Better for its scratches

I love a good workhorse. Especially a kitchen workhorse. Something that I can use over and over and over again in the service of good cooking or baking. Something that holds up well to years -- even decades -- of heavy use. Something utilitarian that looks good even when it's scratched. Something utilitarian that looks even better for its scratches. I'd give a wheelbarrow full of pristine All-Clad sauciers for one of my grandmother's pots. And I think there are few tangible wares more lovely than a well-seasoned cast iron skillet.

Things just taste better in cast iron. Maybe it's the whole sitting-around-the-campfire-and-playing-harmonica-under-a-starry-sky-while-the-horse-is-tied-up-over-there aesthetic. Maybe it's the sound of batter hitting screaming hot iron, dough sizzling wildly in fat. Most likely it's the nearly-smoky charred crust that a nicely seasoned cast iron pan imparts to the foodstuffs cooked within it. As much as I love the cowboy aesthetic -- and I do love the cowboy aesthetic -- I love the crusty goodness even more.

Nothing develops a better cast-iron crust than corn bread. Corn bread's rustic, toothsome, delicious texture is an even match for the tasty patina of a cast iron skillet. The batter spatters along the edges when it's poured into the preheated pan. And I can easily see myself making cornbread at a campsite; the tied-up horse would snort deeply through his nostrils to let me know that he wants a piece, too. Corn bread embodies everything I love about cooking in cast iron. It would seem corn bread was made for cast iron.

This corn bread recipe comes from Magnolia's Southern Cuisine, the cookbook from the Charleston, South Carolina, restaurant of the same name. At the restaurant (and in the book), chef Donald Barickman serves up southern and low-country standards with delectable flair. Each summer when we visit Charleston, Magnolia's serves as a beacon -- an air-conditioned, delicious beacon -- for our weary, hot, tired selves. We wander into the restaurant from sweltering E. Bay St., perhaps order a mint julep or a cool beer. We enjoy a rich lunch that is much too heavy for the meteorological conditions beyond the picture windows. We do not care; the food is too good. By the time the check comes I am already anticipating next year's visit.

It's a memorable place, made even more special by the fact that it was the site of a perfect dinner Husband and I enjoyed not long after we began dating. You know those kinds of meals: they exist through a Barbara Walters-like soft filter of happy memories and exemplify that hopeful, fluttery feeling of young love. It's no wonder Husband bought me a copy of the Magnolia's cookbook.

Charleston nostalgia aside, this is one heck of a piece of corn bread. We ate ours tonight with sauteed chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy. I plan on having a piece for breakfast, warmed and spread with a little bit of soft butter. Maybe even a teaspoon of strawberry jam spooned atop the sturdy crust.

Cast iron, I love you.

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CORN BREAD

Adapted from Magnolia's Southern Cuisine, by Donald Barickman

Given how I've gone on and on about it, you might guess that this recipe is best when cooked in a well-seasoned cast iron pan. However, it can be made in a well-oiled 9" x 13" baking pan if you don't have cast iron. But if you don't have a cast iron pan, do yourself a favor and get one. They are inexpensive and will last well into the next millennium.

In response to a commenter (hi, Jen!), I thought it might be helpful to share a little cast iron maintenance advice here: All my cast iron cookware is Lodge -- you can find it almost anywhere, including hardware stores, and it is very inexpensive. My largest skillet was only $29, if I recall correctly. When you first get it home, go ahead and give it a quick wash with hot water and dishwashing liquid, then dry it off and coat the inside of the pan with vegetable oil or shortening. Place it in a 400-degree oven for about 30 minutes. Remove the pan from the oven, let it cool and then wipe out any excess oil with a paper towel. You can go ahead and do this a few more times if you like before using it, or you can start using it right away.

A good thing to remember is that cast iron is best used in high heat situations -- on a high flame on the stove or in a very hot oven. In between uses, just wipe it clean with a paper towel and rub it with a little more vegetable oil. For a little extra cleaning, you can also sprinkle the pan with kosher salt and use it as an abrasive. Just dump out the salt and wipe clean with a paper towel and you're done. The more you use it, the more seasoned and wonderful it becomes. Just try to refrain from using lots of soap and water to clean the pan -- it will just rust and ruin the good seasoning you've got going on.

