be fair, her guacamole is awesome.]

"Oh, OK. Avocado, Lawry's seasoned salt, garlic, red onion, tomato, lime juice."

"Amounts?"

"I have no idea. Just make it. Why are you making guacamole, anyway?"

"For dinner."

"You're having guacamole for dinner?"

"Well, no. We're having tacos, with guacamole on the side."

"OK then. Don't forget the Lawry's seasoned salt. It is the secret."

A few hours later I realized that Mom's "recipe" -- otherwise known as "list of ingredients" -- did not include anything spicy. So I called her again.

"Do you put in a jalapeno?"

"Do I put a jalapeno in what?"

"Oh shut up, you know I'm talking about your guacamole."

"No. Just some hot sauce."

Husband had scrawled "one lonesome jalapeno" on the grocery list. I crossed it off the page.

I have often mentioned Mom's well-known disdain for ingredient measurements. Hence, she wanted me to publish her guacamole recipe as follows:

avocado
Lawry's
garlic
onion -- red
tomato
lime juice
hot sauce

Make guacamole.

However, even given Mom's charming disgust for method, I like to keep this space a full-service blog. So when I got home tonight I started measuring.

Just in time for Cinco de Mayo!

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GUACAMOLE

This recipe is easily halved. In fact, if you're only looking for a little snacking guacamole, or perhaps some to use as a condiment for tacos, I would suggest halving it.

5 avocados, cut into pieces
2 t. Lawry's seasoned salt
2 cloves garlic, minced
1/2 c. red onion, finely chopped
1 medium tomato, diced
1/4 c. freshly-squeezed lime juice
Hot sauce (I like Tabasco), to taste

Place the avocados in a large bowl. Using a potato masher or a fork, mash the avocados until they're relatively smooth (leave a little chunkiness; it adds to the pleasing texture). Add the rest of the ingredients and mix well.

Start eating.

Makes about 3 cups of guacamole. If you're going to store leftover guacamole, do so in an airtight container, with a piece of plastic wrap pushed down on the surface of the guac. Also throw in one of the avocado pits; Mom swears this helps keep the leftover guacamole from turning brown.

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Previously, on A Stove With A House Around It:

One year ago: honey biscuits
Two years ago: mole poblano

Bread Baker's Apprentice 17/43: lavash crackers and pita bread

2010-04-27T20:41:00.000-07:00

The last time I baked from The Bread Baker's Apprentice, Conan O'Brien was still on NBC. They were lighting the Christmas tree at Rockefeller Center. Winter was on its way, and I was, how do you say, with child even though I didn't know it yet. For someone who claimed that she was going to make all her own bread from now on, it has been a long, lonely hiatus indeed.

But I always knew I'd return. I'd watch the blogs of my fellow Bread Baker's Apprentice challengers as they baked loaf after loaf, speeding through the book with yeasty abandon while I was stuck in the never-never land between kaiser rolls and lavash crackers. I wondered if I'd been left behind, lapped many times over by more enterprising bakers who were already deep into the Ps. But I took solace in the fact that we were all permitted to go our own pace (even our dear leader was slowing up a tad). I knew it wasn't a race. I knew someday soon the bread-baking urge would strike again.

Part of my lag had to do with the fact that I was stuck on lavash crackers -- a recipe I had attempted before, for the Daring Bakers back in September 2008. I liked the crackers when I made them back then, but I wasn't totally enthusiastic to make them again. So I kept putting it off. And putting it off some more. Until one day a few weeks ago when -- staring at the lavash cracker recipe, willing my hands to begin working with flour -- I noticed a note in the margin. It said that the lavash cracker dough can also be used to make pita bread.

And thus was revealed the answer for which I had been waiting all these months: I could make the lavash crackers without really making the lavash crackers, while at the same time attempting homemade pita -- something I'd been hankering to do for a long, long time. I was a baker with a plan, a woman on a mission. No longer stalled on lavash, I was ready to take up the glorious mantle of the Bread Baker's Apprentice once again. I hoped my fellow bakers hadn't given up on me.

I made the pitas this past weekend and they were so amazing (and easy) that I had to make another batch, right away. I had forgotten how simple it is to make one's own bread, and how truly delicious the result. These pitas are especially easy: one quick 90-minute rise, a flattening trip under the rolling pin and just a few minutes on a 500-degree baking stone and -- hey! -- just like that, homemade pita. People will marvel at you when you present a big tray of hummus, veggies and pita and then explain that you made the bread yourself. Then they will marvel some more when they actually taste the soft pita, which is so much tastier than the store-bought stuff. (It is up to you whether you wish to divulge how easy it is to make your own.)

So here I go again. Just yesterday I vowed that I will always make my own pita from scratch, never again to reach for the grocery variety. I am again full of vigor and enthusiasm for bread baking. It's nice to be back.

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The Bread Baker's Apprentice challenge asks that we do not share Reinhart's recipes. That said, if you are the least bit enterprising, you can find the lavash cracker recipe elsewhere on this blog (and linked to from elsewhere in this post). Even so, I know you all have the book anyway, so turn to page 178 and begin making pita, or crackers, or both.

The pita instructions can be found in the margins of page 178. A few pita-notes: First, the lavash cracker recipe as written makes only four 3-oz. pitas (or two larger 6-oz. pitas). That is woefully inadequate. I choose to double the lavash cracker dough and make eight 3-oz. pitas, which are a good size for sandwiches and for cutting into hummus-dipping wedges. Second, the process: preheat the oven to 500 degrees Fahrenheit, with a stone inside if you have one. Take the finished lavash cracker dough (after it's risen for 90 minutes and doubled in bulk) and then divide it into 8 equal portions. Roll out each portion until it's a circle a little less than a quarter-inch thick. Bake the rounds directly on the 500-degree stone. Third, I had great success baking the pitas on a stone, though the recipe states they can be baked on a parchment-lined baking sheet. Finally, the pitas only need a few minutes in the oven to begin to puff. Take them out right when they puff, and before they begin to take on color. If you let them brown in the oven, they will be much too crispy and crackery for traditional pita purposes (but the dog and probably your husband will still like them).

PS. I'm submitting these pitas to Yeastspotting because I am thrilled by them and choose to act like I am the first person in the world who has ever baked pitas at home.

And for one last piece o' business, check out these other Bread Baker's apprentices and their lavash successes:

Pinch My Salt festoons her lavash with sesame seeds, nigella seeds, paprika, cumin, poppy seeds and salt.
Round the Table takes the Goldilocks approach.
The Yumarama Bread Blog makes crackers that are snack-a-licious.
Two Skinny Jenkins likes her crackers with red pepper hummus.
I Can Do That! sprinkles the crackers with sumac. I love sumac.

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Previously, on A Stove With A House Around It:

One year ago: Tim Tam cheesecake
Two years ago: truck-stop cinnamon rolls

These days I languish

2010-04-19T19:23:00.000-07:00

I really haven't been feeling very human of late. I'm usually a pretty energetic person, and even though I do enjoy more than a few time-sucking television programs, I like to think that I am industrious. That I get stuff done. That, like the lady in the Cake song with the short skirt and the long jacket, I am touring the facility and picking up slack. House stuff. Cooking and baking stuff. Gardening stuff. I used to sit down only rarely on the weekends, instead moving from task to task, edging flower beds and baking bread and transplanting tomato seedlings, making my little corner of the world a little bit nicer for myself, Husband and pup Jet.

But these days I languish. I can rarely stay awake through an entire episode of CSI: NY, let alone bake a hearth bread. Husband keeps reminding me that although I might not actively realize it, I am doing quite a lot of work -- growing a small human and all. I wasn't prepared for what an exhausting task that truly is. So I try to feel righteous in my sloth, deserving of my time in the reclining chair. But it's not who I am. So I go a little stir crazy. And complain that I'm wasting too much time! There's too much work to be done! Patient Husband, who is so helpful and kind as to nearly achieve martyrdom status, talks me down every time. He is a good man.

Take for example Saturday night. It was about 7:30 p.m. and I was complaining about how I felt I hadn't gotten anything done that day. I should just go to bed, I whined. Husband said, "Why don't you bake something? I'll help you." He was so cute and earnest I couldn't turn him down.

"Would you make toasted coconut and chocolate chip cookies with me?" I replied, sheepishly.

He immediately got to work chopping chocolate.

