tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-40311218908546048772024-03-14T03:47:01.008-07:00Dining with DostoevskyLife, literature and the meals that happen in between. Katyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04290135991797809997noreply@blogger.comBlogger350125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4031121890854604877.post-42692810872798013362017-07-20T15:39:00.001-07:002017-07-20T15:41:24.514-07:00Greener Pastures<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
After seven good years here at Blogger, I'm sad to say I'll be departing from this site forevermore.<br />
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Not to worry, however, I will still be blogging--just at a new site. If you're interested in following me, my love of words and food will now be exclusively featured on WordPress at my very own personalized domain: <a href="https://diningwithdusty.com/">https://diningwithdusty.com</a> (I thought about dropping the Dusty for Dostoevsky, but figured I'd have a better chance of keeping you with me if I didn't force you to spell out long Russian names <span style="font-family: "apple color emoji"; font-size: 13px;">😉</span>). </div>
Katyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04290135991797809997noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4031121890854604877.post-23785866040464797362017-07-19T13:29:00.000-07:002017-07-20T06:36:06.654-07:00"Texas Forever"<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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We have all been brought up on stories from the "Panhandle," the northern part of Texas that is truly the shape and just as flat as the handle of an old pot iron skillet. Perhaps the most famous tale is the myth that in winter there is nothing between Amarillo and the North Pole but a barbed wire fence--very often the fence gets blown down. - Mary Faulk Koock (<i>The Texas Cookbook</i>) </div>
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Texans see themselves as a distillation of the best qualities of America: friendly, confident, hardworking, patriotic, neurosis-free. Outsiders see us as the nation’s id, a place where rambunctious and disavowed impulses run wild. - Lawrence Wright ("<a href="http://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2017/07/10/americas-future-is-texas">America's Future is Texas</a>")</div>
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Almost everything I know about Texas has come from the small screen. I have vague memories from my childhood of the big hair, extravagant shoulder pads and many scandals of "Dallas"; I'm not sure I even <i>knew</i> what I was watching, but I do remember the brouhaha over who shot JR, which is funny when you consider that I was born in 1983, and this event took place in the final moments of the season finale in 1980. But such is the beauty of syndication, and these memories, though it feels like I was there for the "real thing," must stem from watching reruns with my grandma, as she would crochet in the rocking chair, and I would be reading, one eye on the words before me and the other on the screen. Looking back, it's hardly a surprise that I need glasses.</div>
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In my teens, after becoming rather obsessed with Rock Hudson in <i><a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0053172/">Pillow Talk</a>, </i>I sought out other movies of his and, though few people can claim this honor, I watched the entire 201-minute <i><a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0049261/?ref_=fn_al_tt_1">Giant</a></i>, a family saga featuring a young and lovely Liz Taylor who marries a wealthy Texan rancher. Texas, as portrayed in the pop-cultural imagination, was a land of sprawling wealth, as well as familial empire and struggle, not to mention oil. Maybe I didn't look very hard, or maybe such examples are simply difficult to find, but I encountered no books or films to challenge my rather one-dimensional view of the Lone Star state. By the time the film version of <i><a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0390022/?ref_=nv_sr_2">Friday Night Lights</a> </i>came out in 2004, I was not only almost done with college, but thanks to the machinations of George W., my ideas about Texas--largely about its politics--felt firmly fixed: deeply red, disturbingly ignorant, and indifferent to progress.</div>
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Flash forward to 2008, the year of the Master's Exam, when a wise friend suggested that, after I fell victim to one too many colds, I stop spending every waking minute with Tolstoy, Dostoevsky, Bakhtin and the like and instead give <i><a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0758745/">Friday Night Lights</a> </i>a try. I was skeptical and even more so after the fairy-tale like opening scene (if you've seen it, you will know what I am talking about) between Lyla Garrity and Jason Street. If I still had the emails from my UC Berkeley account, I am sure I would find one from me asking this friend if her secret motive was to poison my mind with such saccharine schlock and one from her assuring me just to stick with it since it was worth it. She was, of course, right, so right, and my ideas about Texas again shifted, as I fell in love with Tammy and Coach Taylor, the tragic(ally beautiful) Tim Riggins, and the big skies of (supposedly) rural (but really Austin,) Texas. My own hometown being similarly obsessed with football on Friday nights and, during certain parts of the year, <i>every </i>night<i>, </i>I began to think that, quite possibly, I knew these people. They were, in any case, much more relatable to me than the ranchers, oil barons and limited government-loving politicians of my first encounters with the state. More importantly, I started to realize that maybe there was more than one Texas and that I would like to experience some of these different "Texases" myself.</div>
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After a foolish missed opportunity to travel to San Antonio in 2010 passed me by, I finally got another chance on our road trip from California to Delaware. But, as with all trips, choices have to be made and, as the Grand Canyon and Santa Fe were absolute musts for both of us, this meant that, unless we opted to take a serious detour south and spend a few more days driving and traveling around, it was unlikely that we would get to hit any of the big Texan cities. It saddened me that it was ultimately Panhandle or bust--or, more specifically, Amarillo, which according to the Greek's calculations, put us perfectly en route for a stopover in Fayetteville, AR, or some random city in Oklahoma. I was, however, more willing to put my faith in the Texas Panhandle than in the plains of Oklahoma, so several months before we left California, I set about finding a place for us to stay in Texas. Besides your basic major hotels, I was able to find exactly one bed and breakfast, the Adaberry Inn, which caught my eye not only because of its evocative name (if you are wondering what exactly an adaberry is and if they actually exist, the answer is is no; this is just an evocative name), but also because it was advertised as the place Oprah had stayed in when she was visiting Amarillo for a trial involving <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/1998/01/21/us/talk-of-the-town-burgers-v-oprah.html">bad beef and mad cow disease</a> (if this seems surreal, it, unlikely adaberries, really did happen). Call me crazy, but my reasoning basically went: If it was good enough for Oprah, it was definitely good enough for me.</div>
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But when we finally pulled into the parking lot of the inn--one of the only hotels we reached before darkness fully descended--having made a left at the local Walmart and having driven past a series of homes that looked like they had been made with the same cookie cutter, any hope I had for Oprah-esque glamour had already faded away. The house was pretty, clean, and large, quite possibly the biggest home on the block. The decor was tasteful, and everything was as advertised, although, as I had rather nostalgically selected the San Francisco room (each room was named after a major US city) when I made the booking, the room looked no different from what I imagined the New York or Chicago room might: exposed brick, neutral colors, white furniture. It had its charms, but ultimately had as much in common with San Francisco as the island landscape background we stood before in the chapel at the New Castle County Courthouse did with Hawaii.</div>
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We were hungry, but, as per usual, faced the usual dilemma: when you're driving a Penske truck across the country and you find yourself in a town where you need to drive to get around, where exactly do you go to eat? How far are you willing to drive, even in a state where the signs dotting the highway promise friendliness rather than danger ("Drive Friendly, the Texan Way")? Where exactly is your mammoth vehicle going to fit? Whereas, in an ideal world, I think we would have driven to a local barbecue joint to try some of the <a href="http://www.texasmonthly.com/list/the-50-best-bbq-joints-in-the-world/tylers-barbeque/">mesquite-smoked offerings of the Panhandle</a>, we decided not to get back on the highway and, instead, to drive to a local steakhouse (clearly, this is the precise moment when our Amarillo adventure diverged from Oprah's), <a href="http://www.hoffbrausteaks.com/amarillo/">Hofbrau Steaks</a>.</div>
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Upon being seated, I studied the menu as I would a list of vocabulary words before a test. This was not specific to our being in Texas, as everywhere we went, I wanted to know what exactly made Grand Canyon cuisine unique or the New Mexican offerings of Santa Fe. While I'm not sure I ever came up with a good answer besides a wealth of peppers and chilies (green and red), prickly pear and piñon, in the case of Texas, there were the dishes that books like Lisa Fain's <i>Homesick Texan</i> teach you to expect from Lone-Star state cuisine: chicken-fried steak, fried okra, black-eyed peas, peach cobbler, and banana pudding. Everything struck me as homey comfort food with few tricks up its sleeve, save for the quality of the ingredients (everything really was fresh, plentiful, and full of flavor) and the ability to emphasize the very Texan-ness of their offerings. For example, the margarita menu, rather unsurprisingly, surpassed the salad options by a mile.<br />
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The funny thing about the whole experience was how absolutely aware we were that not only were we in a new state, but that we were in the south. After the waiter came to take our drink order, the Greek asked me if I had seen that. I looked up from the menu to ask him what; lost in my debate between fish and more gluttonous options, I really hadn't noticed anything. He said, "His name is Braxton!" I must have continued to stare blankly because the next thing out of the Greek's mouth was, "Braxton like the General in the Civil War! <a href="http://www.history.com/topics/american-civil-war/braxton-bragg">Braxton Bragg</a>!" While I still had no idea what he was talking about because, unlike my husband, I am a) not terribly interested in military history, and b) possess significantly less knowledge about events like the Civil War, I was nevertheless able to marvel at the fact that, by these details alone, we were far from California. And it turned out that Braxton had no patience for my desire to eat as a Texan would. When I ordered my black-eyed pea salad with Gulf-tilapia, he asked which dressing I wanted. I answered his question with a question, wanting to know what he would recommend and which was the most common choice. He told me people usually just ordered what they liked; I again asked what that might be. He got flustered, insisting that anything worked and that he would come back in a minute after I had another minute to think about it. I was a little baffled--how utterly avoidable--but even though I felt his reluctance to take any responsibility for my dining choices (conservativism at its most noble--or cowardly?) was a touch silly given his profession, I also felt that I too must have been acting my fair share of absurd (salad dressing does not equal life and death). When he came back, I confidently told him Ranch, which he said was a good choice. Clearly, in the Great Salad Dressing Kerfuffle of Our Road Trip, it was Yankee: 0, Texan: 0, Civility: 1.</div>