I store all my cast iron in the oven, where it's out of the way of my other cookware. It gets a little bit of extra seasoning in there, too, because my oven temp even when it's off is about 100 degrees.

2 c. coarse stone-ground yellow cornmeal

1 1/4 c. plus 2 T. all-purpose flour

1 T. plus 1 t. non-alum baking powder

1/2 t. kosher salt

5 T. sugar

4 large eggs, lightly beaten

2 c. buttermilk

5 T. unsalted butter, melted and cooled slightly

1 T. safflower or peanut oil, for oiling skillet

Preheat the oven to 425 degrees Fahrenheit. Place the rack in the top third of the oven. If you are using a cast iron skillet, as soon as the oven reaches 425, place the skillet in the oven and let it preheat. This is what makes the wonderful brown crust.

In a large bowl, whisk together the cornmeal, flour, baking powder, salt and sugar. Whisk the eggs into the buttermilk, then pour the buttermilk mixture into the dry ingredients. Using a rubber spatula, stir gently to combine. Stir in the melted butter.

Carefully remove the skillet from the oven. Using a paper towel carefully oil the skillet with the safflower or peanut oil. Pour the corn bread batter into the skillet and enjoy the wonderful sizzling. (If using a 9" x 13" pan, do not preheat it. Just oil it and pour in the corn bread batter.)

Bake for 25 minutes or until the top is brown, the center is firm and a knife or skewer inserted into the center comes out clean. Remove the corn bread from the oven and let it sit in the skillet for 8-10 minutes to cool slightly before cutting and serving.

Makes 12 nicely-proportioned wedges of corn bread.

The slightest bit inappropriate

It is a very rainy morning during the summer of 1972. My parents had just moved to Ohio from Pennsylvania and are living in an apartment while their house is being built. They had made fast friends with Jack and Luta, who live across the hall. With the exception of one other family that Mom somewhat charitably describes as "strange," Mom and Dad and Jack and Luta are the only people residing in the building. The complex is still under construction. There is a 19-year-old named Rick who is an employee of the builder and who does repair jobs on the units, but given how few units are occupied, Rick doesn't have a whole lot to do.

So it's a very rainy morning. Dad and Jack have gone off to work. Mom and Luta are trying to determine how they're going to pass the dreadfully wet day. Rick loiters about. (Given Luta's wonderful way of mothering those about whom she cares, Rick's loitering is frequently rewarded with a batch of home-baked oatmeal cookies.) Mom and Luta decide that the best way to spend the day is to lounge on the sofa, covered over with cozy blankets, talking and laughing.

Luta turns to Rick, who is standing in the doorway perhaps anticipating an oatmeal cookie. "Want to go to bed with us, Rick?" As soon as the Southern-accented words escape her mouth, Luta blushes. She covers her mouth with her hand, eyes darting mischievously around the room, and laughs as if to say, Oh my, look at what I've said! when really she meant to say it all along. A sort of gleeful feigned modesty: I am a genteel Southern lady! I would never say such a thing! But I would absolutely say such a thing. Wink.

That was the charm of Luta. She looked after everyone but was never too serious about it. Everything was fun, everything was friendly, everything was welcoming. Everything was just the slightest bit inappropriate. But everything was happy. Mom says Rick did hang out with them that day, laughing and talking while he waited for the strange family to break something in their apartment that would require his handyman services. No doubt he was snacking on Luta's oatmeal cookies the whole time.

Luta passed away in late January of this year. Even though I had not spoken with her in several years, the world just felt right with her in it. And now that she's not, it feels a little emptier. So even though it's not a rainy day and there is nary a handyman in sight, today feels like a good day to honor Luta's memory with some of her oatmeal cookies. 

We miss you, Luta. And your cookies are divine.

(A cute tiny mouse on the corner of the old recipe card.)

