A Wave of Gratitude

"You know, writers are like beekeepers. A writer is the thief of knowledge. And we beekeepers, we are honey stealers. In both cases, you have to be a hunter of dreams. Otherwise you cannot dream." -Adam Gollner (from an excellent article on Crete in Lucky Peach 7)

Although I have a lot of recipes I want to share with you (I even made a list), for now I'm just going to give you some interesting links to mull over while I finish writing this chapter. I'll be back soon, though--with both news from Nashville and what pretty much amounts to a  full draft of my dissertation!! After three years, it's about time, right?

Before I left for Nashville, this editorial not only blew my mind, but also made me glad that I'm a frequent purchaser of arugula. I'm now really excited to read the book.

I'm only at the beginning of A Dance with Dragons and am thrilled to be reunited with Daenerys, Jon Snow and Tyrion, but once I have no more Game of Thrones to keep me going, I'm looking forward to a few recent presents I received: Cooked, The Hare with Amber Eyes and From the Holy Mountain. Variety is the spice of the reading life!

I love these musings on the beauty of the everyday.

This cream cheese pound cake is everything a girl (or guy) could want in an afternoon snack; since it hails from the south, I bet it would be delightful with a tall glass of iced tea (as I learned in the Smoky Mountains, when it comes to tea, there are only two kinds: unsweetened Yankee tea or sweetened Southern tea--take your pick).

I keep finding things that challenge my understanding of the possibilities of rhubarb; this cocktail is no exception.



The blog Not Without Salt is pretty awesome; the blogger is a former pastry chef and her creations are both beautiful and inspired. But what I really like about her site are her posts devoted to "dating her husband." They're not just about the food; they're about keeping the relationship alive in the face of various outside demands (at age 20, I remember angering my Russian host mother when, in a philosophical conversation about love [fyi: such conversations are frequent in Russia; this was nothing out of the ordinary], I said that I thought it was work; she may have thought I was crazy and heartless, but I'm pretty sure my 20-year-old self knew what she was talking about). This one is my favorite. And this one is a close runner up (I could easily recreate this meal at home and be more than satisfied).

The Greek and I went to this fine restaurant to celebrate my graduation and, for those of you living in San Francisco, I highly recommend it. I had pink peppercorn pasta, a sour cherry daiquiri (pictured above) and, for dessert, we shared what the waitress described as "deconstructed baklava with Persian cream and rose preserves." It's not an everyday kind of place, but it's nice for special occasions.

And because I'm a sucker for Henry James--Portrait of a Lady is a favorite of mine--I found this article on Washington Square to offer a compelling case for poor Catherine Sloper, who "loves cream cakes and spends too much money on clothes."

P.S. For those of you who are wondering, the tartines above are as simple as can be. I like both a sweet and savory breakfast, so some good bread topped with ricotta is an ideal base. The sweet ones have slices of golden apricots with honey and some fresh thyme; the savory ones have thinly sliced radishes, sea salt, tarragon and olive oil. I sprinkle both with pink peppercorns and grains of paradise (I'm obsessed!) and I pop them in the oven (300 F) for about 8-10 minutes. So simple, so magical.

A Spoon Sweet for Summer

And yet a branch of unforeseen mimosa,

Cleaving the heavens, falls across it all,

So in pages of philosophic prose

Sometimes will gleam a line of lovesick verse. -Mikhail Kuzmin ("Fuji in a Saucer")

Before May skyrocketed into oblivion, I think it's pretty safe to say that I was taking things kind of slowly. Perhaps more slowly than I should have, but that's exactly what happens when suddenly, after months of full speed ahead activity, all activity grinds to a halt. To savor this feeling, I started to linger over my coffee in the morning and the late morning walks with the dog became more leisurely. Of course, the biggest indicator of my newly discovered freedom was the lack of an alarm clock in my life; my internal clock was given permission to set the pace of my day. For a few days at least, my behavior felt both celebratory and deserved, but then it all started to feel more than a little criminal--and, to be entirely honest, perhaps a little too slow for my liking.



That isn't to say that I was ready to give it all up, though. I decided that I just needed to channel my slowness into something a little more productive, so obviously I went out and bought some rhubarb. It was only last summer that I first found myself smitten with these ruby-hued stalks. They weren't something that I grew up eating (in pie, with strawberries or in any other context), which is why, when I saw the loveliest pinkish red rhubarb and rose syrup over at 101 Cookbooks, I wanted to try to make it. But I didn't get around to it until after we got back from Greece last summer and, after all of my time there and my tastings of various spoon sweets, I was no longer so into the idea of stewing fruit (or a vegetable that masquerades as fruit) to make a syrup. To me, it seemed like you would be losing the best part--the bits of broken down fruit. I tinkered with the recipe and instead made a version that was syrupy, but full of finely chopped rhubarb. When you get down to the picky act of nomenclature, what I made was compote. 