These cookies are super easy to make, perfect if you're feeling lazy but would still like a home-baked treat to top off a lazy, rainy Saturday. They're chock full of toasty coconut and 70% cacao chocolate (I actually doubled the amount of chocolate from the original recipe, which seemed very very skimpy indeed). And they come from a Cooking Light article about how dark chocolate and coconut can now be considered to contain the "good" version of saturated fat. They are healthy! In moderation! (Whatever.)

So my goodness, people. Bake and eat up.

++++++

TOASTED COCONUT CHOCOLATE CHUNK COOKIES
Adapted from Cooking Light

It makes every bit of sense in the world to me to double this recipe. It only makes about 20 cookies as is, and I see no reason to have 20 cookies when you could easily have 40.

1 c. flaked sweetened coconut
4.5 oz. all-purpose flour (about 1 c.)
1/2 t. baking powder
1/4 t. baking soda
1/8 t. kosher salt
3/4 c. light brown sugar, packed
1/4 c. unsalted butter, at room temperature
1 t. vanilla extract
1 large egg
4 oz. dark chocolate (70% cacao), coarsely chopped

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees Fahrenheit. Spread the coconut on a baking sheet and toast in the oven, stirring every few minutes, for 7-10 minutes, or until the coconut is a toasty shade of light brown. Remove from the oven and set aside to cool. (Leave the oven at 350 degrees.)

In a medium bowl, combine the flour, baking powder, baking soda and salt and stir with a whisk until blended. Place the brown sugar and butter in the bowl of an electric mixer and beat with the paddle attachment at medium speed until well-combined. Beat in the vanilla and egg. Add the flour mixture and beat at low speed until combined. Using a spatula or wooden spoon, stir in the toasted coconut and chopped chocolate.

Using a spring-loaded ice cream scoop (or rounded tablespoons), drop the batter onto a Silpat- or parchment-lined baking sheet. Make sure the cookies are 2 inches apart. Bake at 350 degrees for 10 minutes, rotating the sheet halfway through the baking. Let the cookies sit on the baking sheet for about 2 minutes before moving them to a wire rack to cool.

Makes about 20 cookies.

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Previously, on A Stove With A House Around It:

One year ago: potato-leek soup
Two years ago: lemony lima bean, chickpea and zucchini salad

My affliction as well

2010-04-01T19:50:00.000-07:00

Though I am not Jewish, I must admit that Passover, to a certain extent, is the bread of my affliction as well.

Husband keeps kosher for Passover, an act which I greatly admire. But the stark reality is: this carb-loving shiksa finds it challenging to make it through eight nights without being able to eat pasta with her husband. Take this afternoon for example. I was craving pizza like nobody's business. I was all excited that Husband was to be finished with work at 6:00 p.m. It's a beautiful warm spring night and I relished the drive to the best pizza place in Akron. And then I realized it's Passover. Husband can't have pizza. My dreams were dashed. Curses.

What I have found over the years, however, is that quinoa is kosher for Passover. And quinoa is satisfyingly grain-y and filling, so much so that one almost forgets that one is supposed to be eating only matzoh. Several years ago I found a Grant Achatz recipe for quinoa with caramelized onions -- which is so simple that I keep wondering how it is that the recipe is Grant Achatz's, he of the ethereal molecular gastronomic paradise that is Alinea (BUBBLE GUM long pepper hibiscus creme fraiche anyone?) -- and I knew it would become a Passover staple in our house. Because if there's anything that Husband loves, it's being a Jew. A Jew who would eat caramelized onions by the bowlful, with a spoon.

And so! If it is Passover, there is quinoa with caramelized onions. For the second-night Seder this year I paired it with chicken tikka masala -- non-traditional to be sure but delicious and kosher nonetheless.

Everything went perfectly with the Hillel sandwich, and even my nephew got in on the act, reading the four questions and searching for the afikoman for the old-school reward of just $1. Though Husband was the only Jew at the table, all were sated and happy and, well, reclining.

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QUINOA WITH CARAMELIZED ONIONS
Adapted from Grant Achatz's recipe, from an old issue of Food & Wine

I used a mixture of "regular" and red quinoa for this dish, because it was what I had in the pantry. Feel free to use whatever quinoa you have and enjoy.

3 T. extra-virgin olive oil
1 1/2 pounds white or yellow onions, thinly sliced
Kosher salt and freshly-cracked black pepper
1 1/2 c. quinoa, rinsed and drained
2 1/2 c. water

Heat 2 T. of the olive oil in a large skillet. Add the onions and cook over low heat, stirring often, until meltingly soft and deep golden, about 30 minutes. As the onions begin to look dry and stick to the bottom of the pan, stir through a little bit of water. You might need to do this a few times. When the onions are deep brown, season with salt and pepper to taste and set aside (leaving them in the skillet, off the heat).

Heat the remaining 1 T. of olive oil in a large saucepan. Add the quinoa and cook over medium-high heat, stirring, until light golden and fragrant, about 3-4 minutes. Add the water and 3/4 t. of kosher salt and bring to a boil. Cover and reduce the heat to low and cook until all of the water has been absorbed and the quinoa is tender, about 12-15 minutes.

Fluff the quinoa with a fork and add it to the skillet with the caramelized onions, stirring to combine. Season with salt and pepper to taste and serve immediately.

Serves 8.

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Previously, on A Stove With A House Around It:

One year ago: King Boo and Hot Wheels
Two years ago: more Nephew birthday cakes

Spoiled by souvlaki

2010-03-22T23:25:00.000-07:00

I do not wish to be one of those pregnant ladies who can only talk about how pregnant she is. I do not wish for a screen capture of this site to end up posted to STFU, Parents -- no matter how much I love that blog (oh, and I do). And though pregnancy is exhausting and just a slight bit all-consuming, I wish also to focus on other elements of my life.

As such, today I will not be telling you about how I have been wickedly craving chicken souvlaki since mid-December. I shall not blame it on this tiny person I'm carrying around. Instead, I will tell you all about chicken souvlakis I have loved and -- for various reasons -- cannot get any longer. I shall explain why, after many nights pining away at my souvalki-lessness, I finally broke down and (gasp!) made my own. And it was good. Damn good. So damn good we've eaten it three of the last four nights (it goes really well with both RuPaul's Drag Race *and* Lost).

But first: chicken souvlakis I have known. For many decades there was a family-owned restaurant in my hometown called Mary & Ted's. It had been there forever, changing its decor every so often but always serving up the same comfort food/Greek diner favorites. I can easily picture the restaurant in at least three different interior design iterations and can especially remember the large U-shaped counter flanked by big square plastic drink dispensers full of blue slushy liquid. When I was in elementary school, sometimes Dad would take me there before school and I'd eat silver-dollar pancakes with childish gusto. You could buy Andes mints at the cash register. The same people always seemed to be there.

Mary & Ted's closed a few years back. And while it's always sad when a local institution goes out of business, my sorrow was reserved mostly for the fact that Mary & Ted's chicken souvlaki would no longer be in my life: juicy grilled chicken, served with tangy tzatziki and crisp lettuce and red onions in a warmed, soft, ever-so-slightly olive oily flatbread. Alongside this messy concoction: a mountain of crisp, salty fries. Perfection. But as with many perfect things, it couldn't last forever.

Then there was Uncle George's, a Greek diner in Astoria, NYC, that was around the corner from Husband's old apartment. Sitting, fat and happy, on a busy Queens street corner, Uncle George's was always stuffed full of people, night or day. Loud people eating a lot of Greek food, drinking cold red wine from jewel-toned aluminum cups. Uncle George's had the most amazing lemony and oregano-y potatoes, cut in large hunks and set alongside whatever it was you happened to be eating. In my case, it was the souvlaki, with its soft bread lapping up the lemon runoff from the nearby potatoes. Husband and I were dating at the time, and a weekend trip to New York for me was never complete without a stop at Uncle George's. Husband still beats a path there whenever he's in town, especially if he's in town for a Mets game.

And thus, having been spoiled by restaurant souvlaki for the better part of the past decade, is it any wonder that it never once occurred to me that I could cook it at home? All this whining about how I can never get souvlaki anymore finally came to a head last week when the light bulb went off over Husband's head. "Do you want me to grill some chicken? We could make our own."

Eureka!

So we made our own, and then we made some more. And then, what the hell, we made some more. The weather's been really nice and the charcoal grill was calling and I bought extra bread at the Middle Eastern grocery and I can eat several cups of homemade tzatziki single-handedly. And you know what? Homemade tastes even better than restaurant-made. Even Mary & Ted's and Uncle George's.

Now excuse me while I make some more.