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LUTA'S OATMEAL COOKIES

Adapted from Luta Roberts' recipe

The recipe calls for "chopped nuts." No specific type, no specific amount. So in honor of Luta I use the only nut that I think of when I think of nuts in the context of Luta: pecans.

3 c. rolled oats

2 c. all-purpose flour

2 c. sugar

1/2 t. kosher salt

1 t. baking soda

2/3 c. unsalted butter, melted and cooled to room temperature

5 T. whole milk

1 large egg

1 c. raisins

1 c. pecans, toasted and roughly chopped

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees Fahrenheit. Place the pecans in a single layer on a baking sheet and toast until browned and fragrant, about 5 minutes. Allow the pecans to cool and then chop them coarsely.

In the bowl of an electric mixer combine the oats, flour, sugar, salt and baking soda. Mix on low to combine. Pour the melted butter into the oat mixture and mix thoroughly. Add the milk and egg and mix until the dough comes together. Add the raisins and pecans and mix briefly to combine.

Using a spring-loaded ice cream scoop, drop the dough onto a Silpat- or parchment-lined baking sheet. Roll each cookie between your palms to form into a ball. Bake for 13-14 minutes, or until the cookies are just beginning to take on a golden color. Remove from the oven and allow to rest on the baking sheet for about 5 minutes before moving to a wire rack to cool completely.

Makes about 4 1/2 dozen cookies.

Tofu schnitzel dreams

This is a sentence that has been repeated to me, or in my general direction, for the past 12 years:

"Make me that tofu schnitzel again."

It is always said by Mom, whenever anyone mentions tofu. It doesn't matter what is being said about tofu; the word itself conjures a very specific image for Mom.

"I really liked that tofu schnitzel."

I first made tofu schnitzel back in the heady days of my vegetarianism, back when I was a devoted reader of Vegetarian Times. It must have been a holiday when I first made it, because when Mom talks about tofu schnitzel she talks about how she ate all of the leftovers long after "you went back to Chicago." So I must have been home for a holiday and searching for a vegetarian addition to the celebratory meal. I made it, we ate it, Mom savored the leftovers. Then, tofu schnitzel promptly became a thing of the past. A legend that was oft spoke-of, but never again executed. I must have thrown away the issue that contained the recipe. In 1997 I did live in an apartment so small it didn't have any drawers in the "kitchen," so it's entirely possible that I considered that Vegetarian Times to be unnecessary and too bulky to store. If I had realized Mom was so smitten with the tofu schnitzel, I would have found some space.

But now it's 2009. Having been unable to fulfill Mom's tofu schnitzel dreams in the intervening years, I was thrilled one afternoon to discover Google Books. Because there it was, in all its glory: the tofu schnitzel recipe, right there in the pages of the October 1997 issue of Vegetarian Times. I called Mom and told her what I had found. I was proud and she was excited. That's a lot of emotion tied to one really easy dish.

Today was the first really nice day of late winter/early spring. The first day Mom, Sister, Nephews and I didn't need coats as we walked the dogs and rode bikes -- some with training wheels, some without -- on the path behind my house. I told Mom that after our walk was over I would be serving tofu schnitzel for lunch. Her long schnitzel-less nightmare was over.

It's a very simple recipe. Mom loves it because it contains caraway seeds. Quite a few caraway seeds. "I am a Polish girl," she reminds me. "I like caraway seeds." Today I served it with a quick pan gravy, though Mom was very quick to tell me that she is happy to eat it plain, as is. Sister thinks it would be good stop a plate of buttery noodles, whereas I'd like to enjoy it next to a generous serving of rich mashed potatoes.

 

In retrospect, I certainly should have known how to make this without the recipe. And I ended up changing the recipe so much that it only vaguely resembles the one published in Vegetarian Times. So there was little reason for us to go without for 12 years. But I didn't want to mess it up, because I didn't want to dash Mom's fond tofu schnitzel memories.

She can sleep well tonight.