And, while it was very good compote, it wasn't quite what I was looking for. I wanted something different--not only thicker, but with a flavor that helped to temper the tartness of the rhubarb and the sometimes overwhelmingly floral taste of the rose.

In a nutshell, I wanted a spoon sweet. I've written about these here before and, in the year since I've been in Greece, my affection for them hasn't abated in the least. For those of you who are curious about the difference between compote and spoon sweets, I would say that it's all about the role the syrup plays. Whereas with a compote, the syrup engulfs the fruit, with a spoon sweet, the syrup gently cradles it. In more technical terms, it's all about the level of viscosity. To strike the right balance and to move out of compote territory this time around, I added less water, threw in some cardamom pods with the rose water and let the mixture simmer for only about 30 minutes, which was when the liquid started to coat the spoon. What went into the two waiting jars turned out to be exactly what I was hoping for: a blushing pink syrup with fruit that had softened, yet still maintained some of its textural integrity. I've been mixing it into a bowl of Greek yogurt with pistachios and, on the mornings when the fog looks like it will never disappear, topping my oatmeal with a healthy dollop. Instead of the usual piece of chocolate I crave in the afternoons, if I'm home I'll put a spoonful in a soy sauce dipping bowl and have that as a snack to tide me over. Unlike some spoon sweets or stewed fruit, it's not tooth-achingly sweet since I used natural cane sugar instead of granulated. It's the subtle changes that can lead to a real difference in flavor, just as condiments can transform a meal.

Rhubarb Cardamom Rose Spoon Sweet

yields about 14 oz. spoon sweet (filled 1 10 oz. jar and about half of an 8 oz. jar)

inspired by and adapted from 101 Cookbooks

179 grams (about 3 large stalks, or 1/2 pound) rhubarb, roughly chopped

179 grams (7 ounces) natural cane sugar

3 cardamom pods, crushed with a knife

250 ml (1 cup) water

1/4 teaspoon rose water

-Add all the ingredients to a small saucepan and bring to a boil.

-Stirring occasionally, gently simmer for about 30 minutes, or until the back of a spoon is coated.

-Pour the spoon sweet into waiting jars and put the lid on once the mixture has cooled. The spoon sweet will keep for a few months, although it most likely won't last that long.

Completing the Circle

It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat. -Teddy Roosevelt, "Citizenship in a Republic"

 

It's been raining birthdays and celebrations around here for the past few weeks, which has made it a little hard to find time to write about it all. If you combine my constantly being on the go with the fact that this past weekend I was in Tennessee for a wedding and also that I'm in a dissertation writing groove (oddly, I hit my stride with poetry and not prose, thereby proving that the world is a funny old place), the sum total is that this space sadly gets a little neglected. But let me stress that neglected is not the same as forgotten; not only do I have a rhubarb recipe in the wings, but I took a ton of photos in Nashville, i.e. my new favorite place to visit, as well. I just need time to get it all on the page.

In the meantime though, I wanted to share some photos from the whirlwind that was the second half of May. You see, six days after my birthday, the Greek turned 28 (yes, a true young'un, as they would say in the south). To celebrate his day we drove north to Marin County with the pup, a baguette, antipasti, cold cuts, cheese, beer and fruit. The day was gorgeously sunny, but, as things tend to go in northern California, the sunshine masked the reality of the brisk breeze that, even in May, can make you long for mittens and a thick scarf.

After gorging on all kinds of treasures from Berkeley Bowl, we took our beloved beast, who had been anxiously prowling for anything we might drop, for a run on the beach. Needless to say, after being denied so many treats, she had a lot of aggression to work out. 

 

She ran and ran and ran, exploring all that Muir Beach had to offer. Although we had to run with her and lack the stamina of our pup, all of the exercise was ultimately a good thing since the next day, my graduation, she would spend most of the day on her own in her crate.

Believe me when I say that it's a strange thing to "graduate" when you're not yet officially done. How can you celebrate the end of something when you still very much feel like you're in the thick of it?  But I suppose I wasn't celebrating as much as I was marking the end of an era--the end of my Berkeley years, the end of living my life according to academic time, the end of carrying half my weight in books on my back...It doesn't even matter that I've been going to the campus almost on a daily basis to write since the ceremony; walking across the stage was a rite of passage and one that gave me the nudge I needed to restart the writing process and finish this thing once and for all. 

Forward, comrades! I've been feeling this for a while, but there really is no turning back now. My completion of the program is practically official. I ate a piece of the graduation cake, my hand was shaken and my oath of service was proclaimed (seriously, this happened; it was like a marriage ceremony, although an unnecessary one since I'm pretty sure I'm filing for divorce); one of the department administrators even gave me the white chocolate Campanile since it was my special day. I don't often put pictures of myself on the blog, but for graduation I'll make an exception. This is what seeing the light at the end of the tunnel looks like.