++++++

CHICKEN SOUVLAKI

For the tzatziki:
1 c. plain Greek yogurt (I especially like Fage 2%)
1/2 c. seeded, peeled and shredded cucumber, squeezed to remove excess moisture
2 T. fresh mint, chopped
1 T. fresh dill, chopped
1 T. olive oil
1 T. freshly-squeezed lemon juice
2 garlic cloves, minced
Pinch sea salt, to taste

For the chicken:
4 boneless, skinless chicken breasts
2 T. olive oil
2 T. dried oregano
3/4 t. kosher salt
1/2 t. freshly-cracked black pepper

To assemble the souvlaki:
4 pieces of soft flatbread (or pita)
2 tomatoes, cut into wedges
1 c. shredded iceberg lettuce
1/2 c. red onion, thinly sliced
Hot sauce, if desired

First, make the tzatziki. In a medium bowl, combine all tzatziki ingredients and stir to combine. Set aside. Prep the tomatoes, lettuce and red onion. Set aside.

To prepare the chicken, place the meat in a medium bowl and drizzle with olive oil. Add the oregano, salt and pepper and stir to coat the chicken breasts. Grill the chicken -- either outdoors on the grill or indoors in the grill pan if the weather is less than cooperative -- until golden brown and delicious and the internal temperature registers at 161 degrees Fahrenheit. Remove from the heat and let the chicken rest a few minutes before slicing into pieces.

Assemble the souvlaki by lightly grilling a piece of flatbread until warmed. Spread with a few tablespoons of the tzatziki then top with chicken, tomato, red onion and lettuce. If you're in the mood for hot sauce, feel free to add a little (Husband likes his this way).

Makes 4 sandwiches, with a little tzatziki left over. Store the tzatziki in an airtight container in the refrigerator for up to 4 days.

++++++

Previously, on A Stove With A House Around It:

One year ago: Mrs. DiLorenzo's manicotti and an alternate take on my roasted tomato marinara
Two years ago: tsoureki

At least for the moment

2010-03-13T20:53:00.000-08:00

I can already hear you all out there, sighing.

It's been almost two months since you've posted that rich chocolate cake, and now you return with...vegetables? Seriously??

I know, I know. Broccoli pesto might not seem like the most thrilling of dishes...not the sexiest, food porniest thing with which I could return after my lengthy cooking and blogging hiatus. But what can I say? I have broccoli in the fridge and a craving in my mind, and if there's anything I'm learning from being pregnant, it's listen to those cravings.

Yes, you read that right. I am expecting. Hence the whole hiatus -- I haven't had the energy or desire to eat, let alone cook, let alone be creative in the kitchen. But as the constant nagging illness and exhaustion make way for what I pray is an easier few months ahead, I find myself ready to get back to (modest) culinary work. My first task: transforming those green florets in the crisper drawer into a pleasing riff on pesto.

And though he's been an absolute dear over these past four months -- cooking for me when I wanted to eat, running out to the store to buy me grapes, doing the dishes, baking me chocolate chip cookies at the drop of a hat, not complaining when I wanted to go to bed at 8:15 instead of play The Beatles: Rock Band -- I'm hoping Husband will appreciate that I'm cooking dinner for him tonight. Thanks to some recent warmer weather and some rain today, the blanket of snow that's been covering our world since Christmas is finally gone. Clearly, hell has frozen over. And I'm ready to cook again.

At least for the moment. We'll see how tomorrow goes.

++++++

BROCCOLI PESTO
Adapted from Kitchenist

It is not at all necessary to serve this simple pesto over pasta. I can think of lots of things to do with it: serve it atop a grilled or pan-fried chicken breast; mix it with cold pasta, kalamata olives, fresh tomatoes and some bright fresh herbs for pasta salad; serve it, room temperature, as a spread for a homemade crusty loaf of bread, warm from the oven.

That said, I do like it quite a lot served over pasta. To do so, bring a large pot of well-salted water to a boil. Cook 1 pound of pasta according to the package directions to al dente. Drain pasta, reserving a few cups of the starchy pasta cooking water. Toss the pasta with about 1 cup of the broccoli pesto, adding a ladle or two of the pasta cooking water to transform the pesto into a creamy sauce.

1 head of broccoli (about 2 1/2 c. florets and tender stems)
1/2 c. walnuts, almonds or pine nuts (or a mix), toasted
1 garlic clove, chopped
1/4 t. red pepper flakes
1/3 c. grated Pecorino cheese
4 oz. feta cheese, cubed or crumbled
Juice of half a lemon
1/2 c. olive oil
Pinch sea salt

Cook the broccoli florets either by blanching them in a pot of boiling water for 3-4 minutes or steaming them in a vegetable steamer for 4-5 minutes. Rinse immediately with cold water to stop the cooking process; drain, and set aside to cool.

Place the cooked, cooled florets in the bowl of a food processor with all the remaining ingredients, except the olive oil and sea salt. Process until the broccoli is chopped into fine pieces, then drizzle in the olive oil until the mixture is well combined and smooth. Taste for seasoning, then add sea salt if desired.

Makes about 2 cups of pesto, which will keep in an airtight container in the refrigerator for 3 days and in the freezer for at least a month.

++++++

Previously, on A Stove With A House Around It:

One year ago: spinach lasagna
Two years ago: Italian wedding soup

For no reason at all

2010-01-17T22:59:00.000-08:00

Yesterday I made myself a chocolate layer cake for no reason at all.

I hardly ever make a cake for myself; I wait until a special occasion, then make a cake for someone else. Which is ridiculous, if you think about it. Do I not deserve a delicious cake? Even when it's not my birthday? So yesterday, when I was drooling over a photo of a chocolate layer cake in one of my favorite cookbooks, waxing poetic about how badly I wanted a slice, Husband said, "You know, you do know how to bake. Why don't you make yourself one?"

Well, duh. It was a revelation. The cold winter sky opened; angels began to sing. And I started chopping chocolate.

Donna Hay's layered chocolate fudge cake is nothing if not rich, and nothing if not rustic. The luscious photograph that accompanies the recipe shows a four-layer cake spread with frosting between the layers and on top -- but not around the cake's chocolatey sides. They are left unfrosted, naked, for all the salivating eaters to see. Beguiling, really.

The cake itself is deeply flavored with chocolate, with a texture that veers into genoise/sponge-cake territory. It achieves its modest lift from vigorously beaten eggs and a modest amount of flour. The recipe does not call for salt, though as I think of it the recipe calls for "butter" -- not "unsalted butter" -- and I'm thinking it might be possible that Australians would use salted butter in the cake. (My edition of the cookbook was published in Australia.) My knee-jerk reaction is always to use unsalted butter in baked goods, so I might have missed the salt boat here (though I certainly made up for it with a sprinkling of fleur de sel atop the finished cake). But no matter, the cake was marvelous and maybe next time -- just for comparison's sake, you know -- I'll go the salted butter route.

As far as the fudge filling goes, I used it as an opportunity to cobble together 12 oz. of random bits and pieces of chocolate left over from previous baking adventures -- orphaned chunks of chocolate that were just hanging out in the pantry, waiting for their chance to play a starring dessert role. It was quite satisfying, chucking butter and cream together with semi-sweet Nestle chips and a hunk of semi-sweet Valrhona and several squares of bittersweet Ghirardelli and a few rectangles of Hershey's dark chocolate to make the filling. It was a scene, man.

And even though I had made the cake for myself, I did end up sharing it with family. Sister's 142nd birthday is this week, and we went out last night to celebrate. I will be baking a proper chocolate-hazelnut cake for her birthday tomorrow. But last night, after her birthday dinner, it seemed silly not to use this rustic layer cake as a sort of precursor to her formal birthday. Which is how Younger Nephew ended up sitting in my kitchen, covered in frosting, fork in hand, stating that the chocolate -- like everything else sweet in my kitchen -- was "HIS" and his alone.

Not exactly what I envisioned when I set out greedily and piggishly to make a cake for myself. But as with everything else in life, chocolate cake is always sweeter when you can share it with someone you love. Even if that person doesn't really want to share.

++++++

LAYERED CHOCOLATE FUDGE CAKE
Adapted from Flavours, by Donna Hay

For the cake:
2 1/2 oz. unsalted butter
1 t. vanilla extract
8 eggs
1 1/3 c. sugar
2/3 c. cocoa powder
1 c. all-purpose flour

For the fudge filling:
12 oz. semi-sweet or dark chocolate, chopped
3/4 c. heavy cream
5 oz. unsalted butter
Pinch kosher salt

Optional but totally delicious topping:
A hearty pinch of fleur de sel

First, make the fudge filling. Place the chocolate, heavy cream, butter and salt in a medium heat-proof bowl. Set the bowl over a pan of simmering water and allow everything to melt, stirring occasionally to combine the ingredients. Remove from the heat and refrigerate until cool.

