Bread Baker's Apprentice: 22/43: pain de Campagne

Sometimes, playing catch-up after years of inactivity means you end up with two posts about The Bread Baker's Apprentice challenge, back to back. Taking my last post, on pain à l'Ancienne, and today's entry together, it's like this blog's equivalent of two for Tuesday. 

Kind of. 

Only instead of two Steve Miller Band classics, it's Reinhart breads. Frankly, I don't know which is more freaking awesome.

So this pain de Campagne was the last of the Bread Baker's breads that I baked pre-hiatus. I recall that it was very delicious, as are the vast majority of Reinhart's breads. When one makes the pain de Campagne, one has many shaping options. One can form it into boule, bâtard, baguette, even a scissor-cut épi. I decided to select the lovely fendu, a technique in which the baker uses a rod of some sort to press a deep crease down the length of the loaf.

All was well and good as I began shaping the soft, pliable dough.

The loaf looked beautiful as it began its final proof. 

But when I returned to the kitchen an hour later to bake the bread, the rustic and charming crease had risen right out of my pain de Campagne.

So I ended up with a fat, featureless loaf.  

You know what, though?

Fat, featureless loaves taste just as fabulous as their artisan-crafted kin. Toasted up with a knob of Irish salted butter, the pain de Campagne spoke of the pompatus of love.

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The Bread Baker's Apprentice challenge asks that we do not share Reinhart's recipes. Which is not a big deal to you, dear reader, because you already own the book. Turn to page 195 and let me know if your fendu is more successful than mine.


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Previously on A Stove With A House Around It:

One year ago: tomato-water spaghetti
Two years ago: sharing Babushka's homemade Polish fare over at Why CLE?
Three years ago: quinoa with caramelized onions
Four years ago: Jane Howard's phenomenal hot cross buns
Five years ago: ultimate soft and chewy chocolate chunk cookies

Bread Baker's Apprentice: 21/43: pain à l'Ancienne

The last time I wrote about The Bread Baker's Apprentice challenge (the seemingly never-ending quest to bake all 43 recipes, in order, from Peter Reinhart's most excellent The Bread Baker's Apprentice), it was May 14, 2011, and I was proclaiming the superior toast qualities of Reinhart's exuberantly-named multigrain bread extraordinaire.

A lot has changed since then.

On May 14, 2011, Australian singer Danii Minogue resigned as a judge on The X Factor. I mean, it's been almost two whole years since Dannii Minogue was a judge on The X Factor! Lady Gaga was a week away from releasing Born This Way. Captain Jack Sparrow was on the cover of Entertainment Weekly, in an issue that also included a preview of fall television pilots (Charlie's Angels, something called Good Christian Bitches). (Clearly, a Google search of the big arts and cultural news of May 2011 turns up, well, results that are anything but compelling.)

A review of my Facebook timeline from May 2011 shows that at that time I was busy drinking beers, taking care of a Chesapeake Bay Retriever, visiting zoos with a small child, watching Roxette videos on YouTube, and discussing the Lisa Marie Presley cover of "Dirty Laundry" with anyone who would listen.

Eh, maybe that much hasn't changed.

  
So, it's been awhile since I've checked in with The Bread Baker's Apprentice challenge. It's also been awhile since I've checked in with Reinhart, for that matter, though I do make his light wheat bread relatively frequently. Though the months and years have escaped me, I have always wanted to finish the challenge. It's been nagging at me, a yeasty voice calling out of the dark recesses of my pantry's flour bin, beckoning me to finish what I started. Truth be told: I did bake a few more of the breads before my excessively long hiatus, but I never wrote about them. One of those breads was the pain à l'Ancienne. I didn't mean not to share it...

...but then I found myself up against the recipes in the book that utilize a wild yeast starter, which I did attempt. But my wild yeast starter failed spectacularly. I researched a few additional methods for getting such a starter going, but before I could get around to it...well, here I am. Older. Wiser. Wider. The mother of two children, not just one. And still wild yeast-less. 

I now vow to restart the challenge. Even if all of the other original bloggers who originally picked up the challenge back in May 2009 either finished long ago or similarly gave up, shipwrecked on the rocky shore of a failed wild yeast starter, well, I persevere. 

I am going to finish this, and I am going to eat some more awesome bread while doing so.

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The Bread Baker's Apprentice challenge asks that we do not share Peter Reinhart's recipes. Do you have the book? You really should; I'm just saying. The pain à l'Ancienne recipe begins on page 191.