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The next morning, we got another taste of Texan Civility at breakfast when we discovered that we weren't, as we had believed, the only guests at the inn. The other guests were born and bred Texans, from Abilene and all y'all and Texas twang, and, as they sat down at the table across from us to chat while the innkeeper made us all crepes, told us that they were there to celebrate their 25th wedding anniversary. The Greek, completely missing my look of warning, was quick to volunteer that we had just gotten engaged, to which the lady asked, "Y'all aren't married?" I explained that no, we were moving across the country together from Berkeley to Delaware and had just gotten engaged at the Grand Canyon. I watched her face while I did so and, although it's wrong to do this and probably isn't even what she was really thinking and thus isn't fair to your interlocutor, quickly translated the raising of her eyebrows and gestures to mean that she was hearing, "We live, have lived and will continue to live in sin. Probably, we would burn in hell, not least because we are from the evil land of hippies and liberal mores, but give us some credit because we are attempting to fix our wrong." She then asked if we had family in Delaware, at which point the Greek said he was from Europe and, on her face, I saw us enter an even lower circle of hell based on the fact that we were probably secular socialists to boot. To be fair, I was not immune from the same level of judgment: I heard Abilene and I heard "small-town Texas." I heard the question about marriage and I assumed extremely religious, if not a pro-life holy roller. Am I proud of these thoughts? No. I also know they represent the worst of America and the reason for all of the division in this country. Did our obvious differences mean we couldn't put aside our differences, make conversation, and break bread together? No, although I almost completely ruined things when, for a brief moment, my mind had wandered, probably over these exact thoughts, and, whereas I heard, "Would you like the cream for your coffee?", I was really being asked if I wanted to say grace before breakfast. The horrified look on their faces (and the Greek's) when I politely declined is something I will never forget and, although I am <i>not</i> the saying grace at breakfast kind, I apologized and joined hands with them. Yankee: 0, Texan(s): 1, Civility: 2. And, you know what, they were nice people, friendly and open. The woman in particular was very chatty and, by the end of the conversation, was wishing us good luck in our marriage. Perhaps we had, through good manners alone, made it out of hell and into purgatory.</div>
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I will admit that, before we got there, I had my reservations about Amarillo; it was not the Texas--rolling hills, lakes and the smell of barbecue and breakfast tacos in the air--that I wanted to experience, but it ended up pleasantly surprising me. There were moments when I wondered what in the world we were going to do while there, but the city has a botanical garden, an art museum, and is surrounded by beautiful places where you can hike; however, we decided to go to two of the offerings that we felt could exist only in Texas: <a href="https://www.tripadvisor.com/Attraction_Review-g30165-d144342-Reviews-Cadillac_Ranch-Amarillo_Texas.html">Cadillac Ranch</a>, home of ten abandoned Cadillacs that are there, for your pleasure, waiting to be eternally spray painted by the ranch's visitors, and the <a href="https://www.tripadvisor.com/Attraction_Review-g30165-d3264903-Reviews-Jack_Sisemore_Traveland_RV_Museum-Amarillo_Texas.html">RV Museum</a>, which truly was one of the coolest little museums you could ever find and, even better, is free. I really didn't take part in the graffiti-fueled fun at Cadillac Ranch, but I did thoroughly enjoy seeing the evolution of the RV, the retro fabric and the RV-related evocations of different decades in American life. It may seem hard to believe, but we spent so much time there that we were, as per usual, late getting on the road to Arkansas. </div>
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I've said this before in the context of my posts about our road trip, but you don't realize how deceptive maps really are until you're on the road and you grasp that, despite a place's seeming proximity, it is actually hours away. Or you forget how incredibly vast America is. Although we had traveled around 1,500 miles to arrive in Texas, we still had another 1,500 more to go.</div>
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It's now funny to think that, several years and thousands of miles later, we might, in the next year, be making Texas our permanent home. There are moments when I wonder if this was somehow inevitable: Was it the love of tortillas and tomatillos that was telling? The excitement with which I received the <i><a href="http://www.homesicktexan.com/p/homesick-texan-cookbook.html">Homesick Texan Cookbook</a> </i>a long time ago now from a friend and quickly made Tex-Mex dishes a part of our Thanksgiving and post-Thanksgiving traditions? The fact that the Greek and I use <i><a href="http://publishing.andrewsmcmeel.com/books/detail?sku=9781449424206">Tipsy Texan</a> </i>as our go-to classic and creative cocktail guide and that we celebrate most things with Amaro Milkshakes, the ideal combination of dessert, alcoholic beverage and digestif? </div>
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Of course, none of these things mean much in the great scheme of things, save for the Greek's and my shared affinity for Texan flavors and creations, which should make our transition all the easier. Whether you share our affinity for Texan recipes or not, the Amaro Shake is not only easy to love, but also easy to make, as you are essentially blending together amaro, ice cream and milk (or, in our case, almond milk, which lightens it a little. In response to such blasphemy, Texan state legislators would most likely shout: "Texas is being California-ized and you may not even be noticing it!"). It is like <a href="http://www.bonappetit.com/recipe/brandy-milk-punch">Brandy or Bourbon Milk Punch</a>, but icier, creamier, and with a sophisticated bitter kick. Ultimately, I would argue that the shake may just represent the best of Texas itself: equal parts bitter and sweet, pioneering in spirit, fancy but understated, and constantly surprising given the complexity of amaro (or, in the larger metaphor, its politics). Whatever the combination, I'll take it, especially on a hot and muggy summer day. </div>
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<b>Amaro Milkshakes</b><br />
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Serves 2<br />
Adapted, with few modifications, from <i><a href="http://publishing.andrewsmcmeel.com/books/detail?sku=9781449424206">Tipsy Texan</a></i><br />
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The recipe, as written, is fairly rich and decadent, since it calls for a whole pint of vanilla ice cream. We usually cut this down to half a pint with maybe an extra scoop, as nobody likes an overly thin milkshake. You may also, as we do, substitute almond milk for cow's milk, although I wouldn't recommend anything like coconut milk, since it might overpower the amaro.<br />
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3 ounces Ramazzotti amaro (this brand is good amaro, but isn't so expensive that you might have qualms about putting it in a milkshake)<br />
3-4 ounces almond milk (or whole or 2% milk)<br />
1/2 pint vanilla ice cream or gelato (or more to taste)<br />
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Place the ingredients in a blender and blend.<br />
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Pour into two parfait or highball glasses and serve with straws. </div>
Katyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04290135991797809997noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4031121890854604877.post-13436818399976417642017-06-28T14:53:00.000-07:002017-06-28T14:53:01.151-07:00The Holy Grail<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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You will have only one story. You'll write your one story many ways. Don't ever worry about story. You have only one. -Elizabeth Strout (<i><a href="http://www.elizabethstrout.com/books/my-name-is-lucy-barton/">My Name is Lucy Barton</a></i>)</div>
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If you've read your fair share of world literature or seen a lot of classic movies, you might have noticed that novelty isn't always the name of the game. Dickens eternally had an axe to grind with the justice system, Dostoevsky liked to explore the aftermath of crime, and Kurosawa often relied on the conflict between personal perception and reality/objective truth. This isn't to say that any storyteller fails to deviate from his or her central preoccupation or cannot explore a topic from different angles; after all, if you look at the collected works of Jane Austen, you realize that there is more than one way to tell the story of courtship and marriage. Before getting too far ahead of myself, I should make clear that I am by no means comparing myself to any of the great authors/auteurs of the world. It's more that, as this is the anniversary month (7!) of this little blog, I've realized that, while I am now free of both my dissertation and academia (perhaps not entirely in spirit, but that's a topic for another day), I'm perhaps no closer to solving the essential question that has long served as a motivating factor in my keeping this blog alive: how to record a life--or, as we used to ask over and over again in my undergraduate Chekhov seminar, "What's worth telling?"--as well how to live a relatively happy, thoughtful and fulfilling one with good (not always healthy/healthful) food and work/life balance. As far as a blog's ambitions go, this is small fry (I do not aim to break the internet with cutesy cakes or cat memes, nor do I consider my plates and bowls 'props'), but it is, in a way, your bread and butter story of adulthood and the constant realignment of expectations and identity. </div>
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Take, for example, this very post: if all had gone as planned, I would have finished the story of our 2015 road trip by now, not to mention have written about a few recipes that have long been on my (ever-growing) list of posts to write. Considering that I have yet to do either of these things, it's possible that I lack the proper discipline, or that there are simply aren't enough hours in the day. Though this latter statement is, in fact, true, I would also say that it's nice sometimes to be swept away by the unexpected, sometimes a cocktail that speaks to the best of spring or a birthday cake creation that goes better than expected. Not only can one not always live according to plan, but there is also the fact that some stories are best told at certain times (what is worth telling <i>right now</i>?) and, in the case of some of these more seasonally driven recipes, there are very short windows in which to tell them. </div>