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TOFU SCHNITZEL

Very loosely adapted from Vegetarian Times

2 14-oz. packages extra-firm tofu

1 c. flour

2 t. freshly-ground caraway seeds

1 t. kosher salt

3 eggs

2 1/2 c. panko

2 t. whole caraway seeds

1/4 c. vegetable oil (such as safflower), plus more if frying in batches

Line a baking sheet with several layers of paper towels. Drain the tofu and cut into 1/2-in thick slices. Place the tofu slices on the paper towels, then cover with several more layers of paper towels followed by a second baking sheet. Put something heavy, like a Dutch oven or a few cans of tomatoes, on top of the second baking sheet to press the excess moisture out of the tofu. Allow to sit for about 20 minutes, replacing the top layers of paper towels with dry ones about half-way through.

In a shallow dish, combine the flour, ground caraway seeds and kosher salt. Mix to combine. Place the eggs in a small bowl and beat with a fork or whisk. Combine the panko and whole caraway seeds and spread over a baking sheet lined with a piece of wax paper. 

Preheat the oven to 250 degrees.

Dip a piece of tofu in the egg, then in the flour, turning to coat. Dip into the egg a second time, then into the panko. Press the panko into both sides of the tofu and set aside. Repeat with the remaining pieces of tofu.

Heat the olive oil in a large skillet over medium heat. Working in batches, fry the tofu for about 3 minutes per side, or until it's golden brown and lovely. Remove to a wire rack set over a baking sheet and sprinkle lightly with kosher salt. Keep the tofu warm in the oven as you fry the rest of the tofu.

Makes 16 pieces of tofu, which can serve anywhere from 4 to 8 people depending if you serve it on its own or with noodles or mashed potatoes. If you have any leftovers, you can send them to my mom. 

My lasagna, myself

My mom's lasagna is light. Not lite, as in low-fat, but light as in airy and fluffy. She achieves remarkable lift between layers of ricotta and pasta; I do not know how she does it.

My sister's lasagna is bright and vegetal. It thrusts its flavorful tomatoes and spinach right to the front of the stage. It is fresh; it feels healthy. It screams: I am lasagna, and I contain cheese. But remember: there's also a lot of iron in this here spinach.

My lasagna is cheesy, and melty, and, well, heavy. It is hearty and rich and sort of makes you want to run a mile after you're done eating it. It is something to be savored on occasion, a dish to be enjoyed in moderation lest you wish to apply for the next cast of The Biggest Loser.

Mom's lasagna, Sister's lasagna and my lasagna are all the same recipe. It's amazing to all of us how the same ingredients in the hands of three different -- related, nonetheless! -- people can result in such distinct dishes. It's Mom's recipe originally. She taught me and Sister how to make it many years ago. In each of our hands the dish has evolved into something that reflects our personalities well: Mom likes her food to be light. She likes salad and vanilla ice cream with fresh raspberries while I find salad to be mostly a waste of time and prefer my ice cream to be chocolate laced with peanut butter cups. Sister likes her food to be healthy. She chooses a variety of fresh vegetables and healthy ingredients when she cooks for her family (even if sometimes her young sons only want pizza). She's reaching for kale or mushrooms while I'm reaching for a chunk of cheese and a heel of crusty bread. Is it any surprise that my lasagna is the richest of the bunch? I am not one for moderation, never have been. My lasagna, myself.

Back when I only knew how to make about five dishes, I knew how to make lasagna. I remember making it in my first kitchen in my apartment senior year of college. I remember having friends over for dinner and using my desk as a buffet, sauce splashing up onto my Macintosh Performa. A few years later, I remember making it for my friend Cara's boyfriend Henry after he broke his leg. I took it in a cab from my Chicago apartment to his, only one El stop away. The pan burnt my thighs as I attempted to keep the lasagna level in the back of the cab. No small feat; you know how cabbies drive.

Interestingly, now that I have a buffet that I can use as a buffet -- and now that I don't have to transport it anywhere in a taxi -- I don't make lasagna very much anymore. I'll tell you what, though: that is about to end. I probably won't be taking any to Henry, who is now Cara's husband, because they still live in Chicago while I am in Ohio. That's a long cab ride. But I will make it more often for my husband, and for Mom and Sister.*

Even though they can make their own.