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Previously, on A Stove With A House Around It:

One year ago: tomato-water spaghetti
Two years ago: writing about delicious Polish food over at the Why CLE? blog
Three years ago: quinoa with caramelized onions
Four years ago: fregula Sarda with roasted zucchini, ricotta salata, and olives
Five years ago: pasta e ceci alla Romana

Spooning

I am smitten by the sight of this crispy little chickpea, cradled in a singular al dente orecchiette.

Know what else is beguiling? A wee round of fresh mozzarella, cradled similarly.

Just about anything that ends up in a tiny pasta cup has me at hello. (Something else that has me at hello, apparently: references from movies that were released in 1996.)

Orecchiette with kale, mozzarella, and chickpeas just might be perfect, at least for me, at least for this moment. It fires on all available cylinders: it tastes amazing, it includes cheese, it is healthy (kale!), it involves my very favorite foodstuff, it has ingredients that spoon each other like I spoon our 10-month-old puppy late at night when I need to feel cozy.

I love this dish, Husband loves this dish, even my two-year-old cannot refrain from snacking upon the crunchy chickpea bits. Regardless of how you feel about spooning -- culinary, canine, or otherwise -- I urge you to make this dish as soon as humanly possible. You will be smitten, too...putty in its bewitching pasta and legume embrace.

More spooning

 

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ORECCHIETTE WITH KALE, MOZZARELLA, AND CHICKPEAS
Adapted from "Food and Wine"


You could absolutely use Swiss chard in place of the kale, if you wish, or any dark leafy green, really.


1/4 t. cumin
1/4 t. coriander
Kosher salt
Freshly-cracked black pepper
Vegetable oil, for frying
1 c. canned chickpeas, drained, rinsed, and patted dry
1/2 lb. orecchiette
1/4 c. olive oil
4 garlic cloves, thinly sliced
1/2 t. red pepper flakes
1/2 lb. kale, stemmed and leaves coarsely chopped
1 c. grape tomatoes, halved
6 oz. fresh mozzarella, chopped into 1/2-inch cubes (or you can use the teeny tiny fresh mozzarella balls, which I can find from time to time in my grocery store)
8 large basil leaves, torn


In a small bowl, mix together the cumin, coriander, and salt and pepper to taste. 

In a large skillet, heat 1/4-inch of vegetable oil until shimmering. Add the chickpeas and cook over high heat until crisp, about 4 minutes. Transfer to a plate lined with paper towels and sprinkle the chickpeas with the cumin mixture. Discard the oil and wipe out the skillet. Try not to eat all the chickpeas while you prepare the rest of the dish.

In a large pot of salted water, cook the orecchiette according to package directions until al dente. Drain the pasta, reserving 1/4 c. of the cooking water.

While the orecchiette cooks, add the olive oil, garlic, and red pepper flakes to the skillet. Cook over medium-high heat until fragrant, about 30 seconds. Add the kale and cook, stirring, until wilted, about 5 minutes. Season with salt and black pepper to taste.

Add the pasta and the reserved cooking water to the kale mixture in the skillet and cook over medium heat, stirring until incorporated. Add the tomatoes and cook until they're just warmed through, about 2 minutes. Add the mozzarella and basil and toss to combine.

Spoon the pasta into bowls, sprinkle with the crispy chickpeas, and serve. 

Serves 2 hungry people; 4 rational, moderate people, though I wouldn't know anything about that.


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Previously, on A Stove With A House Around It:

One year ago: tomato-water spaghetti
Two years ago: guest-blogging over at Why CLE?
Three years ago: quinoa with caramelized onions
Four years ago: fregula Sarda with roasted zucchini, ricotta salata, and olives
Five years ago: pasta e ceci alla Romana

Admiring this brisket

Aside from having to explain to a hapless young employee of my local grocery store what exactly matzo is -- and aside from having to respond to the butcher's questions re: shank bone (Butcher hands me little bone, wrapped in plastic; asks, "When is this? Should I get more bones ready?") -- I am no Jewish cooking expert. Within Hudson Heinen's I'm a Goy Joan Nathan. Outside Hudson Heinen's I'm a lady who happens to have married a Jew, who knows just enough about Jewish holiday fare to make a Joan Nathan reference.

But please don't let my lack of Ashkenzi pedigree stop you from admiring this brisket. It is delicious, and you should make it. It might be too late to make it for a seder tonight (Passover begins this evening at sundown), but if you're hosting a second night seder, by all means, have at it. 

