Bread Baker's Apprentice 4/43: brioche

I would like to say that this past week was about brioche. While nominally correct -- as the fourth recipe in The Bread Baker's Apprentice challenge was, indeed, brioche -- what the week was really about was butter.

This week was also about needing to start a focused running program, now more than ever.

You see, in The Bread Baker's Apprentice Peter Reinhart presents three versions of brioche, a tender enriched bread replete with, you guessed it, butter. He gives us "rich man's brioche," which incorporates an entire pound (that's four sticks) of butter into the dough. Then there's "middle-class brioche," with two sticks. Then, naturally, "poor man's brioche," with a mere one and one-half sticks of butter. Now, I am not really one to require extra butter. It would not be any sort of tragedy if I went down a few sizes. But I had never made brioche before and I am staunchly of the opinion that if you're going to do something, do something. And so it was that I lifted four sticks of butter out of the refrigerator and left them to assume room temperature on the kitchen counter. I would be going rich man's.

So on Husband's recommendation I plan to follow the beginner's running program in The Runner's Handbook, as it -- unlike several "couch to 5K" programs that have appeared in "Runner's World" magazine that assume you can already run for 20 minutes -- is truly designed for beginning runners. Meaning, runners that currently do not run. At all. Except when being chased. And maybe sometimes not even then.

I made my brioche over the course of two days. The first day I mixed the dough -- which includes yeast, the aforementioned butter as well as five eggs -- and spread it onto a parchment-lined baking sheet for its overnight rest in the refrigerator. When I took it out the next day to shape the loaves, what I found was a "bread dough" that looked an awful lot like a "big cold slab of buttercream." There is no way on earth this is going to rise, I thought to myself. How is it possible that a big stick of butter can rise? I mean, really. But I soldiered on. I shaped the dough into 14 petites brioches à tête and placed them into my cute teeny brioche molds, which really are too precious for words. I also shaped a loaf to fit my larger brioche mold, as well as a sandwich loaf. I left everything at room temperature, loosely covered in plastic wrap, to rise, keeping my fingers crossed that somehow the valiant yeast would still be able to do its business ensconced in a mass of butter.

(Please rise.)

(They rose!)

The Runner's Handbook outlines a specific schedule designed to build up the beginning runner's stamina and endurance to the point of running comfortably for 20 minutes before moving onto the next program. I realize this goal of running for 20 minutes is somewhat laughable, considering that Husband ran a whole lot longer than 20 minutes when he finished the Cleveland Marathon a few weeks ago. But Husband will be the first to tell you that you have to start somewhere, and as long as you're moving, you're well on your way.

You know what? Always trust Peter Reinhart. The brioche rose magnificently, and baked to a golden, buttery shade of yellow. As I popped them out of their molds I felt like I was in a bakery, like a for-real, quality bakery. This challenge came along at the perfect time for me; I had vowed to make all our bread from scratch anyway, and working my way through Reinhart's book could not provide a better education in the art and science of bread-baking. Each week I am stunned by what comes out of the oven -- chalk it up to Peter's superb instruction and richly informative narrative.

It starts out simply enough: run a minute, walk a minute. Then the next day, run two minutes, walk a minute. And so on. Keep your heart rate up for 30 minutes. Perspire, but don't push yourself so hard that you can't maintain a light conversation with your running buddy. Most important of all: run five days a week. Make it part of your day. When it's put like that, who wouldn't want to start a running program?

Mom took several of the petites brioches à tête home with her and ended up serving a few of them, cut into chunks, over scoops of vanilla ice cream with fresh strawberries and blueberries. I ate a few of them plain -- they are so buttery they don't need any topping (though I wouldn't turn up my nose at a spoonful of blackberry jam). The next day I filled a few with turkey, homegrown arugula and a little bit of mayo for a perfect lunch. I used the larger molded loaf to make French toast for Sunday breakfast, dunking the brioche slices into a cinnamony batter and serving it with pure maple syrup and a few links of turkey sausage. I carefully wrapped and re-wrapped the brioche sandwich loaf and froze it. It shall live to see another buttery day.