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Sour cherries just happen to fall into this category and, given their fleeting season, represent what I would call the holy grail of summer fruit. I never had much luck finding them in California, either because of their general availability during the drought or maybe the sheer demand, and our first summer in Delaware involved our missing the entire cherry season (not that I am complaining, as Greece and Portugal provided us with plenty). But, after learning that sour cherries are rather abundant in Delaware, I had vowed that this year would finally be different and that we would go and pick some at a local orchard. Although there was a brief moment when it seemed that the best laid cherry-picking plans, what with the Greek's beam time at the national lab, our impromptu lab-related road trip to Illinois and back, and the fact that, as of this past Monday, he was again leaving, this time for a weeklong trip to California (let's be honest here: while I am happy to do things alone, nobody goes fruit picking alone), would again go awry, I am happy to report that we made it. As the sun beat down this past Sunday, which also happened to be our (second) first wedding anniversary, we arrived at the orchard with forty-five minutes to spare. While you might think that this hardly gives you enough time to pull a few cherries, a fairly delicate procedure, off the trees, we managed to amass no less than 10 pounds in 45 minutes. And because I happen to become rathe shameless at orchards, when I heard the sound of one of the little carts the employees drive up and down the rows of trees, I stopped it and asked the driver if he wouldn't mind driving me to the patch of sour cherry trees. Yes, for a brief moment, I embraced the use of a golf cart, rather than depending on my own two legs, which means that I kind of <a href="http://thehill.com/homenews/administration/335424-trump-rode-golf-cart-while-g7-leaders-walked-through-siciliy">pulled a Donald</a>...but, in my defense, time was of the essence and the sour cherries were waiting.</div>
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Of course, it is a little crazy to buy that many cherries right before your husband is leaving for a weeklong trip and the shelf life of cherries is short. It is also crazy to buy that many cherries when you will be the only one around to pit them and to eat any pie that might feature them. But maybe when it comes to fruit, we are simply <i>not</i> sane people. While the Greek, like all Greeks, has a soft spot for sour cherries, I happen to have a thing for preserving fruit, which means that, come the winter, I can not only dream of summer, but can reliably taste it, too. This makes us a good pair and, when we got home from the orchard, we set about tackling our treasure. By the time the Greek departed on Monday, we had already made one batch of <a href="http://www.thewednesdaychef.com/the_wednesday_chef/2015/06/marisa-mcclellans-cherry-butter.html">cherry butter</a> (<i>sidenote</i>: in all the preserving books I have, you'd be hard pressed to find many interesting recipes for cherry jam, whereas you can easily find fifteen for anything related to strawberries) and a batch of sour cherry spoon sweet (<i>glyko vissino</i>), which, as both my own experience shows and Diane Kochilas writes in <i>The Country Cooking of Greece, </i>is "the most popular" of all spoon sweets. A spoon sweet (<i>glyko tou koutaliou</i>), in general, refers to the Greek way of preserving and serving fruit (see <a href="http://diningwithdusty.blogspot.com/2012/11/of-jujubes-and-spoon-sweets.html">this</a> and <a href="http://diningwithdusty.blogspot.com/2013/06/a-spoon-sweet-for-summer_7.html">this</a>); the fruit is preserved with a thick sugar or grape must syrup and, when guests come to your home, you offer them a spoonful of fruit with syrup on a small crystal serving dish with a glass of water. It is but a sampling of something sweet with something cool to wash it down. I went rather crazy for them the first summer I was in Greece--you can also eat them with yogurt or on ice cream--and continue to be fascinated by the variety (even nuts, flowers and vegetables can be preserved this way) that you can find. And if you get enough syrup, as you do with this recipe, you also get the added benefit of <i>vissinada</i>, a drink that consists of sour cherry syrup, water and ice.</div>
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The sour cherry spoon sweet, in addition to being the most popular, is probably also the best, as it straddles the line between sweet and sour. Of course, given the amount of sugar you use when making it, it is undeniably sweet, but, given the tartness of the cherries, it strikes a welcome balance. When making it, I did consider adding vanilla, another spice or even splash of alcohol, but after one year of being married to a Greek and almost seven years of a being in a relationship with one, the Greek love of tradition must be rubbing off on me. I literally thought to myself, "You can't do that, it's all about the flavor of the sour cherries," as if by adding a hint of vanilla I would have been committing blasphemy. Truly, I surprised myself. At the very end of the process, though, when adding the citrus juice, I did, as a small act of rebellion, opt to add a little lime, as well as lemon. For those Greeks shaking their heads in wonder, I would call this both something resembling progress and deference to tradition. Is this not the essence of Greekness itself? </div>
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<b>Sour Cherry Spoon Sweet (</b><b><i>Glyko vissino) </i></b><b>and Sour Cherry Syrup (<i>Vissinada</i>)</b></div>
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Slightly adapted from one of my favorite preserving books, Diana Henry's <i><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Salt-Sugar-Smoke-preserve-vegetables/dp/1845336755">Salt Sugar Smoke</a></i></div>
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Yields 3 8-ounce jars (half-pint jars) with cherries and syrup, as well as an additional 10 ounces of syrup*</div>
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If you're wondering why I followed Diana Henry's method instead of Diane Kochilas' or Vefa's, the reason is simple: it was a more streamlined, unfussy recipe, which, after pitting two pounds of cherries, is exactly what you want. The one thing I would say is that the yield I got was both greater than (in the case of the cherry spoon sweet) and less than (in the case of the extra syrup) than was promised. For me, though, I'm happier with the extra cherries, although the syrup does make for an awfully refreshing summer drink.</div>
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2 pounds sour cherries, stemmed and pitted (if you don't have a cherry pitter, you can always use a bobby pin or a sewing needle, although, in either case, do not wear white; also, be as gentle as possible, as you want the cherries to be whole, rather than halved)</div>
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4 cups granulated sugar</div>
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1 3/4 cups water</div>
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juice of 1/2 lemon and 1/2 lime (latter is heretical and thus optional)</div>
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Add the sugar and water to a large, heavy-bottomed saucepan or Dutch oven (you want something that has a lid) and slowly bring to a boil, stirring occasionally. </div>
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After the mixture comes to a boil, reduce the heat and let simmer for 5 minutes. Add the pitted cherries and simmer for another 5 minutes. Remove from the heat, then cover and let sit for at least 18, or up to 24, hours. </div>
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After leaving the cherries to infuse the liquid for the allotted time, remove them from the pot with a slotted spoon. Then, heat the liquid slowly, bringing it to a boil. In the meantime,, preheat the oven to 250 F and wash several small jars and a bottle in warm, soapy water. Set the jars and bottle on a clean cookie sheet and place in the oven for 20 minutes, then remove and set on a rack. Keep stirring until the liquid reaches 230 F on a candy thermometer. Remove from heat and, with a spoon or a tea strainer, skim off any scum that has risen to the top. </div>
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Return the fruit to the syrup, then gently stir in the lemon and lime juice. Ladle the cherries and syrup into the sterilized jars and seal; add the remaining syrup to the sterilized bottle and seal. Once cool, refrigerate both for up to four months--if they last that long. </div>
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Serve the spoon sweet with yogurt or ice cream or on its own a la Grecque. For the syrup, mix it with water or sparkling water and ice. </div>
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Katyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04290135991797809997noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4031121890854604877.post-28679236401042626752017-06-14T14:30:00.000-07:002017-06-14T14:30:08.361-07:00Food for Thought <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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I open up this time so I can feel all the other time around it. I can see it in sharp focus: a difference of this or that, the light or the dark. I am choosing the light. -Sarah Gerard (<i><a href="https://www.harpercollins.com/9780062434876/sunshine-state">Sunshine State</a>)</i></div>
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Adulthood is a funny thing. You may think that you've attained this coveted status, but the borders can be shockingly amorphous. Maybe you manage to pay the bills, to buy groceries, and to jump over all the necessary hurdles, but it can still be a struggle to keep the ship running tightly, let alone to stay afloat. Take me, for instance: even though I enjoy cooking, I sometimes experience hunger and wonder what in the world there is to eat. Although I am very conscious of the fact that I am the one who will (at least 90-95% of the time) have to prepare the food, there can still be a brief moment of surprise when I realize that it is going to take both effort and time. The same can be said for when the dust and laundry accumulate and the dog hits her bowl to be fed: you might be in the middle of something else, a TV show, a book or even another house-related task, and look around to wonder who will take care of this additional thing. It can be disheartening to realize that, if a mirror were present, you'd easily have your answer.<br />
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Maybe it's simply because of summer--the heat and the raging allergies--but I've been feeling tired lately. This could also be due to the fact that the Greek recently flew off to his homeland to attend the wedding of a college friend and, while he was off celebrating and swimming (no resentment, Brownie's honor!), I was in Delaware, managing not just the details of our daily life, but those of my mother and canine sibling. While I try not to get overly personal on this blog (there should be limits to one's [over]sharing of a life), this was not the easiest thing. And that, given the fact that my mother has MS, isn't entirely well, <i>and </i>can also be picky to boot (or maybe it's just that mothers are supposed to criticize their children when dust and laundry accumulate?), I felt the weight of my additional responsibilities acutely. This is how, despite the fact that my mother <i>does </i>have MS and should not do unhealthy things like smoke, I ended up at a convenience store on her birthday, trying to get the <i>exact </i>pack of cigarettes that she prefers. When I tried to figure out if gold or silver bands on a packet meant that one was healthier than the other, the woman behind the counter laughed as if I had said something truly funny. Her response: "No, gold, silver, they're all going to kill you."<br />