While the filling is cooling, make the cakes. Preheat the oven to 350 degrees Fahrenheit. Line the bottom of 2 8-inch round cake pans with parchment paper.

Melt the 2 1/2 oz. butter and vanilla in a small saucepan over low heat, then set aside to cool slightly.

Place the eggs and sugar in the bowl of an electric mixer and beat for 8 minutes, or until the mixture is light and creamy and tripled in bulk.

Sift the cocoa powder and the flour twice, then sift it into the egg mixture.

(Those cocoa chunks up there just go to show that sifting once is not enough.)

(Double-sifted and lovely.)

Add the butter mixture to the batter and fold gently with a spatula until the batter just comes together. Divide the batter between the prepared pans and bake for 25 minutes, until the cakes pull away from the sides of the pans. Cool in the pans. Cut each cake horizontally into 2 layers.

When the filling is cool and somewhat stiff, remove it from the refrigerator and transfer into the bowl of an electric mixer. Using the whisk attachment, whip the filling until it is light and fluffy, scraping down the sides of the bowl a few times.

To assemble the cake, place one layer of the cake on a serving plate and spread with the filling. Repeat with the remaining cake layers and the remaining fudge filling. If using, sprinkle the top of the cake with fleur de sel.

Serves 10-12.

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A little taste of what's come before:

One year ago: cheddar-Pecorino biscotti
Two years ago: Ma Chris salad

Two!

2010-01-14T21:34:00.000-08:00

A few days ago, friends, A Stove With A House Around It turned two.

Two!

It is hard to believe that two whole years have elapsed since that dull evening in January 2008 when I decided that I was too creatively and culinarily pent-up to continue without some sort of outlet. And so I wrote on that day, "Always a fan of metaphor (and hyperbole), this blog represents the overwhelming importance of food in my life -- to the exclusion of shelter itself. Kidding. Maybe."

Well, considering we do have several roof issues that cause troubling leaks every winter -- and I am instead dreaming of how exactly I wish to use our limited resources to remodel our perfectly serviceable kitchen -- it looks like my manifesto was right on the money. And though I originally envisioned this space as dedicated mostly to the recipes and memories of my youth, it has happily evolved into a record of the food, people, places and experiences that make up the day-to-day fabric of my life. It has been my pleasure sharing it all with you, and I hope you've enjoyed yourself here. After all, without you, there is just a lot of echoing in this space as my lonely words bounce off the heading and the sidebar.

So. How to acknowledge this second birthday? I could bake a cake. But I have a feeling I'll be doing that this weekend, as Sister turns, like, 90 or something. No. I think I'll make some pretzels. As I did last year at this time to celebrate birthday #1. Yes. I believe I shall make birthday pretzels a yearly tradition: each year this blog grows a little older, I'll share another pretzel recipe I've found. Because I do believe a full life is one lived in the presence of many pretzel recipes.

For your second birthday, little blog, I've made you some of Alton Brown's hot pretzels. Just about everything Alton makes is a win and you, my HTML progeny, deserve the best. (And, yes, these beat last year's Martha Stewart recipe by leaps and bounds, in terms of crusty browned flavor and soft yeasty interior). So sidle up to the kitchen counter and help yourself to some yeasty, salty goodness.

And happy birthday.

++++++

HOMEMADE SOFT PRETZELS
Adapted from Alton Brown

1 1/2 c. warm water (110-115 degrees Fahrenheit)
1 T. sugar
2 t. kosher salt, plus more for sprinkling over the pretzels
2 1/2 t. instant yeast
22 oz. all-purpose flour (about 4 1/2 c.)
2 oz. unsalted butter, melted and cooled slightly
Olive oil, for bowl
Non-stick spray, for pan
10 c. water
2/3 c. baking soda
1 large egg yolk beaten with 1 T. water

Combine the water, sugar and 2 t. kosher salt in the bowl of an electric mixer and sprinkle the yeast on top. Whisk together to dissolve the sugar and then let stand until the mixture bubbles and foams, about 5 minutes.

Add the flour and butter to the yeast mixture. Fit the mixer with the dough hook and mix on low speed until the dough comes together. Then switch to medium speed and knead until the dough pulls away from the side of the bowl and forms a ball, approximately 4-5 minutes. Remove the dough from the bowl, then coat the bowl with a few teaspoons of olive oil. Return the dough to the bowl, rolling to coat it in oil. Cover the bowl with plastic wrap and let it sit in a warm spot in the kitchen until the dough doubles in size, 50-55 minutes.

Preheat the oven to 450 degrees Fahrenheit. Line two baking sheets with parchment paper, then spray with non-stick spray (or brush with olive or vegetable oil). Set aside.

Bring the 10 c. of water and the baking soda to a rolling boil in a large pot.

While the water comes to a boil, turn the dough out onto a work surface and divide into 8 equal pieces. Roll out each piece of dough into a 24-inch rope. Make a U-shape with the rope then, holding the ends of the rope, cross the ends over each other and press into the bottom of the U in order to form the shape of a pretzel. Place the formed pretzels onto the parchment-lined baking sheets.

(Even Husband makes pretzels.)

Place the pretzels in the boiling water, one at a time, for 30 seconds each. Remove them from the water using a large flat spatula, letting as much of the water drain away as possible.

Return the boiled pretzels to the parchment-lined baking sheet, brush the top of each pretzel with the egg yolk and water mixture, then sprinkle with kosher salt.

Bake until the pretzels are a deep golden brown, about 12 minutes. Transfer to a cooling rack for 5 minutes before serving.

Makes 8 large, gorgeous hot pretzels.

++++++

Gee Dianne, what were you cooking in years past?

One year ago: pan-fried tofu with spicy lemongrass sauce
Two years ago: chocolate chip cake

It is January 10, and I am going to make some caramel corn

2010-01-10T17:37:00.000-08:00

Ah, the new year.

Rather.

Ah, the first few weeks of January. When everyone is eating light, kicking off weight-loss resolutions, trying to be healthy. Martha Stewart is trying to get us to eat kombu in a clay pot; Alton Brown is pushing sardines and avocado on toast. (To be fair, Alton looks amazing. And his "lists" of how much of which types of food to eat per week really are quite sensible. And his smoothies are tasty.) Hell, even Rachael Ray is slinging low-cal halibut in parchment ("FISH IN A SACK!"). Beware, however. All this good health has a definite shelf-life, and it starts to go bad right around the end of the NFL playoffs.

Now, I am no fan of resolutions. But even if I was, the way I see it, we all have until roughly Super Bowl Sunday to follow through with our new good habits. Because the minute The Food Network switches from its "healthy eating" promos to its "GET READY FOR THE BIG GAME HERE ARE SOME JALAPENO POPPERS!" ads, you can kiss those resolutions goodbye. The new year's good intentions are replaced by football party snack food: a gridiron of guacamole, spread on a platter and striped with sour cream yard lines...chicken wings...spinach dip...Tostitos. Super Bowl Sunday is the end of a short-lived resolution season, followed as it is by luscious baked goods for Valentine's Day, then green beer and corned beef in March, then dozens of chocolate Easter eggs in April. You get my point.

So I say, to hell with it all. It is January 10, and I am going to make some caramel corn.

This is the caramel corn of my youth, which I don't think I've had since my youth. But a romp through Mom's recipe box on New Year's Eve (I really know how to party) unearthed this gem and awakened in me a long-suffering hankering for caramel corn that I didn't even know I had. The recipe comes from my childhood neighbors, the Chases. They were awesome, and so was their corn. It's sweet and a little bit salty, laced with a deep brown-sugary flavor and spiked with big pecan shards. It's a perfect snack on a lazy, frigid Sunday afternoon in January, when the television ads say "Weight Watchers" but your growling stomach says "no thanks."

Never let it be said that my priorities aren't in line.

++++++

CARAMEL CORN WITH PECANS

8 c. popped popcorn (feel free to use microwave popcorn, just choose a "lite" variety without a lot of added flavorings)
1 1/2 c. raw pecans, very coarsely chopped
3/4 c. light brown sugar
6 T. unsalted butter
3 T. light corn syrup
1/4 t. kosher salt
1/4 t. baking soda
1/4 t. pure vanilla extract

Preheat the oven to 325 degrees Fahrenheit. Place the popped popcorn and pecans on an 11" x 17" rimmed baking sheet lined with a Silpat.