The recipe comes from Paula, the mother of one of my best friends in this life. Paula and her charming husband Walter, along with their sons Zachary and Aaron and their fabulous extended family (hi, Cissy!), invite me and Husband to their home for many Jewish holidays. Even when my best friend won't be in attendance, they often still invite us. I think they feel bad for Husband, languishing down here in this gentile town with no matzo at its Heinen's, but they make us feel like family and I love them even more, I think, than my best friend does. 

Several years ago I was all, "Paula, I am going to marry your brisket." And Paula was all, "Here's the recipe," as she whipped out an ancient tattered stained cookbook to display a recipe for brisket of beef with limas that's part of a menu for a "Campaign Rally Dinner." I snapped a few photos with my phone, and I've been making her brisket ever since. In my house, we call it "Paula's brisket," and nary a Jewish holiday passes without it.

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PAULA'S BRISKET
Adapted from Paula Schwartz


This is a fantabulous recipe to make in advance. I do, in fact, recommend that you make it a day or more in advance. I like to make it a day ahead, keep it in the refrigerator, then slice and warm it before dinner. Paula tells me she often makes it far in advance, freezing it, then bringing it to room temperature the day of her seder, slicing then warming it as her guests arrive. Either way, it's a dream, because your main course is done.

A note: Husband tells me that, according to some corners of the Diaspora, mustard is not kosher for Passover. We include it in the recipe because Paula does, but feel free to omit if you are of a stricter variety.


5 lbs. brisket of beef, trimmed of most of the fat
2 T. Dijon mustard, divided
1 1/2 c. chili sauce, divided
1/2 c. red wine, divided
2/3 c. light brown sugar, divided
Juice of 1 lemon, divided
2 t. kosher salt, divided

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees Fahrenheit. Place the brisket in a roasting pan.

In a medium bowl, combine 1 T. Dijon mustard, 3/4 c. chili sauce, 1/4 c. red wine, 1/3 c. light brown sugar, juice of half a lemon, and 1 t. kosher salt. Whisk to combine.

Pour the chili sauce mixture over the brisket. Roast the meat, covered, for approximately 2 hours. Remove from the oven, uncover, transfer to a baking sheet and let cool to room temperature. Reserve the juices.

(Once the meat has cooled to room temperature, you can refrigerate or freeze the brisket. Remember, if you choose to freeze it, move it to the refrigerator the night before you wish to serve it to allow it to defrost safely. Cissy's, Paula's mother, tells me that she slices the brisket before she freezes it, rather than freezing the brisket whole to slice later, so you can certainly do that instead. In fact, I would do what Cissy says. She knows. Whenever you choose to slice it, be sure to do so against the grain.)

On the night you will serve the brisket, preheat the oven to 350 degrees Fahrenheit. In a medium bowl, make another batch of the chili sauce by combining the remaining 1 T. Dijon mustard, 3/4 c. chili sauce, 1/4 c. red wine, 1/3 c. light brown sugar, juice of half a lemon, and 1 t. kosher salt. Add the reserved juices from the original roasting of the brisket, and whisk to combine.

Slice the brisket against the grain and place the slices in a 13" x 9" casserole. 

Cover the brisket with the second batch of the chili sauce mixture, then cook, uncovered, for about 30 minutes. 

Baste the meat with the sauce a few times while it cooks. The goal is to reheat the meat, reduce the sauce, and develop those wonderful almost-burned crispy edges.

Serve, ask four questions, devour.

Serves 8-10.


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Previously, on A Stove With A House Around It:

One year ago: tomato-water spaghetti
Two years ago: chickpea salad with cumin vinaigrette
Three years ago: chicken souvlaki
Four years ago: chard and ricotta won tons with sage and brown butter
Five years ago: tsoureki

I embraced the hop

I have to admit something.

I used to drink Corona. It was my beer of choice. The fridge was always stocked, and even my parents kept some on hand for my visits. Back in those days, when I wasn't drinking a cosmopolitan, I was drinking a Corona.

I hope you still love me, Cleveland Craft Beer Community.

The thing is, I had no idea that there was anything better out there. I certainly wasn't into beer enough at that point to explore new brew horizons. But then I became pregnant with my first son. Liquorless for 40 weeks, I developed a serious, unexpected, and powerful craving for beer. All I wanted was beer. None of that stereotypical ice-cream-and-pickles garbage for me. No. Beer.