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<i>Lovely</i>.<br />
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Given that my <a href="http://diningwithdusty.blogspot.com/2014/12/cooking-and-baking-like-they-do.html">mother and I</a> are night and day, Jekyl and Hyde, Oscar and Felix all rolled into one, I also had to explain to her one day why we'd be eating chickpeas with carrots and couscous for dinner instead of the pizza she was requesting. I also attempted to limit her sugar consumption, an act for which I was deemed a "bossy tyrant." The words "food weirdo" may also have been used. Just to be clear, I consider both a compliment. But, as you can imagine, it's no wonder I started wondering what exactly makes an adult an adult...and trying to figure out if I could, Ivan Karamazov-style, "return my ticket" for something simpler and better, maybe even for the days when I was the child fighting against carrots and other vegetables, not to mention the tons of garlic that would perfume our food? For now, however, I guess this, life in all of its messy glory, is going to continue to be the way of things.<br />
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Since things have been busy, I thought now was as good a time as any to offer some food for thought; this collection offers articles both old and new, as well as, as I always hope, something illuminating and interesting for you all. If you're not a fan of links, then I can at least offer you my take on Lisa Fain's recipe for Houston-style green salsa, a recipe that I make often and also one of the things that I made when my mother was visiting and that she really enjoyed (we may be opposites in a lot of ways, but we do share a love of Tex-Mex/Mexican cuisine).</div>
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The beauty of the <a href="https://www.washingtonpost.com/video/local/weather/watch-rare-weather-phenomenon-at-grand-canon-creates-a-sea-of-clouds/2017/05/16/6419d250-3a50-11e7-a59b-26e0451a96fd_video.html">Grand Canyon</a> during a rare weather phenomenon. </div>
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After a bit of a reading draught, I recently devoured the incredibly short, but moving <i><a href="https://www.nytimes.com/2016/01/10/books/review/elizabeth-strouts-my-name-is-lucy-barton.html">My Name is Lucy Barton</a>. </i>Next up is a collection of essays about <a href="https://www.nytimes.com/2017/03/28/books/sunshine-state-sarah-gerard-gulf-jack-e-davis.html">Florida, a state that has long seemed an enigma not just to me, but to a large majority of Americans</a>.</div>
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In high school, I was obsessed with Edith Wharton and, in college, during the finals period before I would leave for a semester abroad, I recall sobbing like a baby in my dorm room as I frantically finished reading <i>The House of Mirth </i>(poor, beautiful Lily Barton, mistreated and misunderstood by all!). My personal favorite, though, is <i>The Age of Innocence, </i>which is why I was excited to find this article about what <a href="http://www.themillions.com/2017/04/edith-wharton-taught-marriage.html">that novel could teach readers about marriage</a>. If nothing else, it reminds you that rereading a novel can really enhance your understanding of it. </div>
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You can find hundreds of lists of "all the books that you should read," but this <a href="http://www.esquire.com/lifestyle/news/g2544/80-books-every-person-should-read/">one from Esquire </a>actually includes a wide range of authors and not just the usual suspects.</div>
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<a href="http://redux.slate.com/cover-stories/2017/05/daryl-bem-proved-esp-is-real-showed-science-is-broken.html">Is ESP real</a> or is the scientific method simply broken?</div>
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On <a href="https://www.eater.com/2017/4/18/15330248/tartine-all-day-cookbook-review">cookbooks and the myth of easy and everyday cooking</a>. </div>
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So many cookbooks contain flaws--layout issues, recipe errors and recipes that ask too much of the home cook--but some, as <a href="http://luckypeach.com/vegetable-cookbook-need/">Paula Forbes recently wrote in </a><i><a href="http://luckypeach.com/vegetable-cookbook-need/">Lucky Peach</a>,</i> are simply leakproof. </div>
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How to make <a href="http://drinks.seriouseats.com/2011/06/cocktail-101-how-to-make-shrub-syrups.html">shrub syrups</a> at home. </div>
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Some seasons of <i>Girls </i>were definitely better than others, and there were times when the Lena Dunham craze drove me crazy, but <a href="http://www.newyorker.com/culture/jia-tolentino/on-finally-watching-girls-a-different-and-better-show-than-id-been-led-to-imagine">the show was edgy, funny and not afraid to depict the despicable side of millennials</a>. RIP <i>Girls</i>. </div>
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Speaking of female-driven narratives, it was high time the <a href="http://www.npr.org/2017/04/13/523799211/new-film-celebrates-emily-dickinsons-poetry-and-quiet-passion">eccentric and talented Emily Dickinson got a movie of her own</a>. </div>
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On the risk of paying too much attention to Donald Trump and the <a href="http://www.slate.com/articles/news_and_politics/politics/2017/06/donald_trump_is_turning_us_all_into_awful_pundits.html">rise of everyday punditry</a>.<br />
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Why <a href="http://www.nationalreview.com/g-file/448508/james-comeys-donald-trump-testimony-pro-trump-derangement-syndrome">standards, rather than partisan zeal</a>, are essential to a healthy political system.</div>
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Cultural appropriation is a term that is thrown around a lot these days, but a <a href="https://www.washingtonpost.com/opinions/cultural-appropriation-is-a-problem-a-misguided-burrito-cart-is-not-part-of-it/2017/06/02/a45adbf4-47c8-11e7-bcde-624ad94170ab_story.html">burrito truck in Portland, Oregon seems like more than a bit of a stretch</a>. That said, calling the method of making tortillas "intellectual property" also seems to be more than a bit of a stretch. I really don't know where one draws the line when it comes to complex matters like these, but the preparation of certain foods in the age of globalization simply takes things too far. </div>
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When you think of wine country, you think of California, Italy, France--not <a href="http://www.foodandwine.com/travel/united-states/texas/best-wine-and-barbecue-texas-hill-country">Texas</a>, but <i>Food & Wine </i>recently suggested that perhaps it's time to reconsider the Lone Star State's offerings. </div>
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I plan on writing more about Portugal soon, but <i>Saveur</i> beat me to it, arguing that <a href="http://www.saveur.com/lisbon-portugal-restaurants-travel">Lisbon deserves more attention</a> (even though I want it to remain just as it is and not become overcrowded by tourists). </div>
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Later this summer, I will, for only the second time in our marriage and relationship (the first is right now, at a science compound right outside the midwestern splendor of Chicago), take advantage of my role as a science wife by accompanying the Greek to a conference in <a href="http://www.travelandleisure.com/travel-guide/florence">Florence</a>. I feel very lucky and plan on eating all of the gelato. I'm pretty sure that, by then, I will have more than earned it. </div>
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<b>Houston-Style Green Salsa</b></div>
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Adapted from Lisa Fain's excellent <i><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Homesick-Texan-Cookbook-Lisa-Fain/dp/1401324266">The Homesick Texan Cookbook</a></i></div>
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Yields about 2 cups of refreshing and tangy salsa</div>
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I am a huge fan of the tomatillo, so much so that I have planted both green and purple ones in my garden this year, which is why it is not at all surprising that not only do I love this recipe, but I also add more tomatillos than Fain calls for. This perhaps leads to an extra tangy salsa, so do feel free to modify the following recipe according to your tastes (Fain calls for 3/4 pound of tomatillos, but I usually use a pound). </div>
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1 pound tomatillos, husks removed </div>
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1 avocado, peeled and pitted</div>
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2 jalapeño peppers, stem removed and seeded (unless you like extra heat)</div>
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5 cloves garlic, peeled and chopped</div>
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juice of 1/2 lime (add the other half if the salsa needs more of a boost)</div>
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1/4 cup of cilantro</div>
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1/2 teaspoon kosher salt, or more to taste</div>
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Turn the broiler on and line a baking sheet with parchment. Rinse the tomatillos and dry them, then slice them in half. </div>
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Place the baking sheet under the broiler and broil the tomatillos for 5-8 minutes on one side (or until blistered in places), then flip them over and broil the other side for an additional 5-8 minutes. </div>
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Once the tomatillos have cooled, add them to a blender with the other ingredients. Blend until smooth. Taste and adjust the flavoring if necessary. </div>
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Enjoy on eggs or tacos or with tortilla chips. </div>
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Katyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04290135991797809997noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4031121890854604877.post-12392033049466297212017-05-24T12:05:00.002-07:002017-05-25T08:02:42.394-07:00A Tahini, Halva and Date Molasses Ice Cream Cake for the Birthday Boy<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Every year, at least a week before the Greek's birthday, I ask him what kind of cake he would like. More often than not, it is <a href="http://diningwithdusty.blogspot.com/2010/09/beer-me.html">this stout cake with cream cheese frosting</a>, but, in the almost seven years we have been together, deviations have been known to happen. The same can be said for most of the "traditions" we have developed together. They aren't traditions in the firmest sense of the word, since we never quite know exactly what we will do with twenty pounds of apples after apple picking or what dishes will appear on our Thanksgiving and Easter table besides the obvious turkey and lamb. There have been times when we have tried to be "traditions people," doing a set thing on a set day, but somehow it never works out. </div>