In a heavy-bottomed saucepan, combine the brown sugar, butter, corn syrup and salt. Bring to a boil over medium heat, stirring to combine the ingredients. Once the mixture is boiling, reduce the heat to medium-low and cook for 5 minutes without stirring.

Remove from heat and stir in the baking soda and vanilla. Pour the mixture over the popcorn and pecans and stir well with a spatula, covering as much of the popcorn with the brown sugar mixture as possible.

Bake for 10 minutes. Remove from the oven and stir. Bake for 10 more minutes. Remove from the oven and stir one last time with a spatula, coating the popcorn as evenly as possible. Cool, and happily consume.

Makes 8 cups of caramel corn.

Most special

2009-12-18T20:07:00.000-08:00

Hello Dolly bars are the sweet, gooey pillar upon which the joyous Christmases of my youth rest. They were omnipresent: on every cookie tray, in each cousin's hand, presented in abundance on the card table my aunt would set up in front of her living room closet for the express purpose of holding Christmas cookies.

(Studly cousin Jeff on Christmas morning 1984, in front of the festive tablecloth-covered cookie card table.)

I didn't know back then that they were a relatively common bar cookie. I didn't know that anyone else had ever heard of Hello Dolly bars. I thought my extended family was really onto something...a super-secret amalgamation of graham cracker, nuts, chocolate, butterscotch, coconut and Eagle Milk.

For you see, my aunt -- the one with the cookie card table -- is named Dolly. (Actually, she is named Georgeann, but everyone throughout the history of time has only called her Dolly.) And she is an amazing cookie-baker (she made all the cookies for my wedding favors). I thought the cookies were named for her. Like, Hello, Dolly! We are here to eat your cookies! It wasn't until, like, 2003 that I realized they were (a) common, and (b) named after Carol Channing. OK, I don't know if they were named after Carol Channing, but I know for certain that they weren't named after Georgeann Shearer.

But just because something is popular doesn't mean it's not perfect in every way. (See: Glee, Tater Tots, "Single Ladies.") I'm happy I can't imagine Christmas without a pan of Hello Dolly bars. I'm glad that I can still picture them on the card table, next to those peanut butter cookies with the Hershey's Kisses planted firmly atop them.

So though Hello Dolly bars are nothing special, they are most special to me. If someone told me that I could only have one cookie at Christmastime, I would choose the Hello Dolly bar. They're rich, and sweet, and crumbly, and more than able to support a childhood's worth of happy Christmas memories.

Even if they're not named after my aunt.

++++++

HELLO DOLLY BARS

These delicious cookies are an absolute snap to make. Which is good for when you need a quick dessert (or for when you have a craving).

1/2 c. (1 stick) unsalted butter
2 c. graham cracker crumbs (about 18 graham crackers, pulsed in the food processor)
1 c. sweetened coconut
6 oz. butterscotch chips
6 oz. semi-sweet chocolate chips
3/4 c. walnuts, roughly chopped
1 14-oz. can sweetened, condensed milk (I prefer Eagle Brand)

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees Fahrenheit.

Melt the butter over low heat directly in a 13" x 9" metal pan. Sprinkle the graham cracker crumbs over the butter and mix to combine. Using your fingers, pat the graham cracker crust into an even layer on the bottom of the pan.

Sprinkle the coconut over the crust, followed by the butterscotch chips, chocolate chips and walnuts. Drizzle the sweetened, condensed milk evenly over the cookies, then bake for 20 minutes.

Remove from the oven and let cool completely before cutting into bars.

Makes 3 dozen cookies.

A rich hunk of chocolate

2009-12-09T19:43:00.000-08:00

So you know it's bad news when your dad tells you he doesn't bother going to your blog anymore.

"I keep reading about those kaiser rolls, but there's never anything new."

Well, Father, as usual you are correct. I have been noticeably low-key around these parts for the past few weeks. Maybe I should blame the turkey:

(Father, expert carver of my brined bird.)

Or the spectacular view of Manhattan from our Hoboken hotel-room perch last weekend:

(Post-dinner at Diner.)

(Pre-"breakfast" at Shake Shack.)

Or Shake Shack, which we ate twice in two days, in the car mind you because the weather was so frightful:

(Note gearshift.)

(Steaming up the car windows with our Shake Shack.)

Or the cute dog, who requires and deserves a great deal of attention:

(No caption necessary.)

Or the Christmas decorations, which, you know, should be in place before the 25th:

Or the couch, my warm and inviting nemesis:

Yes, I've been otherwise occupied. And my little bloggy space has suffered. So today I offer chocolate on a stick -- something decadent enough to take your mind off my inappropriate absence. Because if anything's a distraction, a rich hunk of chocolate is.

A rich hunk of chocolate (or 36) is also a good thing to have on hand in December, when you might need a festive treat while decorating the tree, or listening to Christmas carols, or welcoming friends and long-lost family members. These cocoa blocks are perfect for just such occasions: chunks of creamy chocolate you can swirl in a mug of hot milk to create a deeply flavorful cup of hot chocolate -- or that you can just eat straight off the stick, depending on your patience and sweet tooth. When I think of December, I think of blustery snow, cable-knit sweaters and steaming mugs of cheerful soul-sating goodness. These cocoa blocks fit right in with that image, and are particularly perfect on Christmas morning.

They're also really easy to make, so you can get right back to the couch if you want. I won't judge you.

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COCOA BLOCKS
Adapted from the King Arthur Flour catalog

I used a bit of almond extract to add a non-chocolate complimentary dimension to these treats, but they would be equally delicious with an equal amount of vanilla extract or a drop or two of peppermint oil. Or even a drop of cinnamon oil (how very Mayan). Or you can skip the extra flavoring entirely and just go for the full-on chocolate.

Also, please note that the cocoa blocks need to stand overnight to set, so plan accordingly.

One final note: unless you are going to use all 36 cocoa blocks at once, I find it easiest to cut the blocks, then wrap the whole batch together in parchment paper and a layer of plastic wrap BEFORE adding the wooden sticks. Store at room temperature and insert the sticks before serving. (It's challenging to store 36 cocoa blocks on sticks.)

1/2 c. (4 oz.) heavy cream
14-oz. can sweetened, condensed milk
3 c. (18 oz.) semisweet chocolate, coarsely chopped
3/4 c. (4 oz.) unsweetened chocolate, coarsely chopped
1/4 t. almond extract (or flavoring of your choice; see above)
1 T. cocoa powder, for dusting
Wooden sticks

Line an 8"x 8" pan with parchment paper, allowing for an overhang of parchment on all 4 sides that you'll use to grip and remove the cocoa blocks once they're set.

In a heavy-bottomed saucepan, heat the cream and condensed milk over low heat until it simmers and steams. Remove from heat and add the chocolate; allow it to melt gently.

After 10 minutes, return the chocolate mixture to low heat to melt the chocolate completely. Whisk until the chocolate is thick and shiny, which only takes a few minutes. Add the almond extract and whisk to combine.

Pour the chocolate mixture into the prepared pan; level with an off-set spatula. Using a small sieve, sprinkle the cocoa powder over the chocolate to coat the surface. Set aside overnight, uncovered, at room temperature to set.

The next day, remove the chocolate from the pan using the excess parchment overhang. Heat a knife by running it under hot water. Dry the knife and cut the chocolate into 1 1/4"-inch squares, cleaning and reheating the knife occasionally to ensure even cuts.

Place a wooden stick into the center of each block, taking care not to stick it all the way through.

Eat straight off the block, or stir into a cup of hot milk. Repeat.

(Husband = cocoa block beneficiary.)

Makes 36 blocks.

Bread Baker's Apprentice 16/43: kaiser rolls

2009-12-02T00:05:00.000-08:00

I feel like I'm becoming a broken record on this Bread Baker's Apprentice business:

"I do not wish to overstate it, but really, this is (so far) my favorite recipe from The Bread Baker's Apprentice, hands down."

"And? This focaccia is good. Damn good."

"However, were I not about to fly about as far as one can fly without starting back the other way, I'll tell you what I'd be doing: I'd be baking more English muffins. Because Reinhart's recipe is e-asy. Easy! And the resulting muffins -- especially if fork-split, toasted and slathered with a teaspoon of homemade blueberry jam -- are so much more delicious than anything anyone named Thomas ever baked."

"But as it is, Reinhart's cinnamon buns are so amazing I don't know if I'll ever have a need to go back. You live, you learn. You bake a better cinnamon bun."