So as I said, I have been meaning to start this running program for several weeks now. In fact, it was May 18 (the day after the Cleveland Marathon, newly inspired by Husband's feat) that I vowed to myself that I would do it this time. It is now June 7, and I have baked a pound of butter into a few loaves of brioche. If I didn't have a good excuse before (and oh, how I did), I really do now.

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The Bread Baker's Apprentice challenge asks that we do not share specific recipes. If, however, you have not yet started your running program and wish to bake one last rich treat (or if you are a runner and can maybe afford some extra calories from brioche), go ahead and turn your copy to page 123. Start bringing your butter to room temperature, and enjoy.

(b) you make some arugula pesto

I usually start my arugula outdoors in late April. Late April in Northeast Ohio is still cool, but spring is starting to make herself known: the sun we forgot existed during the frigid winter manifests itself again and the spring flowering bulbs begin to peek out of the garden soil, their bright colors hinting at the season to come. You see, arugula (lettuce, too) loves cooler temperatures and thrives when the sun is shining but the air is a teeny bit brisk. And if it gets too brisk, I simply cover the plantings with a big bed sheet, tucking them in for a cozy overnight rest. By late May I am usually chomping on fresh, tender and extremely locally grown arugula leaves.

(Jet stretches and yawns near the freshly-picked arugula.)

But not this year. Spring was much too cold this year, even for the cool-loving arugula. Winter was all, I am totally not going anywhere, suckers. Plant at your own peril. It snowed at the end of April. And though I frantically -- and with great and misguided warm-weather anticipation -- installed a window unit air conditioner in our guest bedroom so our Australian friends would not swelter during their visit, when they got here I found myself showing them the location of the extra blankets and turning on the furnace. The tomatoes, peppers, herbs and flowers that I started indoors from seed in mid-March were, by mid-May, undergoing a daily ritual wherein Husband and Matt (aforementioned Australian friend) would carry all of the seedlings outside in the morning so they could soak up the warm-enough sun during the day, only to schlep them all back into the safe warmth of the house after the sun went down and the air chilled. Twelve or so trays of seedlings: in, out, in, out, in, out, in out. Here's a tip: It's fun and easy to start plants from seed if you have people to transport them to and fro for you based on environmental conditions! I recommend importing at least one of these people from Australia!

Definitely too cold for the arugula.

So, what would have been planted in April did not get sowed until May. This later planting certainly had its pros and cons. Pro: Planting later meant Dad had enough time to construct the lettuce frames that I gently and quietly and maybe repeatedly mentioned that I'd like to have. Said lettuce frames are totally awesome and innovatively constructed, faced with cedar and extending off the back porch rail.

(As you can see, these lettuce frames cannot be carried inside in case of a frost.)

Cons: Planting in May meant no arugula-chomping in May. The arugula-chomping would have to to wait. But I guess that is a pro, after all, because here I am eating arugula in June. And really, who cares in what month arugula is eaten? Especially if you've grown it yourself? Exactly.

So now it is June and I have a plethora of arugula. What to do with it all? Quite clearly I cannot countenance any of it going to waste. Shall I eat many salads? There must be something more interesting than that. The answer, I've found, lies in a two-pronged strategy for Responsible Arugula Dissemination and Consumption: (a) You give some arugula to your mother; rather, you turn her loose on the back porch with a pair of herb snips and tell her she can take what she can carry; then, (b) you make some arugula pesto.

This pesto is a study in opposites: rich and creamy but also bright and light, with reddish flecks of toasted almond bringing a lovely contrasting color to the sauce. Tonight I made three batches. Husband and I consumed half a batch, with the remainder going into the refrigerator for the (near) future. I was going to freeze some of it but, really, we are so totally going to eat all of it in the next week. I just have a feeling about these kinds of things.

Take that, long cold winter! I grew the arugula after all, despite your blustery protestations. Better late than never.