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This year, however, might just buck that trend. In response to my question, the Greek asked for an ice cream cake, which was a bit of a throwback to the summer of my thirtieth and his twenty-eigth birthday when we threw a rather elaborate "<a href="http://diningwithdusty.blogspot.com/2013/05/three-decades-of-dessert-or-dessert.html?view=mosaic">three decades of dessert</a>" party with cookies, a chocolate-strawberry ice cream cake and a raw chocolate avocado tart. But rather than give me any kind of direction as to the flavors and textures he wanted in this year's ice cream cake, he told me to surprise him. While this did feel somewhat daunting (the pressure!), I didn't spend too long thinking about it. I don't know if this can be attributed to the many summers I spent working in a Dairy Queen and the fact that I know the assembly of an ice cream cake like the back of my own hand, or to the fact that the idea for this very cake had long been germinating in my mind, ever since we made Aglaia Kremezi's wonderful <a href="https://cooking.nytimes.com/recipes/1018056-halvah-semifreddo-with-hazelnuts">Halva Semifreddo</a> for our Easter celebration last year. </div>
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A traditional Dairy Queen ice cream cake usually has a base of chocolate cookie crumbs dipped in hot fudge, as well as two layers of ice cream, a center of chocolate-fudge crumbs and a topping of whipped cream. As I envisioned this cake, it would follow the standard pattern, but would have a base of halva, a crumbly, fudge-like candy made of tahini and sugar (or syrups), two layers of vanilla ice cream with swirls of date molasses and tahini, separated by a center filled with date molasses and crumbled halva, and unsweetened whipped cream on top with more crumbled halva for decoration. In a way, the end result would be a Greek ice cream cake--sesame, tahini and halva, although not always associated with Greek cuisine, appear frequently in Greek recipes, most likely due to either Byzantine or Ottoman influence; that said, halva's origins are <a href="http://www.momentmag.com/open-sesame-the-history-of-halvah/">hotly contested</a>--but with hints of the Middle East (recent presidential gaffes aside, Israel is obviously included!) in the date molasses (grape molasses, <i>petimezi</i> in Greek and <i>pekmez </i>in Turkish, seems to be more common in both Greece and Turkey).</div>
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The only question was whether I could pull it all off and whether it would taste as good in reality as it did in my imagination. Tahini, simultaneously rich and bitter, is not for everybody; the Greek, while a fan, is not one to eat a tablespoon of either tahini or peanut butter like some people in this household who shall go unnamed. I also, despite copious internet research, couldn't get a firm sense of how date molasses would freeze, so it all boiled down to the need, like so many things in life, just to wing it. My desire for perfection in all things aside, there really was no other way. </div>
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If you're wondering why this birthday cake seemed so important, it's rather simple: not only is it a way of making a (birth)day just a little bit special, but it's also something that can more or less be controlled, whereas the madness of the world--bombings, lies and all the constantly breaking news--cannot<i>.</i> In a year when world events seem to be moving down a trajectory that is anathema to you and checking the newspaper becomes an act filled with trepidation, you can't help but focus more on small, seemingly insignificant things, which is perhaps also why this blog has so energetically come back to life of late. I know there are those who say that blogging or discussing food now seems impossible or tone deaf, but how we sustain ourselves seems more important than ever, both physically and mentally. After all, when living in an ceaselessly hateful and anxiety-fueled narrative, is there anything wrong with embracing escapist acts that demonstrate only affection? </div>
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<b>Tahini, Halva and Date Molasses Ice Cream Cake</b><br />
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Serves 12-16<br />
Requires a 9-inch springform pan<br />
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Some of these ingredients may not seem easily accessible, but if you are near a good Greek or Middle Eastern grocery store, you should be able to find both halva, preferably plain (the halva I used in this cake, which was purchased in Greece, was sweetened with carob syrup, but no matter--halva is halva. You could also, as Melissa Clark once did using a <a href="https://cooking.nytimes.com/recipes/1017732-halvah">recipe in the <i>Zahav </i>cookbook</a>, make your own) and date molasses. Believe me, if I could find this in Newark, Delaware, a place where we once had to buy naan instead of pita because of availability, <i>you too can do this</i>! As for tahini, it is widely available and you can use whichever brand--Joyva, Soom (my favorite), Whole Foods 365, Krinos--you like. Obviously, you want a tahini with flavor, but, since you are mixing it with date molasses and vanilla ice cream, you don't have to use top shelf tahini for this cake.<br />
Beyond having all of the ingredients on hand, this is truly easy to make; it simply requires time and patience, as you have to let the ice cream soften, mix the tahini and date molasses in and then spread it on the cake. Also, one note about the halva, as it is rather oily, it should be fairly easy to press into the base of the springform pan; if you have trouble doing this with your hands (it can get messy), use a fork.<br />
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<b>For the base of the cake: </b><br />
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200 grams halva, crumbled with a fork<br />
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Using a fork or your fingers, press the crumbled halva into the base of the springform pan. Place the pan in the freezer while the first quart of ice cream is softening on the counter.<br />
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<b>For the filling: </b><br />
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two quarts (560 grams) of vanilla ice cream, softened (soften one quart and then the other; this has to be assembled in stages due to the need to freeze the bottom layer)<br />
3 tablespoons of date molasses<br />
4 tablespoons of tahini<br />
50 grams of halva<br />
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Cover the bottom half of a springform pan with plastic wrap (leaks are possible; this can be a sticky process, so best to be proactive).<br />
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Measure out the ice cream and add one tablespoon of date molasses and two of the tahini. Mix together using a chopstick (the fine point helps to create swirls). Remove the springform pan from the freezer and, using a spatula, spread the softened ice cream onto the halva crust. Top with a drizzle of one tablespoon of date molasses; evenly sprinkle the 50 grams of halva over top.<br />
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Cover with plastic wrap and freeze for at least thirty minutes before continuing to assemble. Remove the second quart of ice cream from the freezer.<br />
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After thirty minutes have passed, mix the the remaining quart of ice cream with one tablespoon of date molasses and two of tahini.<br />
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Remove the springform pan from the freezer and carefully spread the ice cream on top of the halva and date molasses center. Cover and place back in the freezer for at least 30 minutes.<br />
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<b>For the topping: </b><br />
1 cup of heavy cream, whipped to soft peaks<br />
one tablespoon of date molasses, for decorating (optional)<br />
50-75 grams halva, for decorating (optional, but recommended)<br />
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Using an offset spatula, spread the whipped cream over the top of the cake. At this point, you can either decorate the cake with crumbled halva and/or fill a pastry bag with one tablespoon of date molasses to write a message on the cake. At this point, you can cover and refreeze the cake or release the sides of the springform pan (run a knife around the edges, as the ice cream might have stuck) and serve.<br />
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The cake can be frozen for up to 10 days; just be sure to refreeze the cake immediately after cutting into it. And be aware that the whipped cream, once frozen, will take on an icy texture. </div>
Katyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04290135991797809997noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4031121890854604877.post-71818303927659929602017-05-18T13:14:00.000-07:002017-05-18T13:51:07.621-07:00A Strawberry-Lime Rickey to Ring in 34<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Having come so close to losing everything, I am freed now of all fear, hesitation, and timidity, and, once revived, intend to devoutly wander the earth, imbibing, smelling, sampling, loving whomever I please; touching, tasting, standing very still among the beautiful things of this world, such, for example: a sleeping dog dream-kicking in a tree-shade triangle; a sugar pyramid upon a blackwood tabletop being rearranged grain-by-grain by an indiscernible draft; a cloud passing ship-like above a rounded green hill, atop which a line of colored shirts energetically dance in the wind...</div>
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-George Saunders (<i>Lincoln in the Bardo</i>) </div>
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Typing out this passage, I again came to understand why, although it has been steadfastly sitting on my nightstand since late March, I have made only a small dent in Saunders' novel, his first, which has been called the "<a href="http://www.thestranger.com/books/2017/02/22/24883352/george-saunderss-lincoln-in-the-bardo-is-the-first-essential-novel-of-the-donald-trump-era">first essential novel of the Donald Trump era</a>" (era? Please no!). As evocative as some of the prose is--can't you just see the sugar pyramids and shirts dancing in the wind before your eyes?--it can be nothing short of exhausting to confront a cacophony of voices, all lamenting death and telling the tale of how they came to be in this <i>bardo, </i>the state of intermediate existence between two lives. At the same time, it's also fascinating to encounter these different characters and to read the collection of historical sources that Saunders has arranged, collage-style, on Willie Lincoln's death and on the then-President's grief. It simply asks a lot of a reader who is approaching it only in the 20-30 minutes before bed--that or perhaps I'm just hopelessly plebeian in my tastes; I'll be the first to admit that sometimes I long for a little more plot, a little less poetry (or plain scatological weirdness: certain things happen in "sick-boxes"). The older you get, the easier it is to recognize these essential facts about yourself. </div>
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<i>Lincoln in the Bardo</i> recently popped back into my mind and not just because it woefully stares at me every night, wondering when I will again embark on the journey within its pages, but because, as my thirty-fourth birthday was approaching, I realized that birthdays had started to seem like a <i>bardo </i>of sorts to me, a very brief and timeless moment that hovers between an ending and a beginning. Each year, before the clock is reset, all of this potential energy lingers in the air; the actual birthday itself is like New Year's, but better (<i>so much better</i>), since it's unique to you, and any and all expectations are determined by what<i> your</i> idea of a birthday should be. Certainly, I have no "birthday resolutions," but the day does offer an opportunity to reflect, to think about what is going well and to make a wish for something that might come next. Not that you have any control over it, but the illusion of self-determination does provide some comfort, especially to a Taurus like me who likes to think that she can, through sheer force of will, manifest change. </div>