Three Decades of Dessert, or Dessert Mapping

You must not ever stop being whimsical. And you must not, ever, give anyone else the responsibility for your life. -Mary Oliver (Wild Geese)

A little over a week ago, I turned thirty. When it comes to the "new decade" birthdays, there's this expectation that one should do something grand, splash out and set the bar high for the next big birthday, but I'm just not (and never have been) this kind of a person. Big parties tend to make me feel lost; I like fairly quiet, intimate gatherings, where you can talk to everybody, hear yourself think and, most importantly, feed people well.

Even though I didn't set off to do anything grand, somewhere along the way my birthday slipped a little out of my control. Since 30 was the magic number, I started thinking in terms of threes--three decades and three zero suddenly became an idea for three desserts....And, just like that, my birthday mission became clear.

Or I should say, somewhat clear. Deciding you want three desserts and knowing what those desserts will be are two entirely different things. I carefully looked through a few of my many baking books, debating the merits of yellow cake with chocolate frosting and recipes like "Perfect Vanilla Cake," but, truth be told, I was more than a little uninspired. And then I remembered a question that I once read on a blog that I consider to be informative, provocative and gorgeously styled: "if you were a recipe, what would you be?" I thought the answer that this particular blogger came up with--Plum Wine Tiramisu Masquerading as a Pavlova (she's of Japanese and Australian origin, in love with all things Italian and also currently lives in Australia, where the national dessert is the Pavlova)--was both brilliant and beautiful to look at. Taking a cue from her, I tried to envision my own identity as a recipe and all I could see was numerous flavors, influences and traditions colliding...and also ice cream. It's safe to say that ice cream represents my gold standard, as well as a staple in my diet. I am nothing short of giddy when it comes to anything associated with the world of ice cream. But I couldn't quite figure out my flavor and I was soon swept away by other more pressing tasks. My me-as-dessert reverie would have to wait for another day.

With my birthday, this reverie came back in full force. But try as I might, I still couldn't see the one recipe that was or could be me; instead, I started to see my life divided into three obvious periods (call this my homage to Tolstoy's trilogy, if you will): childhood, the teenage years and the Berkeley years. If I were to name what I'm doing here, I would call this "dessert mapping"--symbolically mapping my life onto certain dishes.

For childhood, there was only one dessert that would do: pizzelles, or crisp Italian waffle cookies (the word comes from the Italian word "pizze": round and flat. Yes, it's the same root for pizza). Growing up, I both loved and hated these things. They would sit stacked on a dessert plate come every Christmas and I loved them because there was rarely anything as intricate on the table; the patterns on the cookies, as well as their delicate texture, always reminded me of the finest lace--the kind that you can't help but reach out to touch. But whenever I would give into the impulse to grab one, the experience would end badly since my grandma, going the traditional Italian route, would always put anise extract in the cookies. One bite and an unpleasant taste would fill my mouth. Only after much questioning of her traditional practice--"why do you put anise in them, Grandma? Nobody likes the bitter taste!"--did my grandma completely revamp her pizzelle style. She stopped putting anise in them and started rolling the cookies into mini-ladyfingers/mini-cannoli and stuffing them with cream. Needless to say, the whole family, especially my younger self, was delighted.

Thinking about these traditions, I pulled my (my great-grandmother's and namesake's) neglected pizzelle iron out of the cupboard and called my grandma for her recipe. I was surprised to discover that the pizzelle recipe of my childhood called for cardamom, which my grandma never added. Being the cardamom fan that I am, I decided to add some for flavor, in addition to some vanilla; there would be no anise for me! Also, feeling inspired by my current Persian cooking craze and the class I had attended with the lovely Louisa Shafia at 18 Reasons a few days before my birthday, I decided to make a saffron whipped cream to fill them with. I guess you could say that my childhood received a bit of a facelift; you could also say that, given the expense of saffron, I was being more than a little careless and decadent. Call this my way of splashing out--a whole 1/4 teaspoon of saffron for a very small gathering of friends. Cookies are always popular and these cookies, both light and pretty to look at because of the design of the pizzelles and the soft yellow of the saffron-scented whipped cream, confirmed my faith in the simplicity of childhood delights.

Then again, my teenage years, which I experienced at the height of Clintonian prosperity, were, in a way, my gluttonous "fat cat" years. Summers spent working at the Dairy Queen proved too much for my sweet tooth and, truth be told, I was a bit of a chubby teenager (are these kind years to anybody, though?).

I loved most things about working at the Dairy Queen--Blizzards with Cookie Dough, frozen bits of Reese's Peanut Butter Cups that you would munch on when you went into the industrial freezers to stock up on sugary supplies, twist (chocolate and vanilla) ice cream cones. Most of all, however, I loved the ice cream cakes, i.e. my two favorite things in the world combined. The cookie crunch in the center, a mix of chocolate shell and crushed chocolate wafers, was the thing that really made it for me, though. You can't go wrong with flavor and texture.