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ARUGULA-ALMOND PESTO

1/3 c. whole almonds, toasted

1 c. tightly-packed arugula

1/3 c. tightly-packed fresh flat-leaf parsley

1 clove garlic

6 T. unsalted butter, at room temperature

1 c. Pecorino cheese, grated, plus more to garnish

1 T. freshly-squeezed lemon juice

2/3 c. olive oil

1 lb. pasta (I like long pasta with pesto, such as spaghetti, angel hair or fettuccine)

Preheat the oven to 325 degrees Fahrenheit. Spread the almonds on a baking sheet in a single layer and toast until golden brown and fragrant, about 8 minutes. Remove from oven and allow to cool.

In the bowl of a food processor, combine the arugula, parsley, garlic, butter, cheese and lemon juice. Process until the ingredients are roughly chopped. With the food processor on, drizzle in the olive oil. Scrape down the sides of the processor and process a few seconds longer to incorporate everything into a paste. Place about half of the pesto into a serving bowl; set aside. (Store the remaining half-batch of pesto in the refrigerator or freezer; see below for a few tips.)

Bring a large pot of salted water to a boil and cook the pasta to al dente according to the package directions. Set a strainer or colander over a liquid measuring cup; drain the pasta, reserving some of the cooking liquid. Toss the pasta with the pesto in the serving bowl, adding a little of the pasta water if the sauce doesn't seem loose enough. I usually add about 1/4 cup of the pasta water.

Serve with a generous sprinkling of Pecorino cheese.

Each batch of pesto makes enough to dress about 2 lbs. of pasta. We usually cook 1 lb. at a time at our house, which theoretically serves 2-3 people. I said "theoretically." It really only serves 2. Anyway. We use half a batch of pesto on 1 lb. of pasta, then store the rest for later.

A few storage notes: To store, place the leftover pesto in an airtight container. Push a piece of plastic wrap directly onto the surface of the pesto then cover with the lid of the container (this helps prevent the pesto from turning an unsatisfying shade of brown).

You can also freeze the pesto; I recommend doing so in ice cube trays so you can use just what you need without thawing the whole batch. Regardless if you're using leftover pesto that was stored in the refrigerator or freezer, do not heat it up before using it. Let it come to room temperature, then use reserved pasta cooking water to warm the pesto as you mix it with the cooked pasta.

Boil the potatoes in vinegar

We are fond of saying that Mom only has to hear the title of a recipe -- to the exclusion of the ingredients or amounts or methods -- in order to cook something delicious. In fact, even if she does have access to the specific recipe, she will often shun it, claiming that she has no time or patience for such directives. She will cook by feel, and by whatever's in the fridge or pantry.

The other day, however, she took it a step further. For the other day she overheard two women discussing just the first step in a recipe. Mom had no idea what the recipe was, or what the finished product was to be. All she heard was:

"Boil the potatoes in vinegar."

Mom was intrigued. Were the vinegar-boiled potatoes to be cut up and used in a tangy potato salad? A vinegary mash? Pre-vinegared chips, to go along with a helping of battered and fried fish? She had no idea. So she wrote the rest of the recipe herself.

On Memorial Day, to go along with various turkey, salmon and beef burgers, Mom boiled some potatoes in vinegar. Then she sliced them, tossing them with olive oil, fresh minced garlic, salt and pepper. She handed them to Dad, who grilled them in his trusty grill basket. They were lightly charred, with a creamy interior that tasted of vinegar without being overpowering. They were an unassuming lot, looking up from their serving platter as if to say, I know I look like plain grilled potatoes. But I am not just plain grilled potatoes. You will want to try me. Wink. Even though these potatoes were part of a spread that included many carbohydrates -- potato and macaroni salads, not to mention the big thick burger buns -- they were gone in no time flat. 

I am certain that it does not matter what those two ladies' actual recipe was. Their conversation sparked the spontaneous creation of a dish that could well become a summer cookout staple in my family. I would thank them for it, but who I really need to thank is Mom.