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Although my birthdays have varied over the years (a different celebration for each self, I guess), this year it was an exercise in celebratory simplicity: dinner for two, including steak on the grill, roasted asparagus, salad, and alcoholic milkshakes that I promise I will tell you about someday. And thanks partly to the New Mexico post, there was also the surprise arrival of a cast-iron tortilla press, which was really all that I was secretly hoping for, yet not at all expecting. Consider this alone a testament to birthday magic.</div>
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Normally, the day after a birthday can be a letdown--largely because the clock is officially ticking again--but this year it felt somewhat different. May 17, May 16, beyond a change of clothes and Indian food rather than steak for dinner, there were few, if any, palpable differences. The sun continued to beat down for most of the day, which made it hot, fabulously hot, and a welcome change from the rather chilly and wet turn spring had taken a few weeks ago. I was still sneezy and stuffy, cursing the pollen that has left thick traces on all the glass. The beagle was running around the yard, hoping against hope that somebody would throw water from the porch, and the Greek, who had arrived home a sweaty mess from biking for four miles in the heat, felt that cocktails were in order. And not just any cocktails, but, thanks to the strawberries in the fridge and a fresh bag of limes, Strawberry-Lime Rickeys.</div>
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If you're wondering what a rickey is, you are not alone; this, in fact, is not the only thing I learned yesterday (did you know that the phrase to dine "al fresco," while acceptable in English, in Italian is actually used to indicate spending time in jail, or, more colloquially, "in the cooler?"), although it is perhaps the most interesting of the bunch. <a href="http://imbibemagazine.com/origins-of-the-gin-rickey/">The rickey, named for Colonel Joe Rickey</a>, a famous and influential nineteenth-century Democrat, is supposed to be the most refreshing and simple of cocktails. Comprised of only gin (originally whiskey), lime juice and seltzer on the rocks (they are similar to gimlets, but remember that gimlets require only gin (or vodka), sweetened lime juice and ice), the rickey is said to be the ideal cocktail to sip during a heatwave. Like most cocktails, however, the rickey has evolved and, although you will always find naysaying purists, some rickeys will include a small amount of simple syrup, while others, like the recipe we found in <i>Tipsy Texan</i>, one of our favorite cocktail books and one the Greek picked up for me on a trip to the Lonestar State several years ago, will even call for the addition of fresh fruit--for both flavor and color. It may not be the drink that Colonel Joe would have ordered in a DC bar in 1883, but that's okay. This rickey is wonderfully light, tangy, and not at all cloying in its sweetness, the kind of drink that can help you to usher in not just summer, but a whole new year in which anything (but hopefully just the pressing of a whole lot of torillas) could happen. </div>
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<b>Strawberry-Lime Rickey</b><br />
From David Alan's <i><a href="http://www.andrewsmcmeel.com/catalog/detail?sku=9781449424206">Tipsy Texan</a></i><br />
Makes 2 drinks, to be served in highball glasses<br />
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6 large and ripe strawberries, halved<br />
1 lime, cut into eighths<br />
1/2 ounce to 1 ounce of simple syrup (ours was flavored with orange, but any simple syrup will do)<br />
Ice cubes, for shaking<br />
4 ounces gin<br />
Ice, for serving<br />
Two lime wedges, for serving<br />
One strawberry, halved, for serving<br />
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In the bottom of a cocktail shaker, muddle the strawberries, lime wedges and simple syrup. Adjust for sweetness, based on both your preference and on the sweetness of your strawberries.<br />
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Add ice cubes and gin to the shaker and shake to chill.<br />
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Add ice to two highball glasses and then, using a strainer, pour in the cocktail, dividing it evenly between the glasses (the drink may be thick due to the pulp, so you may have to stop pouring and shake it again). Place a toothpick into each of the remaining lime wedges and then add the strawberry on top. Enjoy in either sunshine or shade, but heat, for maximum appreciation, is recommended.<br />
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Katyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04290135991797809997noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4031121890854604877.post-57340651282717276302017-05-13T17:04:00.001-07:002017-05-13T17:25:38.582-07:00The Land of Enchantment<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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"This really isn't like anything you ever saw — and no one who tells you about it gives any idea of it." -Georgia O'Keeffe to Alfred Stieglitz</div>
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It was dark when we finally arrived in Santa Fe. More importantly, it was <i>late</i>, almost midnight, which made the city (with a population of 70,000, this is perhaps a generous description) seem more dead than alive. Since we were staying at a <a href="http://www.luxxhotel.com/">small boutique hotel</a> in the city center, I was expecting noise or activity of some kind, but the only sounds were the hum of the faithful Penske truck and of my shoes hitting the pavement as I got out to help guide the Greek into a parking spot. I reminded myself that it was Wednesday, hardly the liveliest day, and that the eerie silence, chilly air (Santa Fe has an elevation of 7,198 feet) and low, nondescript buildings did not portend a bad time. </div>
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In hindsight, if I was at all worried, it was only because Santa Fe was the place I had been most excited about visiting on this road trip--so much so that I had even insisted that we stay for two nights. To say I didn't know how or where it all started would be somewhat disingenuous, since I can still remember the moment when the seeds of my New Mexico obsession were planted. It was in sixth-grade language arts, when Mrs. Hess informed us that, for the upcoming biography unit, we needed to pick a person, read his or her biography and then make a booklet and presentation to the class. While sitting with my friends and going through the list of suggested people, I commented that Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis would be "really interesting and cool" to work on and that I thought I would focus on her. No sooner were the words out of my mouth than my best friend at the time, a feisty and bossy redhead who instilled as much fear in me as she did affection, claimed Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis for herself. Fortunately, Mrs. Hess, like all good teachers, was present enough to have overheard the conversation and came over to suggest that, if I wanted to read about the life of an interesting and strong woman, I should make Georgia O'Keeffe the focus of my project. While I had no idea who she was talking about at the time, I knew that kindly Mrs. Hess would never lead me astray. And, although I'm sure that much of what I read about Georgia O'Keeffe probably went a <i>little </i>over my sixth-grade head, the impressions that I formed of her, as well as my fascination with her landscapes and her enduring connection to the southwest, her spiritual home, stuck with me over the years. </div>
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I should have known that anything connected, even peripherally, to Mrs. Hess couldn't turn out badly because, when we woke up the next morning, we stepped into a transformed world of bright blue skies, dazzling sunshine and heat that could melt the synthetic fabric right off your back (note: if you're headed to New Mexico, pack your best cotton gear). But even better was the discovery that the city was bursting with color, from the ristras of red chilies drying in the sun to the earth tones of the Pueblo Revival architecture. Walking through the city streets, I felt like I had been transported not just to a wholly unique landscape, one worthy of the finest painting, but to a world that, despite the obvious signs of modernity all around me, was standing still, as if timeless. </div>
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Although I was eager to take as many pictures as possible, earthly concerns soon overtook us, and we quickly made our way to <a href="http://www.tiasophias.com/">Tia Sophia's</a>, a southwestern diner with a chili-centric menu. You know a restaurant means business when it warns you that it is "not responsible for the heat of the chilies," but this didn't stop the Greek from ordering the <a href="http://www.seriouseats.com/recipes/2012/12/carne-adovada-adobada-chili-braised-pork-recipe.html">carne adobada</a> (pork braised in an adobo--read <i>hot</i>--sauce). Because I am both unable to handle too much spice and more than a sucker for a quesadilla at any time of the day, I went with the breakfast version here, which allowed me to get my red chili sauce on the side. Both dishes were fantastically satisfying, but the tortillas in particular, puffy and fresh, were the real standout. It was early in the day, but not too early for me to start wondering if I might find a tortilla press with my name on it to take to our new home....</div>
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Feeling sated (I don't even think we had a proper dinner the day before) after breakfast and having, for the first time in days, something resembling the luxury of time, we wandered around the shops in the downtown, looking at handwoven rugs, local art and other knickknacks (Santa Fe is full of treasures). But our next stop was inevitable and was, in a lot of ways, the pinnacle of the whole trip for me: <a href="https://www.okeeffemuseum.org/">The Georgia O'Keeffe Museum</a>. It's a small museum, and one that pays tribute not just to O'Keeffe herself, but also to the southwest and to American Modernism as a whole. Seeing the evolution of her work and her various artistic preoccupations, you begin to understand how she ended up in the desert, a place that initially appears stark, but, upon closer examination, is ultimately pulsing--blooming--with life.</div>
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As much as we were enjoying ourselves (not to mention the fact that we weren't sitting in a truck on the highway), being on our feet all day combined with the intense heat started to take a toll around mid-afternoon. While a nap was more than little tempting, the obvious answer to our dilemma was coffee and dessert, and since I am not always a person who wants to leave the quality of my dessert to chance, a quick online search pointed us in the direction of <a href="https://kakawachocolates.com/">Kakawa (Cacao or Chocolate in Olmec) House</a>. That the Kakawa House specializes in all things chocolate was its main selling point, although I was also curious about its "historic drinking chocolate elixirs." The walk there felt longer than it actually was (it's about half a mile from the center), but this might have been because, along the way, we not only found a beagle pup to fawn over, but also passed by the Cathedral Basilica of St. Francis of Assisi, which was so impressive (and cool inside) that we just had to go in for a quick tour. </div>
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Finally, after what seemed like forever, we turned a corner and there it was, a sugary oasis, in all of its charming southwestern glory. </div>