"Trust Peter on this one: a long cold fermentation engenders amazing bagels, bagels that are good enough to turn a person with tepid feelings about bagels into a person who has to eat the entire batch, like, now."

It makes one wonder if I possess the ability to be critical.

To be fair, I wasn't a huge fan of Reinhart's French bread, strawberry-walnut celebration bread or corn bread. I mean, they weren't terrible, but they weren't favorites either. Chalk it up to Reinhart's overall brilliance, however, that I am only lukewarm on three of the 16 breads I've baked so far. I'd say that's a winning percentage.

Thus it logically follows that I found today's bread -- kaiser rolls -- to be absolutely amazing. You can quote me on that.

Reinhart's kaiser rolls are easy to make and they bake into large, well-risen rolls that are tender and airy on the inside, crusty and textural on the outside. They look really, really pretty and they taste even better. The only complaint I can possibly muster is that the recipe only makes six rolls. Six rolls! Six rolls disappear in no time. A word to the wise: make two batches. Or four. Or six, like I did.

I used my kaiser rolls as the foundation for savory, salty fried egg sandwiches. I also used them for hot turkey sandwiches, which I slathered with homemade thousand island dressing studded with my homegrown and canned dilly beans. Those two lunches were two of the best lunches I've had since Mom and I ate fish and chips at Fort Denison and enjoyed pies from Harry's Cafe de Wheels in Woolloomooloo. Which is saying a lot.

Meanwhile, what does it say about me that far more often than not I'm hesitant to move to the next Reinhart recipe, preferring instead to stay where I am, baking the current bread over and over again? Maybe it says that I am a whore for yeast, especially tried-and-true yeast. Maybe it says that I am easily pleased (though ask Husband, and you might get a different answer to that question). But then again maybe it says that I know a good thing when it comes along (again, see: Husband).

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The Bread Baker's Apprentice challenge asks that we do not post Reinhart's recipes. But you all have the book by now already, so no biggie. Turn to page 175 to start making kaiser rolls over and over and over again.

PS. I'm submitting these kaiser rolls to Yeastspotting, because I'm so proud of their deliciousness that I wish to share them with the whole yeast-loving world.

Labor under no illusion

2009-11-18T19:58:00.000-08:00

I know the turkey is the centerpiece of the Thanksgiving day meal. And I like turkey, especially when it's brined and golden brown and juicy. Don't get me wrong.

But I labor under no illusion that Thanksgiving is about anything more than mashed potatoes. Oh sure, the holiday is about giving thanks, being grateful for what we have, breaking bread with loved ones. But it is mostly about potatoes. Pounds of them. Mashed with full-fat dairy.

And so. In the spirit of the Mashed Potato Club -- one of my favorite restaurants (now closed) that we used to frequent when I lived in Chicago -- this year I sought something interesting and maybe unexpected to add to my potatoes. The Mashed Potato Club was fabulous for its flamboyantly gay waiters and its hi-hat bass-thumping dance music atmosphere. It was also fabulous for its menu: rich mashed potatoes topped with any combination of nearly limitless toppings. I used to order mine with tomato, chiffonade of basil, grilled portobello mushrooms and mozzarella cheese. Which I washed down with several (many) cosmopolitans. It was a scene.

Though my kitchen does not resemble a gay bar-slash-mashed potato restaurant, I can keep the decadent memory of the Mashed Potato Club alive nevertheless. All I have to do is whip up a batch of these caramelized onion, shallot and brie mashed potatoes. While listening to Rent. If I had a disco ball, a mural of a naked gent and a mesh-clad Boystown resident to serve me drinks, I'd be in business.

But I digress. I'm guessing the majority of you out there can eat a plate of mashed potatoes without thinking of the soundtrack to Evita. Most of you quite reasonably associate mashed potatoes with Thanksgiving or with a rustic home-cooked dinner. And that's wonderful, too, as these potatoes will add an unexpected flair to the traditional Thanksgiving meal. Your guests are most likely expecting potatoes. They might not be expecting a mash laced with deeply caramelized onions and the mild, smooth flavor of brie.

Go ahead: mix it up. Even though Thanksgiving dinner truly is all about the potatoes, there's nothing that says they have to be plain.

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CARAMELIZED ONION AND BRIE MASHED POTATOES

2 1/2 lbs. potatoes (whatever variety you like), peeled and cut into large cubes
2 T. olive oil
1/2 large white onion, thinly sliced
1/2 shallot, thinly sliced
1/4 t. kosher salt, plus more to taste
1/2 c. (1 stick) unsalted butter
3/4 c. skim milk
1/4 c. sour cream
8 oz. brie, rind removed, cubed
Freshly-cracked pepper to taste

Place the potatoes in a large pot of cold water, then place over medium-high heat. Cook the potatoes until they are fork-tender, which takes 10-15 minutes after the water comes to a boil.

While the potatoes are cooking, place the olive oil in a large skillet (I prefer cast iron) over medium heat. Add the onion and shallot and cook, stirring frequently, until the onions begin to take on color. About 15 minutes into the cooking, add the 1/4 t. salt to the onion mixture. Cook an additional 5-10 minutes, stirring frequently, until the onions are deeply caramelized but not burnt. (Turn down the heat if they begin to burn.)

Remove the onions from the heat and allow them to cool slightly. Place the onions in a food processor and pulse until they form a very smooth paste. Set aside.

In a small saucepan, combine the butter and skim milk and warm, over low heat, until the butter melts.

When the potatoes are fork-tender, drain them and return them to the cooking pot. Mash them using a ricer (my favorite method) or an old-fashioned potato masher. Add the butter mixture to the mashed potatoes and stir to combine. Add the brie and stir to combine. Add the sour cream and the pureed caramelized onions, stirring to combine. Season to taste with additional kosher salt and black pepper; serve immediately.

Makes 8 servings. Or, like, 3 servings, if you're wearing your traditional Thanksgiving spreadin'-out clothes.

Calorically Acceptable Thanksgiving Side Dish

2009-11-10T22:41:00.000-08:00

It is November 10.

Somehow the calendar has advanced itself very close to Thanksgiving and nearly to the end of the year. Though it seems like the beginning of May was just a few weeks ago, alas, here we find ourselves...older, (perhaps) wiser, knocking on the holiday season's door once again. Where does the time go?

Well I for one know that I've spent the majority of this year baking bread. You'd be surprised at how quickly time flies while you're waiting for yeast to do its thing. But beyond that and a massive trip to Australia, I don't have much to show for 2009 -- except my home and my wonderful husband and my sweet dog. And now that I've written that down, it appears that I have an awful lot to show for 2009. An awful lot that counts. Here's hoping for a multitude of blessings in your life as well, dear reader.

And speaking of giving thanks, now's also the time to start talking about Thanksgiving dinner. It's time to order the turkey, to plan, to cook, to locate your spreadin'-out clothes in the back of the closet, to salivate in an inappropriate fashion. To help you plan for the big day, I've put together a collection of Stove With A House recipes that will fit in nicely on your Thanksgiving table -- whether you're hosting an army or need a dish to take to someone else's feast. Just click on the "Tasty Thanksgiving Recipes" link over there on the right and have a look. Happy cooking!

To kick off the season today, I'd like to share a recipe for twice-baked cauliflower that I dreamed up on my birthday. Husband took me to Downtown 140 for an amazing and absolutely filling multi-course extravaganza. There was an elaborate cheese course, and chicken curry spring rolls with a perfect cilantro sauce, and grilled heads of romaine with Parmigiano-Reggiano, and a rare steak for Husband, and Jamaican Blue Mountain coffee. Then there was my delectable entree: almond-crusted scallops with pomegranate served atop cauliflower mash. It was divine, and it got me thinking that I do not eat enough cauliflower.

I should be making more cauliflower mash at home, I thought while savoring my deeply caramelized scallops, especially since it is much healthier than mashed potatoes yet strikingly similar in taste and texture. But a few days later, after sending Husband to the store to pick up a head of cauliflower, I determined that I wanted something a little more exciting than a simple puree -- especially if I was to serve it during the holidays. I wanted to add just enough dairy goodness to elevate the humble cauliflower from Healthy Vegetable to Calorically Acceptable Thanksgiving Side Dish. You are planning on exercising that Thursday morning, right?