When I was thinking of ways to make this cake at home, hot fudge seemed a fine substitute for the chocolate shell, which often made the cake nearly impossible to cut into. I was also really hoping for a combination of chocolate and pistachio ice cream, one that I have always loved, but since pistachio ice cream proved strangely hard to find, the Greek and I agreed that chocolate strawberry would be just as good. Beyond the question of flavor, the concept of an ice cream cake relies only on clever, careful layering: ice cream topped by a mixture of hot fudge and cookie crumbs, which you then repeat. The final layer is whipped cream and whatever you want to put on top. I will say, though, that while the teenage years may have been the favorite dessert decade of my life at my small birthday gathering, I think my recipe could still be tweaked and improved. Consider this but a preview of good things to come.

And the Berkeley years/my 20s: while it's true that my 20s were not entirely based in the Bay Area--I started out in New York, went to Japan and then found myself in this strange place that I am now happy to call one of my homes--I wanted to make a dessert that evoked this crazy place with its love of all things natural, good and seasonal. There has been a lot of hype in the food blogging world about the new ode to vegetables River Cottage Veg and, while trying to figure out what all of the fuss was about (between Roots, which I bought back in February, and Vegetable Literacy, which the Greek gave me for my birthday, I don't think I can justify buying another vegetable book, although it does seem quite interesting and different), I stumbled upon a recipe that comes from the book's raw food chapter: a Chocolate Avocado Tart. Looking at the bare bone list of natural ingredients--nuts, Medjool dates, avocado, coconut oil, cocoa powder--I knew I had found a dessert that said, no screamed, Berkeley to me. I will say that I wasn't particularly crazy about the way the recipe was written (it could use some clarification) and I made more than a few modifications; again, this is but a preview of a future post. Although the dessert embodiment of my 20s, with its rich and unprocessed flavors, gave my other dessert decades a run for their money, today is really childhood's day to shine.

All in all, making these desserts and then sharing them was a lovely way to spend my birthday. I got to do what I love, celebrate with a few friends and drink what I considered to be a jokingly appropriate cocktail for age 30: an Old Maid.  The next day there were peonies, bunches of other vibrant flowers, gorgeous new dessert plates and a blast of sunshine to greet me when I went into the dining room, which wasn't a bad way to ring in my new decade. Now there's a small part of me that's wondering what 40 will look like. What dessert will join the others in their symbolic representation of who I am and where I've been?

Not that I'm rushing: one step at a time. 

Pizzelles with Saffron Whipped Cream

yields about 2 dozen pizzelles and 1 cup whipped cream (after stuffing the cookies, there will be at least 2/3 cup of extra whipped cream)

3 eggs, well beaten

1/2 cup sugar

6 tablespoons melted butter

1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract

1 teaspoon ground cardamom

2/3 cup (80 grams) all-purpose flour

coconut oil, for greasing the pizzelle iron

-In a small bowl, whisk together the eggs and sugar until light and fluffy.

-Melt the butter and set aside to cool slightly.

-In the meantime, stir in the vanilla extract into the egg and sugar mixture. 

-Stir in the melted butter.

-In another small bowl, whisk together the flour and the cardamom.

-Add to the wet mixture and stir until smooth.

-Heat the pizzelle iron according to the manufacturer's instructions and lightly grease it with coconut oil.

-Add a tablespoon of batter to the iron and close. Let cook for about a minute each and then remove with a fork. 

-Roll individual pizzelles with tapered pastry forms (clothespins would also do) as soon as they come off the iron (if you let them sit, they will stiffen and be impossible to roll) and let sit wrapped while the next cookie is cooking in the pizzelle iron. Then remove the pin from the fatter, more open side of the cookie. 

-Place the rolled cookies on a parchment lined cookie sheet. 

-Repeat until the batter is gone.

-About an hour before serving, fill the pizzelles with cream on both sides, using a pastry bag (a real one or a DIY pastry bag).

-Let sit, but do not cover. Refrigerate any leftovers.

Saffron Whipped Cream

Inspired by Louisa Shafia and the class I took at 18 Reasons

What I learned about saffron recently, or at least the Persian way of dealing with saffron, is that it's best first to grind it in a mortar and pestle with salt, and then to let a small amount of it steep in some hot water. Both of these things really enhance its flavor. Of course, given that I was going the sweet rather than the savory route, I opted to grind my saffron with sugar and then let a few additional strands soak in some hot water, which I then added to the cream mixture before whipping it with an immersion blender.

1 cup heavy whipping cream

3 tablespoons sugar

1/4 teaspoon saffron, plus a few extra strands steeped in about a tablespoon of hot water

-Prepare the saffron, grinding it with a mortar and pestle and then letting a few additional strands steep in a tabelspoon of hot water. 

-Add the sugar saffron mixture, the whipping cream and the steeped saffron in a small bowl. Then whip with an immersion blender until soft peaks form.

-Place in a pastry bag and use to fill the pizzelles.