*Dad, you can have some too. But my house is B.Y.O.S.: bring your own sausage.

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SPINACH LASAGNA

This lasagna makes a surprisingly easy weeknight dinner provided you have the sauce already made. I almost always have a batch of my marinara on hand -- it is a staple in my house -- so the dish comes together pretty quickly.

I use half full-fat and half part-skim ricotta, just to "lighten" it up a little. You could certainly use 30 oz. of full-fat ricotta, if you so desire.

Note: Since I first published this recipe, I have become a big fan of the no-boil lasagna noodles, specifically, those made by Barilla. They are delicious, and SO MUCH EASIER to work with than the old-fashioned boil kind. By all means, use those instead, and save yourself the hassle of cooked lasagna noodles that stick together something fierce. Just layer them, dry, in the lasagna as you're assembling it. Bake as usual.

One more tip: I have also since discovered that the easiest and cleanest way to wring the moisture out of defrosted spinach is to place it in a ricer and squeeze away. Works like a charm; doesn't stain your kitchen towels green! Pass it on.

1 lb. lasagna noodles

Olive oil, for drizzling

15 oz. ricotta

15 oz. part-skim ricotta

3 eggs

1/2 c. pecorino cheese, grated, plus more to finish

1 lb. provolone cheese, grated, divided

2 10-oz. packages frozen chopped spinach, defrosted and squeezed dry

1/4 t. freshly-grated nutmeg

1/2 t. freshly-cracked black pepper

1/2 t. kosher salt

3 c. marinara sauce

Preheat the oven to 325 degrees Fahrenheit. In a large pot of boiling salted water, cook the lasagna noodles according to the package directions. Stop the cooking about a minute shy of al dente, as the noodles will cook a little more in the oven. Strain the noodles and place them in a large bowl. Immediately drizzle with a little olive oil and mix to coat the noodles; it really is the only way to prevent them from sticking together something fierce.

In a large bowl, mix together both ricotta cheeses, eggs, pecorino, 1 1/4 c. of the provolone, spinach, nutmeg, black pepper and salt. Stir with a wooden spoon to combine.

(I love the way the inside of a nutmeg looks.)

Place a ladle-full of sauce in the bottom of a 13" x 9" oven-proof baking dish. Swirl to coat the bottom of the pan. Place a layer of noodles on top of the sauce, then a layer of the ricotta mixture. I like to use a spring-loaded ice cream scoop to place the ricotta mixture in the pan, then I spread it with an offset spatula. Mom does no such fancy thing; she uses a spoon.

Spoon a layer of marinara over the ricotta mixture, followed by another layer of noodles. Repeat this order -- noodles, ricotta, then marinara -- ending with noodles. (You might have a few noodles left over.) Top the lasagna with a layer of marinara, then sprinkle with the remaining provolone and a few tablespoons of pecorino.

Place the lasagna on a baking sheet and bake for 40-50 minutes, until the cheese is browned and the lasagna is bubbly. Remove from the oven and allow it to sit for about 5 minutes before cutting and serving.

Serves 6.

Dinner enough

On Tuesday and Thursday evenings I ride horses. Well, one horse in particular: a big ol' moody quarter horse named Max who has one gray hair in his mane and a penchant for snorting at me if I don't give him a mint fast enough. He is a good boy, a patient boy, and I am glad he lets me sit on his back two hours a week. He is teaching me a lot. He just keeps going in a circle around the arena while I figure out how to stand my trot and work on my ankle strength and balance while two-pointing. I wonder if he knows how much he is helping me. Each time I lead him back to his stall I try to tell him, but he just snorts and runs past me to get to his hay. 

I suppose we have more in common than just the gray hair.

I love the time I spend riding. But by the time I get home on Tuesdays and Thursdays I rarely have the energy to cook dinner. Which is not so much of an issue when Husband's home, because I can easily cajole him into cooking for me. He has even started doing the dishes. I come home, change out of my breeches and into my sweats and...hello couch. I hear the pots and pans rattling around the other room and know that soon I will be presented with a delicious bowl of something.