 
When my first dude was born and I was once again free to imbibe, I started looking past the Corona to see what else was in the beer case. It started innocently enough, with Great Lakes Christmas Ale. At the time, I was pretty certain that this was the finest beer ever made. I bought cases of the stuff. I think there might even be a bottle left in the back of the beer fridge from this introductory binge. We drank it all through the holidays and then, when the calendar page flipped from 2010 to 2011, Husband and I signed up for the Winking Lizard's World Tour of Beers. (Husband wasn't a hardcore beer person, either, as I distinctly recall his late-'90s fondness for Icehouse. But he was more than happy to come along with his wife on this journey.) We plowed through 100 beers each, finishing the Tour in mid-July with nearly six months to spare.

I stopped being afraid of dark beers. I embraced the hop.
 

Somewhere on the path from Corona to CBS -- and this is the point of this post -- we met an amazing group of people bound together by love of beer. And though love of beer brought us together, I suspect love of hanging out together -- and love of Steve Lawn -- keeps us together. It's a diverse group: some extremely excellent bloggers, teachers, marathon runners, dentists, elementary school principals, Browns fans, Jets fans, R.A. Dickey fans. Though we've only known them a year, it feels like it's been a lot longer. When our beloved dog Jet passed away in March, beer friends brought us our favorite sandwiches, leaving them on our doorstep with a note of condolence. When our second son was born in August, beer friends raised glasses to us across Northeast Ohio (and across social media). If they've got a bottle of rare beer, beer friends open it and pour you a taste. These are quality people, people.

So in honor of the Cleveland Craft Beer Community, as Cleveland Beer Week approaches, as I reflect on how lucky we are to have met such a group of fun, welcoming, and kind people, I'd like to share this recipe for maple-stout bread. I suppose you could make it with Guinness, as the original recipe suggests. But do yourself a favor: find an exceptional stout and use it instead. Then drink the rest of the bottle. Then seek another beer, perhaps something you've never tried before. 

The world of fantastic brews awaits, my friends. And speaking of friends, don't be surprised if you make a few new ones along the way. 

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n.b. If you also have a fridge full of Corona but desire something greater, please consult the following authorities. They will never steer you wrong on the road to beer nirvana:

Bobby Likes Beer
Brewer's Daughter
Cleveland Food and Brews
Hop Bunnies

Also: If you'd like your love of cooking to collide with your love of craft beer, check out The Beeroness for some phenomenal recipes.
 
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MAPLE-STOUT BREAD
Adapted from Cooking Light

1 3/4 c. all-purpose flour
1 t. baking soda
1/2 t. baking powder
1/2 t. salt
6 T. butter, softened
3/4 c. dark brown sugar
2 eggs
1/2 t. vanilla extract
1/2 c. good-quality stout beer (such as Founders Breakfast Stout)
1/2 c. sour cream
1/4 c. plus 2 T. real maple syrup, divided
5 T. powdered sugar


Preheat oven to 350 degrees Fahrenheit. Coat a 9" x 5" metal loaf pan with baking spray.

In a medium bowl, whisk together flour, baking soda, baking powder, and salt. Place butter and brown sugar in the bowl of an electric mixer fitted with the paddle attachment; beat at high speed until well blended. Add eggs, 1 at a time, beating well after each addition. Beat in vanilla. 

In a liquid measuring cup or small bowl, combine beer, sour cream, and 1/4 cup maple syrup, stirring well with a whisk. Beating at low speed, add the flour mixture and the beer mixture alternately to the butter mixture, beginning and ending with flour mixture. Beat just until combined.
  
Scrape batter into the prepared pan. Bake at 350° for 40-45 minutes, until a wooden pick inserted in the center comes out with moist crumbs clinging. Cool for 10 minutes in the pan on a wire rack. Remove from pan; cool completely on wire rack.
  
Place powdered sugar in a small bowl. Add the remaining 2 tablespoons syrup; whisk until smooth. Drizzle glaze over cooled bread; let stand until set, if desired.

Eat, for breakfast, while drinking remaining Breakfast Stout.

Makes 1 cake.


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Previously, on A Stove With A House Around It:

One year ago: spaghetti with herbed turkey meatballs and pesto
Two years ago: homemade meat pies
Three years ago: plum and McIntosh tart
Four years ago: breakfast cookies

Burying the lede

People, seriously. Seriously, people.