Like a Homecoming

 He has, if the truth be told, been putting it off for months: the moment when he must face the blank page, strike the first note, see what he is worth. -J.M. Coetzee (Disgrace)

 May, the Emerald month, has arrived in all of its glory, bringing with it its usual companions of bright colors, blossoms, sunshine, strawberries and asparagus. Time seems to have catapulted forward to get us here. The Greek's parents, who it seemed had only just arrived, have sadly gone again. The mouse, too, seems to have departed for good; there are no longer any traces of midnight perambulations. Really, after all of the struggles of the past months, the semester is now over and I feel that I have finally attained some semblance of freedom. 

But there is no time to rest on my laurels; while I will turn 30 (!!!) this Thursday and walk in the graduation ceremony on the following Thursday, there is much work to be done. I am in the process of applying for a job--one that I would very much like to have--and there is still the Big Old Dissertation, my eternal companion, to consider. I was so tired this week, though, that these things didn't really register; this was a time of healing from the rapid pace of the semester. For most of the week, the Greek and I were eating all kinds of leftovers, from Greek Easter to the farewell Chinese meal that his parents requested; the thought of going into the kitchen, which was still in a state of disarray because of both our midnight visitor and the recent holiday, proved too much to bear.

But on Thursday night, I was feeling inspired. I set aside A Feast for Crows (yes, my Game of Thrones obsession is now back in full force) aside in favor of more elegant bedtime reading, Nigel Slater's Tender. I received this book for Christmas from my aunt and had looked through it many times; despite my love of reading it bit by bit--I find the way the book is divided by vegetable and also how it incorporates gardening tips for each vegetable to be incredibly illuminating--I had yet to cook from it.

I found myself in the beet section, since, no matter what the season, beets remain a constant favorite of mine. I love eating them, raw or roasted, on toast smeared with ricotta for breakfast, sliced thinly in a salad with oranges and walnuts, or just plain with a bit of salt and pepper. This time, however, I was drawn to the Greek way of preparing them--perhaps in a way to keep the memory of all the good Greek flavors I enjoyed with the Greek's parents alive--in a garlickly, lemony yogurt tzatziki. This tzatziki was intended for crispy and herbed chickpea fritters; if you didn't know this about me, I adore chickpeas (as Nigel so aptly puts it, "The chickpea possesses a dry, earthy quality and a knobbly texture that I find endlessly useful and pleasing to eat," 46) and will put them in almost anything. Also, say the word fritter and you will find a friend in me.

 These secrets aside, this is the kind of meal that I want on a Friday night or for a weekend lunch. Not only is it simple, but, with the tzatziki on the side, it hits all the right notes in terms of flavor and texture: you've got your crunchy root vegetable in a tangy condiment, roughly shaped patties with mint and parsley and a bit of lemon to bring to mind the Mediterranean.

I deviated from Nigel's directions quite a bit, though. In addition to using fresh, instead of canned chickpeas, I also skipped the hot paprika in favor of sumac and added lemon zest to both the tzatziki and the fritter mix, wanting more lemony notes than spice. I also found, with trial and error, that one egg didn't quite cut it for me and my fritters; the first night I made these (yes, I've since made them twice), the one egg led to crunchy and tasty, yet broken fritters; with two eggs, however, I got the texture and wholeness I craved. But even with two eggs, I found Nigel's advice to "flip [the fritters] confidently but tenderly" invaluable since these fritters are, at best, quite delicate. The extra required effort aside, this was just the right meal for my return to the kitchen. 

P.S. A happy mother's day to all the mothers out there! 

Chickpea Fritters with a Lemony Beet Tzatziki 

adapted from Nigel Slater's Tender

yields about 8-10 smallish fritters, with enough tzatziki to go around (the perfect dinner for 2)

For the lemony beet tzatziki:

one large raw beet (preferably a Chioggia, an heirloom variety with white and pink rings, which makes for a pretty tzatziki)

zest and juice of half a lemon

one clove garlic, crushed

200 grams (3/4 cup) plain Greek yogurt

sea salt and freshly ground pepper, to taste

a few fresh mint leaves, torn, for garnish

-Grate the beet roughly in a bowl and then stir in the lemon zest, juice and crushed garlic.

-Mix in the yogurt and stir until well combined.

-Season with salt and pepper and garnish with the torn mint leaves.

For the fritters:

one 14-ounce (400 gram) can chickpeas (drained and rinsed) or 350 grams freshly cooked chickpeas

2 cloves garlic

1 heaping teaspoon ground cumin

1 teaspoon ground coriander

1/2 heaping teaspoon sumac

zest of 1/2 lemon

a small bit of sea salt and freshly ground pepper

2 eggs

a small handful of both fresh flat-leaf parsley and fresh mint, chopped roughly

olive oil, for frying

lemon, for serving

-Place the chickpeas in a food processor with the garlic, cumin, coriander, sumac, lemon zest and salt and pepper.