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As I wrote in my journal/memory refresher, as smitten as I was with Kakawa House from the outside--the ristras, the reds and blues, the promise of chocolate!--my sense of wonder increased by tenfold as soon as we stepped through the door; this place, though small, could have given Willy Wonka a real run for his money. There was Rose Almond Hot Chocolate, Chili Hot Chocolate, American (plain? milk chocolate?) Hot Chocolate, Green Chili Caramel Chocolates, Goat Cheese and Sage Truffles, a wide selection of macarons, ice creams and iced drinks, which, in this case, were the only option as, given the weather, neither one of us was at all inclined to drink anything even resembling hot. The Greek was prudent in his choice of an Iced Mocha, while I, a person whose eyes have always been too big for my belly, decided that a chocolate brownie sundae with hot (okay, this was the one exception to the "no hot things" rule) fudge was the only thing that would do. Little did I know, the ice cream was not the small and dainty scoop I was expecting, but a mound the size of a small inverted soufflé. The size of the brownie was also more than a little generous and perfectly fudgy, which is just as they should be and which made it all more than a little hard to resist. Am I ashamed that we ate all but one bite of what essentially amounted to a triple chocolate delight? Only very, very slightly, and only because I'm sure that afterwards I felt vaguely sick, much like I'm sure I would feel if I had run a marathon, which is basically what I did do, but with a spoon. </div>
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While it seems like the story should now end with "And they never ate again!," you really should know better. This is nothing if not a tale of (minor) gluttony; we were prepared to consume as much of Santa Fe as possible in our remaining time there. Riding the caffeine wave from our chocolatey adventure, we decided to brave our second museum of the day, the <a href="http://www.nmhistorymuseum.org/">New Mexico History Museum</a> at the Governor's Palace. This museum is massive, a place you could both literally and figuratively get lost in, and is a must-see for anybody who finds him- or herself in Santa Fe and wanting to know more about its <a href="https://www.abqjournal.com/286241/new-mexicos-path-to-statehood-often-faltered.html">path from territory to statehood</a> in 1912. The nice thing about the museum is that, if you buy tickets a few hours before closing time, they allow you to return the following day to finish your tour. This really came in handy, since, as I am ultimately less of a two-museums-in-one-day person than the Greek, there came a point when we parted ways and I went back to the hotel to decompress...but only after slipping into the local <a href="http://www.fiveanddimegs.com/santa_fe.html">Five and Dime General Store</a> for a comb (mine was lost in the back of the Penske truck) and for a small rolling pin for tortillas, i.e. the practical meeting the whimsical. </div>
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I did, however, have a surprise planned. In light of the 'missed sunset at the Grand Canyon debacle,' I decided to find a place where we could not just have dinner, but also enjoy the southwestern sunset. This quest led us to the <a href="http://rooftoppizzeria.com/">Rooftop Pizzeria</a>, which I'll admit is not exactly a place that said Santa Fe to me, but first impressions can be misleading. The menu contained plenty of southwestern touches, from blue corn crust to toasted piñon nuts on salads and pies alike. We opted for what, to us, seemed the most representative pie of Santa Fe: roast chicken, green chili, cotija and asadero with a white sauce on a blue corn crust. It was deliciously spicy and, with a few beers and the cooling temperature, it provided the perfect backdrop to the real star of the show: the pinks, oranges and yellows mingling in the dusky sky. I wanted to take a photo of it and even did take several, but believe me when I say that some things are best left to real life. </div>
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Leaving the restaurant and feeling more than a little in love with Santa Fe, we came across live music in the plaza, where lights were sparkling all around us in the trees and a small crowd (of both locals and tourists, it seemed) had formed. It felt not just cozy, but welcoming, the kind of place you could see yourself living in. As we headed back to the hotel, I was left with the feeling that, although I had been a coastal dweller for most of my life, the Southwest was really where it was at. </div>
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Despite this feeling, the next day--and not even the <i>whole</i> day--was our last. We went back to the History Museum, we shopped and ate our leftover pizza. Most importantly, we did the one thing that was an absolute must for us in Santa Fe: we had Penske send a mechanic, Jacob, to come and fix the lights on the truck so that we wouldn't spend the next 2,000 miles blinding people, not to mention being blinded in turn, by bright lights. Once this work was done, there was nothing to do, but leave and head to the panhandle of Texas, although it would be remiss of me not to say that a trip to the shaved ice stalls in the heart of the plaza might just be the most comforting way to say goodbye to a city that you don't want to leave. </div>
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Even from afar, however, I am still finding ways to continue my love affair with the Land of Enchantment. One of the first things I hung in our Delaware home was the ristra I bought at a small shop off the plaza, and the first meal I cooked (and, no, husband, while convenient during a move, frozen pizza does not count) in our new kitchen, once the piles and piles of boxes started to dwindle and there was enough counter space for chopping, was <a href="https://cooking.nytimes.com/recipes/1015760-new-mexican-pozole">New Mexican Pozole</a>. In late 2015, when I saw that Lynn Cline, who sometimes contributes New Mexico-centric pieces to <i>Saveur, </i>was publishing a book on New Mexico cuisine, I told the Greek that he should consider this the number one item on my Christmas list. And he delivered. </div>
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The book isn't a flashy restaurant cookbook, nor does it promise dishes that can be prepared in 20 or 30 minutes; in some ways, it's more a work of cultural history than a cookbook. In fact, though I love the stories and the recipes in the book, some recipes leave out essential ingredients (Parmesan biscuits should, ostensibly, contain Parmesan cheese) and others seem like there should be more to them. This, I think, is more the fault of my "modern" expectations than an actual flaw in the book, but I can't help but want Taos Quince Paste to have a New Mexican flair (the addition of chilies or some kind of spice), rather than just to be the same as quince paste that I would find in Spain or France. That said, there is plenty to be found in this book that represents canonical New Mexican cuisine, from Chicken a la Castañeda to Capirotada (Mexican Bread Pudding with Madeira and Monterey Jack cheese). </div>
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My favorite recipe from this book is also perhaps one of its simplest: Blue Corn Atole. While <a href="http://www.davidlebovitz.com/atole-mexican-drink-recipe/">atole</a> is a hot corn- and masa-based beverage, in this case, it's texturally more of a porridge, a more vibrant version of "Cream of Wheat." The color of the blue cornmeal can be a little disarming, but it's ultimately more nutritious (more fiber and protein) and has a more complex (sweet and nutty) flavor. Since I started writing (and reliving) our road trip, this has, on more days than not, been our breakfast; it is one that we both agree we could eat each and every day. </div>
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<b>Blue Corn Atole</b><br />
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Serves 4<br />
Adapted, ever so slightly, from Lynn Cline's <i><a href="http://maverickcookbook.com/">The Maverick Cookbook</a></i><br />
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It may seem that blue cornmeal is hard to find, but <a href="http://www.bobsredmill.com/blue-cornmeal.html">Bob's Red Mill</a>, a reliable brand for whole grains, as well as those that are a little off the beaten track, sells it, as do companies like <a href="http://www.ansonmills.com/products/19">Anson Mills </a>and <a href="http://www.arrowheadmills.com/product/organic-blue-corn-meal">Arrowhead Mills</a>. Beyond actually getting the cornmeal, this is a simple recipe that can be made on a weekday; best of all, there will be leftovers.<br />
Cline's recipe suggests adding in two tablespoons of lard, which I did not do. This is not because I am against lard, but because I didn't have any on hand and vegetable shortening didn't seem like it would be an ample substitute. I instead opted for coconut oil, which, while also not an ample substitute for lard, at least has flavor. Feel free to use butter or any oil that you prefer.<br />
One other note: Cline's method of making the porridge is ingenious, as it leads to zero clumps, which isn't always easy with cornmeal. She has you make a slurry that you slowly pour into the boiling water, which may be the way that I make polenta and other cornmeal-based dishes in the future.<br />
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1 cup blue cornmeal<br />
2 cups cold water<br />
2 tablespoons coconut oil (or lard or butter)<br />
1/2 teaspoon table salt<br />
a handful of pecans, chopped, for topping<br />
honey (or another sweetener of your choice), for topping<br />
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Pour the cup of cornmeal into a medium bowl and then stir in the two cups of water. Let the mixture sit for a few minutes; the cornmeal should seem to dissolve into the water.<br />
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Boil two cups of water in a medium saucepan. Stir in the oil (lard or butter) and salt.<br />
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Stir the blue cornmeal slurry and then slowly add it to the boiling water. Continue stirring over medium heat until the mixture thickens (about 10 minutes). Remove from heat.<br />
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Portion the cornmeal into serving bowls and drizzle with honey and top with the chopped pecans.<br />
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Katyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04290135991797809997noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4031121890854604877.post-62461557135430372372017-05-02T19:01:00.003-07:002017-05-02T19:07:28.117-07:00Utterly Grand<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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I find that time moves differently when you travel, or at least that's how it feels when at each and every turn your senses are being assailed by new sights, smells and flavors. It's both exhilarating and exhausting, an experience that you want to savor, but, by the time you've moved onto the next wonder, it's as if you have to let go of some impressions to make room for all that awaits you. At moments like these, I like to think that my memory, like a sponge, will absorb and retain everything that is happening around me to be fully processed at some later date. But since I also know that this might be too tall an order for anybody who spends his or her days driving or walking countless miles, I'm also a firm believer in the act of recording in a journal or, when really pressed, into the notes application on your smart phone. <br />