So I roasted the florets until they were brown and crispy, pureed them with butter and cream, then baked them again with panko and Manchego and a pinch of cayenne. Though Husband and I enjoyed the twice-baked cauliflower with coriander-dusted chicken paillards and a bit of sauteed spinach, it will also pair perfectly with a Thanksgiving turkey. And it will fit right in alongside the rest of the Thanksgiving side dishes, all gooey and crispy and browned in a casserole dish.

All gooey and crispy and browned in a casserole dish. I knew there was a reason I love Fall.

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TWICE-BAKED CAULIFLOWER

I like to make this dish in individual oven-proof dishes, but you can, of course, bake the whole thing in a large casserole and spoon out individual servings. I just like my tiny yellow Pyrex baking dishes and use them whenever possible.

1 head cauliflower, cut into florets
3 T. olive oil
1/2 t. black pepper
1 t. sea salt
1/2 t. dried thyme
1/2 c. heavy cream
4 T. unsalted butter
Pinch cayenne
1/2 c. panko
4 oz. Manchego cheese, shredded

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees Fahrenheit. Place the cauliflower, olive oil, black pepper, sea salt and thyme in a baking dish and toss to combine. Roast until the florets are tender and brown and crispy on the edges, about 50 minutes. Remove from the oven and cool slightly; leave the oven on.

While the cauliflower is cooling, heat the heavy cream and butter in a small saucepan over low heat until the butter is melted. Remove from the heat.

Place the cauliflower and the cream-butter mixture in a Cuisinart. Add the cayenne and process until the mixture comes together and the cauliflower is chopped into tiny pieces -- it shouldn't be completely smooth; I like a little bit of texture.

Divide the cauliflower mixture into 4 single-serve oven-proof dishes.

Top each dish with 1/8 c. of the panko and 1 oz. of the Manchego cheese. (Alternatively, if you aren't using individual baking dishes, add the entire cauliflower mixture to one large baking dish and top with the entirety of the panko and Manchego.)

Bake for 20 minutes, until the cheese is bubbly and enticing.

Makes 4 servings.

Not just on the last day of October

2009-11-02T18:51:00.000-08:00

Halloween is over. My nephews -- one a ninja, one a wizard -- have multiple cavities. I've hung up my Sue Sylvester costume, tucking the whistle and stopwatch into a drawer. I've consumed every tiny Snickers in a tri-county area. (Aside: Why do they call the tiny Snickers "fun size"? It is less fun to have a small Snickers. From now on, I shall refer to them as "penalty size.") The battery-operated purple skull lights are now 75% off at Target. Tricks, treats: your time has gone.

Except. I made some candies on Sunday, the day after Halloween. I wanted to make them for Halloween, but didn't quite get around to it. Then I decided: candy is good each day of the year, not just on the last day of October. So I made them anyway and would like to share them with you today, even though you're probably now plotting and planning for Thanksgiving dinner as thoughts of jack o'lanterns and ghosts recede like the waning hours of sunlight.

These candies are sophisticated and grown-up; a peanut butter cup for the big kids. They look a little strange, and sound a little bit like they wouldn't be any good. But they are amazing.

The dark filling is comprised of toasted black sesame seeds, regular sesame seeds, caraway, rosemary, honey and powdered sugar. I experimented with the recipe a bit -- which originally called for dark chocolate to enrobe the filling -- discovering that milk chocolate complements the complex flavors of the subtle, vaguely Middle Eastern filling much better. The dark chocolate fights it too much; milk chocolate covers the filling with a sweetness that recedes on the tongue, allowing the eater to focus on the surprising flavors inside. And if there's anything I need from a candy, it's focus.

I was expecting to have these candies on hand for awhile, as the recipe makes 24 and they keep for several weeks. But then yesterday Sister and Nephews and Mom stopped by. More than half the dish was empty by the time they were done with them, my four-year-old nephew embracing the more sophisticated flavors like a little gourmand. "I like it, Aunt Dianne. I want another one." My seven-year-old nephew wasn't quite as into it: "No offense, but I don't like it. It's my taste buds." Never let it be said those boys can't honestly articulate their thoughts.

Even though they're incredibly rich, I'm finding myself reaching for these professional-looking candies more often than I'm reaching for the leftover penalty-size Snickers. I like that they're a little strange and dark, a little like a hallowed eve. But as I've already stated, I'd be just as happy to get one of these sweets in my Christmas stocking. Or in my Easter basket. Or on Tu B'Shevat.

Homemade candy knows no season.

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SESAME BUTTER CUPS
Adapted from Karen Solomon, The San Francisco Chronicle

I found that the best way to get a really smooth and professional look for these candies was to use a squeeze bottle to dispense the chocolate.

About the black sesame seeds: If you can't find them, you can substitute regular sesame seeds. But the resulting candies won't be as dark and cool-looking. You can also use any mix of black and regular sesame seeds, as long as it adds up to the full 1 1/3 cup measure. There's a specialty spice shop in my town that carries the black sesame seeds and I was able to buy about a cup's worth for a little less than $5.

1 c. black sesame seeds
1/3 c. sesame seeds
4 t. honey
2 T. canola oil
3 T. powdered sugar
1 t. dried rosemary (or 1 1/2 t. fresh rosemary, finely chopped)
1/2 t. caraway seeds
1/2 t. kosher salt
26 1/2 oz. milk chocolate (I used 6 of Hershey's 4.4-oz. milk chocolate bars)

In a large heavy-bottomed skillet over medium heat, toast the sesame seeds for about 3 minutes, stirring frequently. Remove from the heat when the seeds start to pop; take care not to burn the sesame seeds. Allow the seeds to cool to room temperature.

In the work bowl of a food processor, combine the toasted sesame seeds, honey, canola oil, powdered sugar, rosemary, caraway seeds and salt. Blend until extremely smooth, 5-8 minutes, frequently stopping to scrape down the inside of the bowl with a rubber spatula. The filling will come together into a black paste.

Place mini cupcake liners into the wells of a muffin tin.

Take about 1 teaspoon of the sesame filling and roll it into a ball between your palms, then flatten it into a disc that will fit into the bottoms of the paper liners without touching the sides. Set the discs on a cookie sheet while you roll and shape the rest of the filling.

Place the chocolate in a heat-proof bowl set over a simmering pot of water. Allow the chocolate to melt, stirring occasionally, until it is smooth. Remove from the heat and allow to cool slightly before transferring into a squeeze bottle.

Squeeze enough chocolate to coat the bottoms of the paper liners, tapping the pan gently to smooth out the chocolate. Then squeeze a "border" of chocolate around the perimeter of the bottom of the liners.

Nestle one piece of filling into each liner.

Pipe chocolate around the sides and top of the filling. Lightly tap the pan to smooth out the chocolate; pipe in a little more chocolate to level out the candies, if necessary.

Allow to set at room temperature until the chocolate is completely firm, 12-16 hours. Do not refrigerate or freeze. Your patience will be rewarded.

Makes 24 candies that can be stored at room temperature for up to 2 weeks in an airtight container. If they last that long!

Bread Baker's Apprentice 15/43: Italian bread

2009-11-01T22:47:00.000-08:00

Today I bring you a very special episode of the Bread Baker's Apprentice challenge. No, it doesn't involve Meredith Baxter Birney and has nothing to do with that one episode of "Family Ties" where Alex P. Keaton's friend died and he spent most of the episode reciting a monologue into the camera while the kitchen set behind him faded to black.*

No, this Italian bread is very special because Husband baked it.

OK, he didn't really bake it. But he did divide the pre-ferment (in this case, a biga) into 10 equal pieces that I then could incorporate into the bread dough. When I arrived home and the biga pieces were cut and ready to go, Husband stated plainly, "See? I'm baking. You're welcome."

And am I ever glad he decided to bake. Peter Reinhart's Italian bread is amazing...simply amazing. I do not wish to overstate it, but really, this is (so far) my favorite recipe from The Bread Baker's Apprentice, hands down. It's so good that I've already made it twice this week. It is my new go-to homemade bread.

The method involves making the aforementioned biga, letting it proof, then allowing it to chill in the refrigerator at least overnight. Then you ask your husband to cut it into 10 pieces for you. Then you mix those pieces with bread flour, salt, sugar, yeast, diastatic malt powder, olive oil and water. Some mixing, some kneading, some proofing, some hearth baking, some magic.

This Italian bread is crusty on the outside, tender on the inside. It's wonderful to eat spread with soft butter, toasted with oil, black pepper and garlic powder, fried in a skillet with an over-medium egg or just torn off the loaf in big, unseemly hunks. I took two loaves to Sister's house last night to serve with her trick-or-treat night feast (this year she made chicken noodle and winter vegetable soups). Husband couldn't come along, as he was working, and it was all I could do to save him a few pieces. I've not seen two loaves of bread disappear so quickly in quite some time.