Eavesdropping, recipe-bucking Mom.

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VINEGARED AND GRILLED POTATOES

Mom says to put the potatoes in a pot and then "cover them with vinegar until one of the potatoes is just sticking out of the vinegar a little bit." Scientific and exacting, that mother of mine. I find that if you use a medium saucepan, about three cups of vinegar will just about cover four yukon gold potatoes. 

I like a lot of char on my grilled foods, but of course, grill them to your liking.

4 yukon gold potatoes

3 c. apple cider vinegar

2 cloves garlic, minced

1/4 c. olive oil

1 1/2 t. kosher salt

1/2 t. freshly-cracked black pepper

Sea salt, to taste

Place the potatoes in a medium saucepan. Add the vinegar -- it should just cover the potatoes. Bring to a boil and cook uncovered over medium-high heat for 20-25 minutes. You should be able to pierce the potatoes easily with a fork, but they shouldn't be mushy. Drain the potatoes and allow them to cool.

When you can comfortably handle the potatoes, slice them into rounds about 1/4-inch thick. Place in a large bowl with the garlic, olive oil, salt and pepper. Toss to combine.

Cook the potatoes on the grill (or indoors in a grill pan). You can cook them directly on the grill, or use a grill basket if you have one. Cook, turning often, for 10-15 minutes, until the potatoes develop a nice char and color.

 

Serve with a sprinkling of sea salt to taste.

Serves 4.

Bread Baker's Apprentice 3/43: bagels

I am not a huge bagel person. Check that, I was not a huge bagel person. I am a huge bagel person now.

Thank you, Peter Reinhart.

Prior to this weekend -- the first time I made bagels at home, from scratch -- I generally did not waste my time on bagels. They were always just a big mass of dough, requiring a lot of chewing and not a ton of payoff. The possible exceptions being cinnamon-sugar bagels, which are almost a dessert, and bagels from Husband's New York hometown, loaded high with egg salad. But other than that, yeah. Give me a doughnut, an egg, even an English muffin. I'll pass on the bagels.

But then this weekend happened: week three of The Bread Baker's Apprentice challenge, which brought us bagels. As with all his recipes, Peter Reinhart shares with us the reasons behind the choices he makes with his bread formulas -- we get to learn exactly what makes an incredible bagel incredible. In this case, it is a handful of specialty ingredients and a day or so of patient proofing that allow the home baker to replicate that quality bagel-shop taste.

The handful specialty ingredients: high-gluten flour and diastatic malt powder. A quick trip over to King Arthur Flour's Web site and a few days later, I had nine pounds of the high-gluten, hard-to-find-in-regular-groceries flour sitting right on my front porch, along with a bag of malt powder and hell, why not, a dough whisk.

The day or so of patient proofing: Peter's recipe involves a stretchy, bubbly sponge that requires a two-hour rest, which is then used to make a stiff dough that must be kneaded diligently to develop the gluten. After the bagels are shaped, they head off into the refrigerator for a chilly overnight stay, which allows enzymes in the dough to release their flavors. 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.

Husband helped me with the boiling and the addition of the toppings -- we made four plain, two poppy seed, two with a mixture of poppy seeds and kosher salt, two sesame seed and two garlic.

(Husband is prepared with his odoriferous yet delicious garlic topping.)

I called Mom and informed her that there were freshly-baked bagels cooling in the kitchen and this was her response: "I will be right over. I am five minutes away. I was going to do something else but I am hungry." Husband dug right into his garlic bagel while Mom and I went for the sesame seed. The bagels were chewy, with a perfect crust and a faintly nutty, vaguely sweet, complex bready flavor. Within moments my batch of 12 bagels was down to five.

And I had become a bagel person.

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The Bread Baker's Apprentice challenge asks that we do not share the recipes from Reinhart's book. But if you want to become a bagel person, procure a copy of the book and turn to page 115.

"I need to make a strudel."