But Husband is out of town this week. Which means if I want to eat dinner, I have to put forth the effort all on my own. This doesn't seem like too much of an issue, considering that cooking is sort of my thing. But people, horseback riding is tiring. It's not just sitting while the horse does all the work. It is aerobic and quite a workout for the legs and feet. When I got home tonight it was a heck of a lot easier to snack on some easy-to-make small bites rather than cook a meal. Sometimes I prefer "picking," as my mother would call it, in place of a proper dinner.

I am grateful that I have a well-stocked spice pantry, for when occasions like tonight strike I am ready. When I was in Washington, DC, in January on a business trip, my friend/coworker and I ate at a Lebanese restaurant one night. We ordered six or seven small dishes and shared. It was a great meal full of the kinds of flavors I love: spicy falafel, earthy hummus, warm fresh-baked pita, tangy fattoush. One of these small dishes really stood out: feta cheese rolled in zatar and served alongside a fresh heap of tomatoes, onions and olives. The next day, during the morning session of the work seminar, I scrawled such phrases as "zatar-rolled feta" and "don't forget thinly-sliced onions" right there in the margin next to "check out Department of Justice Financial Guide" and "consulting fees --> allowable cost?" (My work is scintillating.)

So anyway. Back to tonight. I turned to my aforementioned well-stocked spice pantry and made a batch of zatar (you can also buy zatar, but if I have the spices on hand I enjoy making my own). I cubed some feta, sliced a decent but still sub-par by summer's standards tomato, and ate dinner. Well, "dinner."

But when my dogs are barking because my horse was trotting, "dinner" is dinner enough.

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ZATAR-ROLLED FETA

This little delicacy is really not much of a recipe, but more of an idea. And sometimes ideas are even better than recipes; they're often so simple you wonder why you didn't think of that. But you're glad someone did.

UPDATE: It looks like what I've made here is a variation on a dish called shanklish. I learn something new each day! Thanks to Dad and his friend Fahim for the clarification.

1 T. sesame seeds, toasted

1/4 c. ground sumac

2 T. dried thyme

2 T. dried oregano

1 t. kosher salt

**Alternatively, you can use 1/4 c. pre-mixed zatar.

1 large tomato, cut into wedges

1/2 medium onion, sliced thinly

1/2 c. kalamata olives

Sea salt

Freshly-cracked black pepper

2 T. olive oil, plus more for drizzling

4 oz. feta cheese, cubed

Toast the sesame seeds in a dry skillet over low heat until brown and fragrant, about five minutes. Stir frequently and keep and eye on them so they won't burn.

In a small bowl, combine the sumac, thyme, oregano, toasted sesame seeds and kosher salt. Mix well. Place about 1/4 c. of this mixture into a shallow bowl; store the rest in a spice jar or small mason jar for later use.

Slice the tomatoes and onions and arrange on a plate or board with the kalamata olives. Drizzle the tomatoes and onions with olive oil and sprinkle with sea salt and black pepper to taste.

Put 2 T. olive oil in a shallow dish. Dip each feta cube in the olive oil, then roll in the zatar. You don't have to cover all sides of the feta cube with the zatar; two or three sides will do. Serve the feta alongside the vegetables, rounding it out with a nice piece of crusty bread if you so desire. Even better: dip the bread in the oil and give it a drag through the zatar, too. Yum.

Serves 2, or more if part of a larger snacky spread.

I think you should make these

Does it ever happen to you that you see something, or someone mentions something, that you haven't seen or thought about in a very long time? And you think to yourself, with barely contained glee, oh yeah! That reminds me of my childhood! I remember that! It's like a memory that had gone completely dark long ago is again illuminated by the bright light of nostalgic recognition. So it is that songs, books, toys, food -- ahem, baked goods -- emerge from the recesses of your mind and take you back to very specific, and happy, times and places.

The other day Mom mentioned a delicate, thin, jam-filled cookie that she used to make all the time when I was little. I don't recall ever making them with her, but I do remember that they were a favorite in our house. Then one day she didn't make them anymore. I'm sure there wasn't a reason, they just were no longer a regular part of what came out of her kitchen. I forgot about them completely over the course of the past two decades. Indeed, they did not occur to me even recently, when I've been spending a lot of time and mental energy gathering favorite childhood recipes for this blog. They were just gone.