I'm very pleased Husband's foray into bread-baking turned out so well. Next, he shall learn to shape Kaiser rolls.

*I did not fully appreciate this in the 1980s, but the Keatons had a really bitchin' stove.

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The Bread Baker's Apprentice challenge does not wish for us to share Reinhart's recipes. However, even if you don't have anyone to divide your biga for you, get yourself to page 172 of the book and start working. I'm even thinking of starting a few more loaves today -- even though I baked two yesterday. Peter Reinhart's Italian bread = seriously addictive.

And I'm not the only one who thinks so. Check out some of my fellow Bread Bakers' takes on delicious Italian bread:

Paul of The Yumarama Artisan Bread Blog has helpful and lovely step-by-step photos of his Italian bread.
Phyl at Of Cabbages and King Cakes likes this Italian bread as much as I do.
Kelly of Something Shiny created some beautifully-scored artisan loaves. Seriously beautiful. Check them out!
Goth Panda's Victoria is afraid of her biga.

PS. I'm submitting this post to Yeastspotting, because of all the yeast I've personally spotted in the past year, this has been my favorite.

Heaven knows I can't make macarons at home

2009-10-27T00:06:00.000-07:00

If you've come here looking for macarons -- the Daring Bakers October challenge -- well, have a look!

They're gorgeous. One is dark chocolate and one is olive oil and vanilla with a white chocolate ganache. They were delicious. Crisp, creamy, subtly flavored and absolutely perfect. And neither of them was made by me.

In fact, neither of them was made in this hemisphere -- they are products of the delightful La Renaissance Patisserie and Cafe, a shop located in The Rocks in Sydney, Australia. I enjoyed these macarons there in early September with Mom and the entire Nott clan (even little Madeleine, just born two days ago, was there in utero while her mom snacked on an apple tart). And it's a good thing I enjoyed them then, because heaven knows I can't make macarons at home.

I tried, oh I tried. I was so excited about it, too: I chose my macaron flavors based on the delicious chocolates we sampled at another Sydney-area sweet shop, Josophan's Fine Chocolates. I made four batches of macarons, each time (futilely) refining my method in hopes that the recipe would work. First I made chocolate filled with a semi-sweet ganache spiked with ancho chili powder. Then I tried chocolate filled with a delightful pistachio creme that Husband and I found on our travels through Little Italy in the Bronx. Then I made a macaron flavored with fresh lime zest and dried basil leaves, filled with chocolate ganache. Finally, a saffron macaron filled with a white chocolate-honey ganache.

I wanted them to work so badly. So so badly. I've always wanted to make macarons and I foolishly believed that there was no recipe that I couldn't make work. Well, Dianne: meet Claudia Fleming's macarons. Claudia Fleming's macarons, this is Dianne. She will be failing at you today.

My "macarons" never developed the trademark "feet," meaning, the little ring at the base of the cookie where the batter has risen, lifting the smooth top of the cookie into a perfect little dome. Come to think of it, my tops weren't smooth, either. And my confections were nearly impossible to extract from the Silpat in one piece. The result of my day-long effort and sad waste of several expensive ingredients (including saffron, argh!) was a stack of demolished little sticky, grainy discs that in no way, shape or form resembled macarons. There was cursing. And wailing. And gnashing of teeth, rending of garments.

(Saffron "macaron" with white chocolate-honey ganache)

(Lime and basil "macaron" with chocolate ganache)

Then Husband reminded me that they still tasted good. And I checked the Daring Bakers' forum to learn that many other bakers had similar issues with this recipe. So I talked myself off the ledge. Instead of using the challenge recipe, many of my fellow in-the-know Daring Bakers turned to one of Tartelette's many macaron recipes. I will undoubtedly do the same the next time I attempt these little devils.

And there will be a next time; the macarons must not win.

++++++

You will notice I'm not including any recipes here. I don't feel right posting a recipe that I couldn't make work. If and when I do master macarons, using a different recipe, I'll be sure to write about it here. In the meantime, my only suggestion is to get yourself to a patisserie for a macaron, stat. Because they are really freaking good. When made correctly.

The 2009 October Daring Bakers' challenge was brought to us by Ami S. She chose macarons from Claudia Fleming's "The Last Course: The Desserts of Gramercy Tavern" as the challenge recipe.

Bread Baker's Apprentice 14/43: French bread

2009-10-21T22:26:00.000-07:00

It was French bread that started me on this whole bread-baking odyssey in the first place.

I took the first step back in March, when I wrote about Dad's French bread: "I can see why this recipe was one of his favorites: it is extremely simple -- fool-proof, even -- and utterly delicious. It's a great place for me to start on my Bread-Making Quest." I was determined to bake bread regularly, but I assumed that my quest would be my own quiet pursuit. I thought it would be something I did for myself and my family, maybe occasionally sharing a bread or two here in this space.

However, less than two months later, I found myself on an actual Bread-Making Quest: The Bread Baker's Apprentice challenge. Which has taught me more about bread-making in 14 recipes (so far) than I ever imagined it would. When I vowed to make my own bread all the time, I didn't really think I'd be making complex artisan recipes week in, week out. But here I am: in a position to critique Dad's tried-and-true French bread against Peter Reinhart's version. In March I thought I'd be making modest sandwich loaves each Sunday; I didn't think I'd get to the point of comparing homemade baguette recipes. That seemed a tad hardcore, beyond the casual bread-baker I thought I'd become. What a glorious turn of events!

So here I sit with three of Reinhart's French bread loaves: deep golden, crusty, fragrant. Apart from the misshapen loaf that I had to bend to make it fit on the stone (Husband nicknamed this loaf "Snakey"), these baguettes almost look like they came from a professional oven. Which is wild!

(Guess which one is Snakey.)

Reinhart's method involves making a pâté fermentée, which is a pre-ferment that in this case is in a 1:1 ratio with the final dough (meaning the pre-ferment has the same amount of flour, salt, yeast and water as the dough itself). The pâté fermentée has to sit at least overnight, so this French bread is certainly more time-consuming than Dad's recipe (which can be made in an afternoon). Reinhart's loaves are hearth-baked, meaning baked on a stone with repeated blasts of steam during the first two minutes of baking. Dad's loaves are baked alongside a pan of boiling water and the loaves themselves are brushed twice with water. The science behind both loaves is similar, but the execution and the result (in terms of the crust's appearance) are quite different. Dad's loaves are paler, not as crusty, while Reinhart's loaves are golden and shatter when bitten. Mmmm...shatter when bitten....

Anyway. Crust appearance is important, of course, but the real test is taste. And on that, I have to give props to Dad. While I might look Parisian walking down the street with one of Reinhart's loaves in my tote, I'm much happier with the flavor of Dad's bread. For Dad's is yeasty and aromatic and just a teeny eensy bit salty. Reinhart's French bread is these things, too, but in smaller measure. It just left me wanting; I had hoped it would taste as complex and beguiling as it looked, and it didn't.

Mom and Dad came over the other night to deliver some olive oil-rosemary cake (yum) to me and Husband. I was in the middle of making Reinhart's French bread: the shaped baguettes were proofing on the counter and The Bread Baker's Apprentice was open to the recipe. I noticed Dad peering over at the pages and could see his wheels turning, comparing what he was reading to his own time-tested French bread method. I knew he was thinking, "My recipe is better than this. It tastes amazing and I don't have to mess with no pâté fermentée. She thinks she is onto something here, but if she wants French bread, all she needs is that tattered old index card of mine." At the risk of inflating his ego, he is right. Though I like having Reinhart around, all I need -- in this case, at least -- is that old index card.

Advantage: Father. Well played. (And I'm not just saying that so he'll lend me his leaf blower.)

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The Bread Baker's Apprentice challenge asks that we do not share Reinhart's recipes. But since you all have the book by now, turn to page 168 and get going. Then go over here and try Dad's recipe. And let me know what you think.

Also check out some French breads made by other Apprentices:

Nicole from Pinch My Salt also baked a (slightly) misshapen loaf!
Michelle at Big Black Dog has great success with her baguettes and makes a delicious-looking cognac-flavored crostini.
Pete Eatemall eats three-quarters of one baguette while photographing it. I can totally get behind that.
Daniel from Ahrelich Gesagt compares his baguette to a Poilâne loaf, which is never a good idea.
Over at Italian Food Forever, Deb's loaves look gorgeous on her window sill.