-Pulse a few times to combine. 

-Add the first egg and pulse to combine, then add the second egg and pulse again. Be careful not to pulse too much since you want the mixture to be textured, rather than smooth. 

-Scoop the pulsed chickpeas into a bowl and stir in the roughly chopped herbs. 

-Let sit for 10-15 minutes. 

-Once the mixture has firmed up a little, heat a shallow layer of olive oil in a heavy-bottomed, nonstick frying pan (I prefer cast iron).

-Add heaping tablespoons of the fritter batter to the hot skillet and press down lightly with a flat spatula.

-Let them cook for 3-4 minutes or until the underside is golden. 

-Flip over with a spatula, quickly, but gently, and let that side cook for another 3-4 minutes. 

-Remove from the heat and set on a waiting serving plate. Repeat with the remaining batter. 

-Serve with the tzatziki and additional lemon for sprinkling.

Of Mice and Men

But Mousie, thou art no thy lane,

In proving foresight may be vain:

The best laid schemes o' mice an' men

Gang aft a-gley.

An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain

For promised joy. -Robert Burns ("To a Mouse")

Last Friday we discovered that there was a mouse in the house. Needless to say, this was a horrifying discovery; I love my home, I keep it clean and there's something really alarming about one's safe haven (both the apartment as a whole and the kitchen in particular) being breached by creepy-crawly outsiders. However, it was also a discovery that wasn't nearly as surprising as it might have been had there not been the tell-tale sounds of scratching and squeaking in our walls earlier in the week as I graded the last of the Russian homework. There is no good time for a mouse to visit--it is the eternal unwanted guest, along with its repulsive cousin the rat--but the last week of the semester, when you are swamped with last-minute things and you have promised your students home-cooked food on the last day of class, is particularly bad. But, at the end of the day, it's also survivable, even when you, like I did, rather stupidly ate half a cookie that a mouse had nibbled on (obviously, I didn't have a clue that I was eating damaged goods; while I have preached the benefits of being bold in the past, I strongly encourage that we all steer clear of all packages of food that have been clumsily broken into). Yes, I have gone where nobody wants to go and I've now read enough mouse facts either to dominate one day in a random field of mouse trivia on Jeopardy or to self-diagnose (and finally be right when you want only to be wrong) that I have leptospirosis.

But even when a mouse starts paying late-night visits to your cupboards and the battle lines are clearly drawn, life must go on in all of its glory. There are always things to celebrate: friendships, birthdays, the beauty of the state that you call home, the fact that spring with all of its bounty has arrived at last (asparagus, rhubarb, strawberries!!). And so this was what we did. Sometimes, the only way to deal with your problems is to abandon them temporarily. Or, in this case, to let your dirty silverware and various kitchen utensils soak in bleach-scented water while you go off to a birthday picnic in Monterey. Although urgent, the mouse could wait. In a way, changing our plans to deal with it would only have been letting it win.

So, we packed two salads--broccoli and Marcona almonds in a vinaigrette and a Persian-inspired Rhubarb and Strawberry salad with a Mint Balsamic Dressing, the only things that could easily be prepared in our "kitchen under siege"--and went. It is no mean feat to drive to Monterey and back to Berkeley in one day, but it was well worth all the time spent in the car. It was one of those afternoons when everything was just right: the air in Monterey, although crisper than we would have liked, vibrated with the kind of freshness that you get only when you're right next to the water; the company was lively and festive; and the food, the food was sophisticated, yet humble picnic fare. In addition to the salads, there was a wide selection of cheese and cured meats, from Mortadella to Drunken Goat Cheese, fresh fruit and a rich chocolately chocolate cake with tart raspberry filling. And then we went to the Monterey Aquarium, which, even if you've been there before, is still nothing short of enthralling. Where else do you get to see such 70s-inspired jelly-fish lights and leafy sea dragons?

Given what was waiting for us at home, it was rather sad to pack up and leave Monterey that evening. This small city by the sea has felt somewhat magical both times I've been there, a kind of refuge from worry. To pass some of this magic along, I want to share the recipe for one of the salads I made for the picnic, particularly the rhubarb strawberry salad that showcases the fleeting tastes of spring. 

This salad came to me by way of The New Persian Kitchen and, yes, I am more than a little obsessed with this book. In fact, I would happily cook all of its recipe offerings, from cover to cover (the good news is that there's still time for me to do this). There's just something about it that speaks to me; it highlights the flavors and things that I want to be eating: interestingly textured and fragrant dishes that feature grains, beans and herbs, and that also rely on a combination of tart and spicy ingredients. And this salad was no different. While there is a small part of me that tires of the endless combination of rhubarb and strawberries, I couldn't help but feel that Shafia's recipe did something even more intriguing with this spring power couple: it placed them in a salad and added not only zesty radishes to the mix, but toasted pistachios and freshly chopped mint (this also shows how far I've come in my troubled relationship with mint). Refreshing is hardly the right word to describe what you encounter; it revitalizes the senses and gives a palate starved for spring a more than reassuring push in the right direction. Given my fondness for this salad, I'll be especially sad to see rhubarb go this year, but I'm at least comforted by thought that it will return next spring. 