During this past weekend, over the Memorial Day holiday, I vocalized a constant refrain: "I need to make a strudel. I need to make a strudel." I was like a broken record; family members were all, Go make your strudel and shut up about it already! Trouble was, this past weekend I also needed to plant the tomato garden, help Sister with her vegetable garden, make a loaf of Greek celebration bread, go shopping with Mom (important!), get malts with Mom on the way to the shops (even more important!), walk the dog, go to a parade and participate in no fewer than two cookouts. So while I was planting, baking, shopping, malt-slurping, dog-walking, parade-going and cooking out, I kept thinking, When am I going to make a strudel? Those Daring Bakers wait for no one.

(Disclaimer: I totally get that everyone is busy. It's not just me. I'm willing to bet that 95% of you Daring Bakers out there also struggled to find time for strudel. [The other 5% of you are wonderful planners and completed your strudel-making at the beginning of the month! Oh, how I strive to be like you....])

And so it was that on Tuesday night, the last evening before the Daring Bakers-mandated posting date, after my horseback riding lesson, after dinner out at the local Thai restaurant, I made my strudel. Talk about taking it right down to the wire. But I am not in this group to mess around; I am here to learn new things, to challenge myself, to roll out dough until it is thin enough that I can read the pages of The Bread Baker's Apprentice through it. I am not in this group to skip challenges because I got too busy drinking chocolate malts.

The May Daring Bakers challenge was hosted by Linda of make life sweeter! and Courtney of Coco Cooks. They chose apple strudel from the recipe book Kaffeehaus: Exquisite Desserts from the Classic Cafes of Vienna, Budapest and Prague, by Rick Rodgers.

Though our gracious hosts this month stated that we had creative control over the filling (the dough itself was the required element of the challenge), I decided to be non-adventurous and go with the standard apple filling per the original recipe. There is something about apples and cinnamon and sugar and thin crisp pastry that just, well, kind of makes my mouth water. I thought seriously about subbing some seasonal and gorgeous strawberries, but my brain kept going back to tart apple slices and rum-soaked raisins. Maybe it's because it's chilly and raining today. Who knows. What I know: the apple filling just felt right.

The only conceivable drawback to this recipe is the fact that it is best enjoyed on the day it is baked. And since I baked well into the wee hours, no one was awake to come over and share. More for me, I suppose. I do deserve it -- yes? -- after all that gardening I did in the hot sun this weekend.

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APPLE STRUDEL

Adapted from Kaffeehaus: Exquisite Desserts from the Classic Cafés of Vienna, Budapest and Prague, by Rick Rodgers

For the strudel dough:

1 1/3 c. unbleached flour

1/8 t. kosher salt

7 T. water, plus more if needed

2 T. vegetable oil, plus more for coating the dough

1/2 t. cider vinegar

For the apple filling:

1/2 c. walnuts, lightly toasted and coarsely chopped

2 lbs. apples, peeled, cored and cut into 1/4-inch slices (I used a combination of Braeburn, Granny Smith and Gala)

2 T. freshly-squeezed lemon juice

2 T. golden rum

3 T. raisins

1/4 t. cinnamon

1/3 c. plus 1 T. sugar

1/2 c. unsalted butter, melted and divided

1 1/2 c. panko

First, make the dough. Combine the flour and salt in the bowl of an electric mixer fitted with the paddle attachment. Combine the water, oil and vinegar in a liquid measuring cup. With the mixer on low speed, add the water/oil mixture to the flour mixture to make a soft dough. Add a little more water if the dough is too dry.

Remove the dough from the mixing bowl and knead on an unfloured surface until the dough forms a ball that is slightly rough in texture, about 3 minutes. Then, knead an additional 2 minutes, occasionally picking up the dough ball and throwing it down hard on the work surface. I am not certain of the reason for this, but who am I to mess with strudel method? Plus, it's kind of fun.

Transfer the dough ball to a plate and lightly oil the top of the dough. Cover the dough tightly with plastic wrap and let stand at room temperature for 30-90 minutes (longer is better).