I hate how long I've been absent from this space. I hate that I couldn't manage to pop in at any time over the past three months, not even to tell you about the world's most simple and frugal cooking ingredient, tomato water. I hate making excuses. So I won't.

Save this one: I am a lazy ass.

I have spent the majority of the past three months napping, at least those hours when I wasn't at work. Frankly, I might have napped at work, but my office door has six windows set into it, and, dude, you can see through it. I can't even nap under my desk a la Constanza, as my desk is simply a table. 

Anyway, I'm burying the lede. I'm so freaking nappy because I'm once again expecting a little one, scheduled to join us in August, two years after his/her big brother was born. So basically, if you're not TiVoed episodes of "America's Test Kitchen," or the absolutely dreadful Sex and the City 2 movie being replayed ad nauseam on HBO in the middle of the night, or a "Diners, Drive-Ins, and Dives" marathon, or the sofa, or my son, or my high-maintenance dog, then I have not been paying attention to you. (Note: Husband did not make that list. Neither did the dishes, or the laundry.) (Don't I have really great taste in television?)

All this doesn't mean I haven't been thinking of cooking, though. Because I have been. I've been thinking a lot about tomato water, ever since the maestro Ruhlman mentioned it on his site back in October 2010. As a lover of everything pasta and everything tomato -- and a staunch advocate of frugality in the kitchen -- tomato water speaks to me. Each time I'm using fresh tomatoes as the basis for a roasted tomato sauce, I now set them in a colander over a large bowl, salt them, and capture their water. The resulting more concentrated tomatoes make for an even richer, deeper roasted sauce, and the tomato water gets frozen, awaiting the next time I make the following dish.

You might think tomato-water spaghetti would be thin, watery, and flavorless. You would be wrong. It is delicate, fresh, tomato-y, and subtly salty. The tomato water, once it simmers a bit and mixes with the butter and the residual starch washing off the cooked pasta, turns velvety soft and smooth. It clings to the pasta beautifully, cloaking it with a pinkish, savory veil. It's a little beguiling, really, and its ability to charm and bewitch completely belies its frugal, otherwise-waste roots.

So apparently you can make a silk purse out of a sow's ear. And you can get a pregnant lady off the couch long enough to share a recipe.


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TOMATO-WATER SPAGHETTI
Adapted from Michael Ruhlman


Note: If you don't have tomato water waiting for you in your freezer, start stocking up the next time you use fresh tomatoes in a sauce or stew. Simply peel the tomatoes, cut them into chunks and place them in a colander set over a large bowl. Toss the tomatoes with a few pinches of kosher salt and let them drain. Freeze the water for use later, then proceed with however you were going to use the tomatoes themselves. I find that 6-8 large tomatoes will yield the 1 1/2 c. of tomato water called for in this recipe.

Another note: You'll want to serve this dish with plenty of crusty bread, for sopping. Sopping is key.

1 lb. spaghetti
2 T. olive oil
10 cloves garlic, chopped
1 1/2 c. tomato water
1 c. fresh basil, roughly chopped, divided
3 oz. unsalted butter, cut into 3 chunks
Kosher salt, to taste
Pecorino, grated, to taste
1 c. fresh tomatoes, diced (optional)

Bring a large pot of salted water to a boil, and cook the spaghetti according to package directions until it is al dente.

While the spaghetti cooks, heat the olive oil in a large skillet over medium heat and add the garlic. Cook for a few minutes, stirring frequently, until the garlic just turns brown at the edges. Do not burn the garlic! Horribleness will ensure.

Add the tomato water to the garlic, swirling to combine. Cook the tomato water until it reduces and thickens slightly. Add 3/4 c. of the basil. Add the butter, one piece at a time, whisking it into the sauce until it melts.

Drain the pasta, and add it to the tomato-water sauce in the skillet. Using a pair of tongs, stir the spaghetti until it is evenly coated with the sauce. Taste, and season with a little salt, if you like. Add the remaining 1/4 c. basil.

Serve in big bowls topped with Pecorino and, if so desired, a few spoonfuls of fresh chopped tomatoes.


Serves 2-4, depending on hunger level. Frankly, I think it serves 2.


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Previously, on A Stove With A House Around It:

One year ago: coffee liqueur barbecue sauce + homemade coffee liqueur
Two years ago: layered chocolate fudge cake
Three years ago: cinnamon ice cream + chocolate Valentino
Four years ago: chicken divan

Now there are four

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