Let's hope the same can't be said for the mouse.

P.S. (6 May 2013) The mouse seems to be gone, which is something worth celebrating!! It couldn't have been done without the Greek and his father, who put their engineering skills to work to build a wall of metal grating to block the holes that we discovered in our cupboards and drawers. After much cleaning and slowly putting our kitchen back together, westerday we were happy to host a Greek Easter celebration for our friends. I remade the salad--a keeper!--and took a photo. Because it was taken in calmer circumstances, it is now the lead photo of this post. The original salad photo is still below, however.  Both have their merits.

Rhubarb, Strawberry and Baby Arugula Salad with Pistachios and a Mint-Balsamic Dressing

adapted from Louisa Shafia's The New Persian Kitchen
yields about 6-8 picnic-sized servings

I have tried this salad the way the recipe was written--that is, with radishes--but, when I was making it for the picnic I was in such a rush that I forgot to add them.  The good news is that, by having opted for baby arugula, I didn't lose the heat that the radishes bring to the salad. In a way, as much as I love radishes, I think I prefer the salad this way.
       I also opted to add more mint to this salad, dividing the required large handful into two and mixing some into the bowl of greens with the shaved rhubarb, pistachios and strawberries and mixing the remaining bit into the dressing. I felt that this flavored the dressing a little, infusing it with a subtle, yet recognizably clean minty flavor.

For the dressing: 
1 clove garlic, run through the garlic press
2 tablespoons balsamic vinegar
3 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
1/2 of a large handful of freshly chopped spearmint
salt and pepper to taste

-In a small bowl or container, whisk the vinegar and olive oil together with the pressed garlic.
-Add the mint and whisk lightly; salt and pepper to taste. Set aside and let sit for at least 20 minutes before mixing the dressing with the salad.

For the salad: 
 5 cups of baby arugula (or plain arugula, roughly torn into smaller pieces)
1 rhubarb stalk, thinly shaved
1 cup strawberries, hulled and thinly sliced
1/3 cup toasted pistachios, roughly chopped
the remaining 1/2 handful fresh spearmint
sea salt and freshly ground pepper (or, preferably, pink peppercorn and Grains of Paradise mix)

-Place the arugula in a large bowl.
-Scatter the rhubarb shavings, sliced strawberries, pistachios and the remaining half handful of chopped spearmint on top.
-Salt and pepper lightly and then toss.
-Pour the dressing over the salad and toss gently to combine.
-Serve immediately.

Persia in a Loaf Pan

"When one door of happiness closes, another opens; but often we look so long at the closed door that we do not see the one which has been opened for us.” -Helen Keller

"It's life," she said. These were the words my dissertation adviser offered me when, in our final meeting of the semester (of my whole graduate student career, really [!!]), I told her that I would have to file in the summer instead of in May. It was not the response I was anticipating, but so much about these past few weeks has been unexpected that little could well and truly surprise me at this point.

I've been quiet here for longer than I was expecting, but not without cause. Last week one of our professors passed away, which brought both sadness and a sense of reality to our tiny, often uneventful part of the world. It was strange to go to a funeral with my friends and colleagues, to see our professors grieving--the very same professors who, in an academic setting, can be so intimidating and seem so untouchable--and to know that a jovial, erudite man who only days before was envisioning finishing yet another scholarly manuscript would never again give an enthusiastic lecture on Russia in the eighteenth century. On some level, it just felt so surreal, not at all an appropriate time to talk about a Persian loaf cake.

This feeling only continued throughout the weekend. For some reason, I was plagued with a horrible headache, one that just kept coming back. A part of me believes that it was induced by the events of last week, in addition to the thick stream of incense that constitutes an essential part of any Orthodox service, while another part thinks that it was the thought of Monday's dissertation meeting weighing on my mind. What initially seemed worrisome, however, turned into 20 business-like minutes; there was compassion, well wishes and advice. And then the all-important signature/approval page was signed in advance of my completing the last chapter, the editing and the endless formatting that is half the battle of filing a dissertation. But I have to keep reminding myself that it's important to take it all one step at a time; the work is hardly done yet. The signature signified an important, albeit a small step forward. But it just might have been the push that I had been craving, something like a vote of confidence.