That was, until Mom started talking about them last week. It was like a cartoon light bulb appeared over my head, you know, with like five or six squiggly lines emanating from it. As she talked about these jam-filled cookies, I could picture them like no time had passed. I could see their pretty scalloped edges and almond-flecked dough dressed in the thinnest cloak of powdered sugar glaze. I could see the jam oozing out from the sandwiched centers. I could feel their crumbly sandy texture between my fingers. I'm pretty sure Mom could see and feel all this, too, because she went home, rifled through her recipe box, came back with the recipe card, handed it to me and said, "I think you should make these."

Hint, hint.

(This cookie is sticking out its tiny jam-tongue at you.)

The recipe comes from a dear friend, Diane Chase. The Chases lived across the street from us when I was growing up, and they were just the coolest family. Well, I suppose they still are the coolest family, but with five adult children and too many grandchildren to count, they are scattered all over the country and we don't get to see each other save family photos sent around at Christmastime. The recipe calls for "grated unblanched almonds," and since Mrs. Chase didn't yet have a Cuisinart when she originally shared this recipe with Mom, she would quite literally grate them, one by one, on a box grater. Now, I have two Cuisinarts and nearly a pound of almond meal in the freezer, but out of nostalgia and respect for those pre-food processor days I grated my almonds on a microplane when I made these cookies today. It's a little tedious, to be sure, but it's really not that bad. Gives you time to reflect while your grate nuts down to your knuckles. Gives you time to catch up on your TiVoed episodes of RuPaul's Drag Race.

Taste-wise, the almond grating is completely worth it. A few drags across the microplane transform a whole almond into a small pillowy heap of fluffy nut-shavings. The texture is very different from ground almond meal, which holds onto some of its crunch. Grated almonds, I have learned, sort of disappear into a pile of soft almond flavor. Which means they work perfectly in this simple cookie, fully imparting their almond essence while leaving the rest of the cookie to bake into a delicate round with no almond pieces to compromise the buttery flakiness. The depth of flavor is remarkable considering the few humble ingredients. You look at this cookie and you think, "Ah, nothing special." But then you taste it. And you savor its texture. Thank you, grated almonds.

I haven't had this flavor in my mouth for some 20 years. Yet it's like I was eating these cookies yesterday. Mom came over right away to have some.

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FABULOUS FILLED COOKIES

This buttery dough needs a night in the refrigerator, so be sure to start these cookies the day before you wish to serve them.

Use your very favorite jam to fill these cookies. Mrs. Chase and Mom used currant. My very favorite is strawberry, from Greaves in Niagara-on-the-Lake, Ontario.

1 c. grated unblanched almonds

1 lb. unsalted butter, at room temperature

8 oz. superfine sugar

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

1/4 t. vanilla

1/8 t. kosher salt

About 1 c. jam or preserves

1 c. powdered sugar

2 T. water

Grate the almonds using a microplane or the fine side of a box grater. Alternatively, you can chop them finely in a food processor or use almond meal, but the texture of the finished cookie will be different.

In the bowl of an electric mixer fitted with the paddle attachment, cream the butter and sugar. Add the flour gradually and mix very well. Add the nuts, vanilla and salt and mix again to combine. Cover the bowl with a piece of wax paper and a tea towel and refrigerate overnight.

Preheat the oven to 250 degrees Fahrenheit.

Work only with handfuls of dough at a time. Warm the handful of dough between your hands. On a very well-floured surface, roll out the dough until it's about 1/8-inch thick. Cut using a 2-inch round cookie cutter. I use the same cutter Mom used, which has a lovely scalloped edge.

Place cookies on an ungreased baking sheet. Bake for 25 minutes (the cookies should not take on any color). Cool on the baking sheet for about 5 minutes, then remove to a wire rack to cool completely.

Mix together the powdered sugar and water to make a simple glaze. Place about 1/2 t. of jam on half of the cookies, then sandwich together with the other half. Drizzle the tops of the cookies with the glaze. Then, savor.