While the dough is resting, make the filling. Preheat the oven to 325 degrees Fahrenheit. Toast the walnuts in a single layer on a baking sheet until lightly browned, about 7 minutes. Remove and set aside to cool.

Combine the apples and lemon juice in a medium bowl; toss and set aside. Mix the rum and raisins in a small bowl. Place the cinnamon and sugar in another small bowl and whisk to combine. Heat 3 T. of the butter in a large skillet over medium heat. Add the panko and cook, stirring, until golden and toasted, about 3 minutes. Set aside to cool completely.

When the dough has rested, assemble the strudel. Place the rack in the upper third of the oven and preheat to 400 degrees Fahrenheit. Line a baking sheet with a Silpat or parchment paper.

Cover your work area with cheesecloth or a clean tablecloth. (It is best if you have a work area that you can walk around, such as a table, kitchen island or peninsula.) Dust the cloth with flour, and lightly flour a rolling pin. Place the dough in the middle of the cloth and roll it out as much as you can. Pick up the dough by the edge and let its weight stretch it -- the dough is surprisingly resilient and stretches nicely.

When you can't stretch the dough by lifting anymore, put the dough back on the work surface. Pick up the edge of the dough and place it on the backs of your hands, stretching gently as you walk around the perimeter of the dough. Keep stretching the dough until it measures about 1 1/2 feet by 2 feet and is tissue-thin. Don't worry if the dough tears a little -- it won't matter once you roll up the strudel. The dough is now ready to be filled.

Gently brush it with 3 T. of the remaining melted butter, then sprinkle the buttered dough with the toasted panko.

Spread the walnuts about 3 inches from the short edge of the dough in a 6-inch wide strip.

Combine the apples, the rum-raisin mixture and the cinnamon-sugar mixture in a large bowl. Spread the apple mixture over the walnuts.

Fold the short edge of the dough over the filling. Lift the cheesecloth/tablecloth at the short edge of the dough so that the strudel rolls over onto itself. Roll gently, using the cloth, until the dough is completely wrapped around the filling.

Transfer the strudel to the prepared baking sheet, using the cheesecloth/tablecloth as a sort of "sling" to lift it onto the sheet. Curve it into a horseshoe to fit on the baking sheet and fold the ends under. Brush the strudel with the remainder of the melted butter.

Bake for 30 minutes, or until the strudel is a deep, golden brown. Cool for at least 30 minutes before slicing with a serrated knife. The strudel can be served warm or at room temperature, and is best on the day it is baked.

Serves 8. Or fewer, who am I kidding.

Bread Baker's Apprentice 2/43: Christopsomos

The breads in Peter Reinhart's The Bread Baker's Apprentice are presented in alphabetical order. Which makes sense, as that is certainly a reasonable way to organize a set of recipes and I'm relatively confident that Peter didn't necessarily intend for his book to be tackled one recipe after another, in order. But that is exactly what more than 200 other bakers and I are doing, and "artos" comes right after "anadama." Hence, this week I made Greek celebration bread, outside of the context of any actual Greek celebration.

But no matter, because (a) I am not Greek and the bread doesn't have a traditional or cultural meaning to me, and (b) hello, it is a sweet, flavorful bread studded with nuts and dried fruit, then brushed with a honey-citrus glaze. I might be wrong, but I'm pretty sure a bread like that is good any time of year.

"Artos" refers to Greek celebration breads in general; Reinhart presents a few different recipes that fit under that umbrella. I chose to make "the nativity Christopsomos, with its bread-dough cross laminated on top of a round loaf." I have made artos before -- specifically, tsoureki, which I make each year at Easter -- but had never attempted Christopsomos. It is a hefty, shiny, showstopper of a loaf whose crumb -- replete with raisins, toasted walnuts and dried figs (yum) -- is even (somehow) more beautiful than its glossy golden crust. Though this bread requires a little bit of advance planning -- in the form of a poolish, which is a pre-ferment of flour, yeast and water that needs to be made at least a day in advance -- it is, regardless, quite easy to make and immensely rewarding. I mean, you pull this bread out of the oven and you just feel good about yourself. If it is or is not Christmas.