Then, with that good news to buoy my spirits, other good things started happening: in a matter of days, the Greek's parents arrived, a good friend passed her Qualifying Exam and I began to wade into a preliminary search for a post-dissertation job. Everything is suddenly moving so quickly that it's hard to know what to do first. I'm not even sure I know what to think about all of this. After seven years of being a Slavist, it's difficult to imagine who I am without the daily dose of Dostoevsky, Pushkin and company. Or who I am outside of a classroom, or even outside of a larger academic setting. There are moments when I think I know, but I'm excited to see what new surroundings and challenges will bring me. Maybe my fear sometimes makes me want to pause on this moment--as imperfect and thankless as it can often be--but I know that I would just be doing a disservice to myself if I were to attempt to turn back now. Not to look beyond this life would be cheating myself of all that could be and, at the end of the day, there are many ways to make a life. 

In the spirit of discovery, of going beyond habits (both mine and yours) and of celebrating life in all of its simultaneous glory and misery, I offer you today a Persian loaf cake. My obsession with the flavors of Persian cuisine continues, although I should confess that this cake was baked at the very beginning of spring break. The photos have been sitting abandoned in a titled blog post since late March, waiting for me to return to them in a quiet moment. That moment has finally arrived.

This cake is a lovely little thing, studded with walnuts and flavored with one of my all-time favorite sweets, halva. In Arabic, halva simply means "sweet," but I first became familiar with it in two other contexts: the first was while I lived in Russia and was looking for a candy to eat. I was also rather desperate for peanut butter and, when I discovered the red and gold foil covered candies with "Khalva" written on them, I discovered something that was not only akin to peanut butter (it was crushed sesame or sunflower seeds), but also covered in chocolate. To this day, I can't go into a Russian or Eastern European grocery store without buying these candies. The second context was a cinnamon-scented dessert the Greek makes from semolina; I love it only a little less than I do the Russian and Middle Eastern-style halva. And in this cake, I found another new way of enjoying halva (I will happily try them all): two layers of light, crumbly dough with crumbled halva, walnuts and cinnamon in the middle and cinnamon-coated top. It reminds me of coffee cake, but one that is more subtle in terms of its flavor and only lightly sweetened. The real star of this cake is the halva, which melts in the oven and creates caramelized pockets of nutty goodness in the center of the cake. It's the kind of cake you want to reach for in the afternoon when you need a pick-me-up. That, in and of itself, should be a glowing endorsement. 

Walnut and Halva Cake

yields 8 pieces

adapted from Ottolenghi's article on Food of Life

Because I got this recipe out of a British column, I used weight measurements instead of the more standard volume measurements. I do find these easier to work with when baking--mainly because I find that it saves time. 

In terms of changes, I altered the method a little, finding the order of steps to be a little confusing for my tastes; I also used plain old cane sugar instead of caster and  demerrera when muscovado was called for. My halva was also not the recommended plain kind; I opted for the marbled kind (a mix of light and dark halva), whose flavor I love. I also think that this cake, when I make it in the future, could benefit from the chocolate covered halva that I mentioned earlier--both in the middle and on top. I think a layer of halva--whether chocolate covered, plain or marbled--would also make a wonderful addition to this cake since it's the stand-out ingredient. 

For the cake:

85 grams unsalted butter, at room temperature, plus more for greasing the plan

100 grams cane sugar

2 medium eggs, whisked lightly

200 grams all-purpose flour

3/4 teaspoon baking powder

3/4 teaspoon baking soda

a pinch of salt

130 grams of sour cream (or Greek yogurt)

For the topping:

60 grams unsalted butter

120 grams walnuts, roughly chopped

1 teaspoon ground cinnamon

25 grams demerara sugar

170 grams marbled halva, broken into large pieces (about 1-2 inches)

-Preheat the oven to 320 F and grease a loaf tin with a small bit of butter. Line the base and sides of the pan with parchment paper (this will help you to lift the delicate cake out of the pan, so do not skip this step!).

-Put the 60 grams of butter in a small saucepan on medium-low heat. Allow it to melt and then let sizzle for a few minutes until its color is light brown and it gives off a nutty smell.

-Remove the butter from the heat and let cool. Then, mix the butter walnuts and cinnamon together and divide the mixture into two.

-Take one half of the topping mixture and stir the demerara sugar into it. Then, set aside.

-Now, sift together the flour, baking powder and soda and a pinch of salt. Set aside.

-Cream the butter and sugar together until fluffy, then add the eggs one at a time.

-Then, add some of the dry ingredients, then some of the sour cream. Keep adding alternately, ending with the sour cream. Be careful not to over-mix; the mixer should be on its lowest setting for this step. 

-Spread half the batter on the base of the loaf pan, smoothing it out into an even layer with a spoon or spatula. 

-Scatter the sugarless nut mix over this layer evenly and then place bits of the crumbled halva throughout the sugarless nut mix. 

-Then, spread the remaining batter on top, smoothing it with a spoon or spatula. Sprinkle the sugary nut mix on top. 

-Bake for 40-45 minutes, until a cake tester or toothpick comes out clean. Let cool for about 20 minutes and then carefully remove the cake from the pan with the parchment sling you've created. 

-Let cool and then serve with either whipped cream or vanilla ice cream.