Makes about 36 little reminders of childhood.

Those in-between days

I did not mean to be absent for so long. I had a grand and well-intentioned plan to share an interestingly-titled dish, "naked ravioli," with you earlier this week. But as gorgeous as it looked in the cookbook and as unique its moniker, the final result -- while alarmingly delicious -- amounted to little more than a bowl of ravioli filling.

A tasty bowl of ravioli filling, to be sure, but not the kind of recipe that is easily shared. It just didn't work and I couldn't, in good faith, pass it along to you.

So a few days passed, post-less, until Saturday arrived. I woke up this morning to driving rain on the roof, which -- though it makes for muddy, muddy dog paws -- is a nice change of pace from the past few frigid, snowy months. I peered out the bedroom window at the water gushing over the gutters and spied a squirrel clinging desperately to one of the smaller branches on the huge old oak in the front yard. It seemed like a good day to stay inside and make soup.

So I sought out an old friend, Mollie Katzen, whose The Enchanted Broccoli Forest was the first cookbook that I purchased on my own as a real-life, cooking adult. It is a gorgeous book and if you're not familiar with it, I strongly encourage a trip over to Amazon. I love the hand-written and -illustrated pages; they make every vegetarian recipe in the book look like The Most Delicious Recipe You've Ever Seen. The narrative at the beginning of the book is peppered with useful categories of advice, titled with such quirky phrases as "questions and answers pertaining to technicalities of baking bread" and "a pep talk for wilted saladmakers." So informative, so charming.

Galician garbanzo soup is illustrated with the cutest little precise illustrations of chickpeas. There is also a drawing of a little cube, around which stretch the words, "actual size of diced whatever." Since I've been eating a ton of chickpeas lately -- every dish I make seems loaded with the little beauties -- this soup seemed like a perfect lunch for this rainy Saturday. And it was. Husband and I lapped up the hearty soup and even my Dad, who rang the doorbell at about 3:00 for a short visit, uttered the following statement before he even said hello: "Saffron. I smell saffron." Mother later clarified: "No, he's smelling cumin." She certainly knows more about him than he does.

Dad could have been smelling either, because this colorful soup contains both. An interesting mix of spices elevates what could otherwise be an ordinary bean and vegetable affair into something very tasty and unique. Perfect for those in-between days that aren't cold but aren't hot. Perfect when the rain pelts against the windows.

I bet that squirrel wishes he had a bowl.

++++++

GALICIAN GARBANZO SOUP

Adapted from The Enchanted Broccoli Forest, by Mollie Katzen

This soup would be great with chicken or turkey stock substituted for the water. However, given the vegetarian spirit of Broccoli Forest, I decided to leave well enough alone.

3 15-oz. cans of chickpeas

4 1/2 c. water

2 T. olive oil, plus more for drizzling

2 heaping c. chopped onion

6 garlic cloves, minced and divided

1 potato, diced (about 1 1/2 c.)

2 medium carrots, diced

2 stalk celery with leafy tops, diced

1 1/2 t. kosher salt

1 bay leaf

1 t. dry mustard

2 t. ground cumin

1/4 t. saffron

2 t. dried basil

1/4 t. freshly-cracked black pepper

1/8 t. cayenne

1/2 c. peas (fresh or frozen)

3 T. red wine vinegar

1 medium-size tomato, peeled, seeded and minced

Drain and thoroughly rinse the chickpeas. Place about 2/3 of them in a food processor with 2 c. of the water. Puree and set aside.

Heat the oil in a large pot or Dutch oven. Add the onion, half the garlic, potato, carrot, celery and salt and cook over medium heat for about 10 minutes, stirring frequently.

Add the chickpea puree, the remaining water, chickpeas plus all the seasonings. Bring to a boil, then lower the heat, cover and simmer for about 30 minutes, stirring occasionally.

Stir in the remaining garlic, peas, vinegar and tomato. Simmer about 5 minutes more and serve with a drizzle of olive oil and a big hunk of bread.

Yields 6 servings.