As I discovered this weekend, Christopsomos makes a heck of an addition to a Memorial Day cookout. Non-traditional, totally. But also phenomenally delicious. Lots of my fellow The Bread Baker's Apprentice colleagues seem to agree: they've been enjoying their May-baked Christopsomos toasted, with a generous spread of salted butter, or sliced, battered and re-imagined as a dried fruit- and nut-enriched French toast. The loaf is so large and there's so much bread to go around that I'm certain that I'll serve my Christopsomos both of these ways in the coming days. But for today it was just cut yourself a piece, taste and enjoy.

Then cut yourself another piece.

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The Bread Baker's Apprentice challenge asks that we do not share the recipes from Reinhart's book. I implore you, in the name of all that is yeasty and carby and good, get yourself a copy, turn to page 111 and get to making your artos. Regardless of what day of the year it is, and regardless if you are or are not Greek. Trust me.

The tequila didn't hurt

This is a story about Luta, Clank and a pitcher of margaritas.

You all remember Luta. She graces this space often on account of her kindness, warmth, outrageousness and ridiculousness. Luta looms large in the annals (and the kitchen) of my childhood. She is a force. But there is another force, one whom you haven't yet met. Her name was Clank. Well, actually, her name was Rosemary, but to us, she was always Clank. (The story of that nickname, like most nickname-origin stories, is not nearly as funny or endearing to those who weren't there at its inception. So I shall spare you.) Clank was a lot like Luta, but she didn't live in Texas. She was right here in my small Ohio town.

Clank was the records clerk at the school where Mom used to work. The two of them became fast friends and it wasn't long before Clank was a member of our family. She lived across town with her mother, Mary, who lived past the age of 100 and credited her longevity, among other things, to Jack Daniels in moderation. Like Luta, Clank was a surrogate grandmother to me. Always looking out for me, teaching me well, being my friend and making me laugh. "Hot dog ol' Rose," I can still hear her say, her self-referential way of expressing surprise or joy. She was real, and honest, and no-nonsense, and smart, and trouble-making. She passed away a few years ago and not a day goes by that I don't miss her.

Anyway. I am here to write about margaritas. So let me get on with it already.

 

Back in the day Mom used to invite her school friends over to the house on Thursdays for happy hour. On one of those Thursdays, Luta was in town from Texas for a visit. Mom arrived home after school with Clank in tow, but had to leave right away to take me somewhere or pick me up from something. "Clank, this is Luta. Luta, Clank. I'll be back soon." If there were ever two women on the face of the earth who could feel at home with anyone, regardless of the situation, it was Luta and Clank. They were old friends before Mom had both feet out the door.

Mom arrived home a half hour later to a kitchen smelling of lime and filled with laughter. Luta had made a pitcher of her margaritas. Clank and Luta would have been fast friends regardless but I'm telling you, the tequila didn't hurt. Clank needed a stiff cup of coffee before heading home that night and might have joked about having to stop and take a nap on the way. 

Tonight Mom and Sister came over for some of Luta's margaritas to start the long Memorial Day weekend in style. With fondness and cheer and no small measure of nostalgia, we raised our salted rims to Luta and Clank.

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LUTA'S MARGARITAS

Luta Roberts' recipe

This recipe halves easily.

4 c. crushed ice

1 1/2 c. tequila

2/3 c. freshly-squeezed lime juice (about 5 limes' worth)

3 T. Cointreau or triple sec

1/2 c. powdered sugar

1 egg white (pasteurized is best)

Lime slices, to garnish

Kosher salt, for glasses

Rim glasses with lime juice then in a shallow dish of kosher salt. Set aside (or put in the freezer).

 

Combine the ice, tequila, lime juice, Cointreau/triple sec, powdered sugar and egg white in a blender. Blend until frothy and serve in the prepared glasses. Garnish with a few slices of lime.

Serves 6.