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The hardest thing about traveling is that, as soon as your journey is over, you are so fully immersed in the routines of your daily life, in catching back up on all the things you have avoided or missed, that the whole thing starts to feel like a dream. You may find yourself slipping back into it occasionally, reminded by a photo or a particularly vivid memory, but it ultimately has a loose and formless quality that can make you question if it was actually <i>you</i> who saw and lived these things or if they were something you once saw<i> happening</i> to somebody else in a movie or commercial. </div>
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Certainly, my memory of the Grand Canyon feels this way. In part, this is because it was so long ago (truth be told, I had always planned to blog about our whole road trip once we arrived in Delaware and, although I <i><a href="http://diningwithdusty.blogspot.com/2015/09/here-there-everywhere.html">kind of</a></i> did, I never really got to share the majority of the photos I took. I also wrote only about <a href="https://diningwithdusty.blogspot.com/2015/11/viva-las-vegas.html?view=sidebar">Las Vegas</a>--and in mid-November 2015!--which was the least exciting of all of the places we traveled. Maybe because change again seems imminent or semi-imminent--more on this once things are written in stone--it suddenly seems only right that I revisit and close this chapter), but also because to see the Grand Canyon in person is to see the Grand Canyon, all shifting colors, rugged edges and mist, as it is at <i>that precise moment in time</i>. You may walk away thinking that, "I saw the Grand Canyon," and cross it off your list, but you could see it a hundred more times and still, I think, be surprised. It is an ever-shifting landscape, the locus of daily miniscule and imperceptible changes that even the most trained eye would miss.<br />
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Its sheer expansiveness aside, another reason my memory of the canyon feels so unreal is that it's the place where the Greek and I got engaged, which almost two years, three weddings and an uncountable number of grey hairs later later, feels like something that happened to somebody else. But there are also ways, silvery strands notwithstanding, in which the whole Grand Canyon adventure can seem as sharply focused as if I were reliving the whole of August 11 and 12, 2015. I can still see us stopping for gas in Las Vegas and checking the map, knowing that, in about 4.5 hours, we would be at the Grand Canyon. From there, the Greek's plan was simple: check in at the hotel, the <a href="http://www.grandcanyonlodges.com/lodging/bright-angel/">Bright Angel Lodge</a> on the canyon's rim, watch the sunset and have a fancy southwestern meal at <a href="http://www.grandcanyonlodges.com/dining/el-tovar-dining-room-and-lounge/">El Tovar</a>. </div>
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You may be wondering where this is going, how this could, given that you already know how the story ends, go wrong, but I'll let my own words from 2015 speak for themselves:<br />
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<i>So much has happened since that night in the Grand Canyon. Or, rather, I should say that so much has become clear: it now makes perfect sense that the Greek went ballistic when it was evident we were going to miss the sunset in the Grand Canyon. Why? Because he was planning to propose! But how could I have known? </i><br />
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Really, it's hard to pinpoint the moment that things went wrong. The Greek, who had heroically driven all the way from Berkeley to Las Vegas the day before, asked me to drive; I really didn't want to--the size and flimsiness of the Penske truck scared me, not to mention the fact that I hadn't really driven anywhere for years--but, because I knew it would be wrong not to, I agreed, but perhaps more saltily than I should have. Initially things were fine; I was remembering that I actually could command a motor vehicle without having a panic attack, and we were happily chatting about our plans at the Grand Canyon and Santa Fe. But not long after we passed Lake Mead, not only did the road start to narrow, but we also saw a wall of back-to-back traffic up ahead. The Greek began prodding me to get into the other lane, to hurry up before we got stuck, but it was clear that this wasn't going to work. We already <i>were </i>stuck and, once we checked the maps on our phones, it became abundantly clear that we wouldn't be arriving at the Canyon until after sunset. The Greek kept muttering that we would make it, that we had to make it, so much so that I started to feel like I was explaining very simple concepts to a toddler. I reminded him that we had seen many beautiful sunsets together--Greece, Turkey, California--and that there was no need to fixate on this specific sunset; this led to his shouting that he was getting out of the car as I understood nothing and that it was my driving that had gotten us stuck, which led to my own furious insistence that, if traffic should start moving and he wasn't back in the truck, he might be left at the side of the road. High romance, right? Just call this roadside act <i>The Southwestern Penske Adventures of the Not at all Criminal and Terribly Mundane Bonnie and Clyde.</i><br />
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Traffic did eventually start moving and, yes, the Greek did get back in the truck, but this leads us to another hard lesson of the road (the first one obviously being my grandfather's favorite: Always leave early because you never know what might happen): All that glitters, or that appears to be an alternate route on a map, is neither gold nor even passable. Once we made it back onto a four-lane highway with exits, the Greek decided that we would avoid the traffic by taking the only other road that supposedly led to the Grand Canyon. Happy to have a plan, I got off the highway and followed the road only to discover that what had appeared to be our secret gateway to the sunset of all sunsets was a private road. As soon as we were attempting to enter this (relatively unmarked) dirt road, a truck of locals pulled up and informed us that this road was not for us. So here I was, the girl who didn't even want to drive, backing up a hill and maneuvering a truck full of our most prized belongings in the world back onto the highway. If we hadn't already had enough of an adventure for one day, once dusk fell (we saw the gorgeously flaming Arizona sunset from the parking lot of a gas station), we discovered that our lights had only two options, off and bright, which led to our being flashed by every car that passed us as we barreled up the dark and curving roads to the canyon.<br />
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I don't even know what we talked about--or if we talked--the whole way there; I think I just sat there, silently hoping we wouldn't die, that some huge animal wouldn't jump in front of us and lead to a car accident like the one out of Nabokov's <i>Laughter in the Dark, </i>that we might even still get to eat dinner, missed sunset be damned. If anything did go right on this day, it was dinner and thanks to the phenomenal southwestern fare of El Tovar. It must have made an impression on me because, as I wrote up the horrors of the day, I spared no shortage of affection for the Gouda green chile black bean crock (a kind of chile con queso, but simpler), the stuffed Portobello mushroom with roasted tomatoes, bell peppers, spinach and onions with a wild rice and wheat berry pilaf and a red pepper coulis. In my journal, I even called the duck breast with prickly pear glaze "ace," which, not being a word that I ever use, should tell you that, even after a fantastic meal, I was perhaps still in some kind of shock from the drive there. I feel like we must have (should have?!) had dessert, but, rather than extol the virtues of anything sweet in my journal, I devoted more than one line to the genius of the smoked chile and Asiago rolls. The food did go a long way to restoring my good will, as well as the Greek's, although I'm certain there was still a frosty air about us when we went (more like collapsed into the pillows) to bed.<br />
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The next morning did not begin auspiciously. The hike on the rim that we, despite our late night, woke up early for was canceled due to a chance of thunderstorms. Although luck didn't seem to be on our side, there was a bright side to this fact: we got to sit and have breakfast and, in general, do things at our own pace, which after the mad dash of the day before and of road-tripping in general, seemed welcome. While the Greek went to get two coffees and chocolate muffins (a conciliatory gesture, as muffins are one of my great loves), I got to enjoy the view and take pictures. I was so involved in my snapping that I only vaguely heard the woman behind me say, "Look how funny! That squirrel is trying to steal that girl's food while she is taking pictures!" When I turned my head, I saw the little culprit, bold as only starving squirrels can be, trying to run off with a bag of dried oranges. While you would think my glare might have forced the squirrel to scurry away, it instead stood its ground, running off only when I clicked the camera and knocking my water bottle in the process. Later during our walk around, after I saw a sign saying that canyon squirrels can transmit the plague, I placed both the bag of oranges and my water bottle in quarantine in a plastic bag and doused myself with hand sanitizer. It may seem like the Grand Canyon had many strikes against it--and it did--but it was ultimately too stunning and too utterly grand, to resent.<br />
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After breakfast, we took a short hike into the canyon, marveling at the different layers and textures. But before we knew it and only about a mile in, it was time to turn back. Another city and day of driving awaited us. The pace of a road trip can, at times, be crippling: you are constantly racing the clock; there is so much to see and do and, ultimately, only a set number of days, sometimes hours, in each place. I suppose it's as good as any reason to go back. </div>
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It was only faced with leaving that propelled the Greek to action, that or the fact that the coffee, the muffin and the fresh air had restored us and melted the last of our resentment from the day before. Truth be told, I don't envy men the job of proposing; even when you have a pretty good idea that the lady is going to say yes, there's a lot of planning and needless anxiety (see paragraphs related to the sunset above). In hindsight, the Greek wasn't at all coy about his plan, although unsuspecting female that I am, I didn't realize when he was taking pictures of me and asking me to kneel that he wanted to be sure that he could get the whole thing on camera. In fact, I was getting antsy, wondering why in the world we were taking so many pictures in one spot and trying to prod him along. When he finally asked the patriarch of an Italian family if he would take our picture, I sighed with relief, mentally checking off Grand Canyon and already thinking about the Painted Desert and lunch at La Posada and all the chiles of New Mexico. But then he kept asking for one more photo--last minute attempts to bolster courage?--and, just when I was ready to explode with impatience, finally (<i>finally</i>) he proposed. Italians, ever the romantics, were over the moon about the scene they had stumbled on and started crying and kissing us on both cheeks. Other people along that part of the rim approached to congratulate us. It was crazy; there's no other word for it. There's something so strange and remarkable about the way in which the events of your life can, in just an instant, become tangled up in somebody else's. One kneel, one yes, one photo--or, in this case, at least a dozen. This, however, is my favorite (yes, that is me, in my engagement finery: no makeup, sneakers and purple socks; not at all how I ever envisioned it would be). </div>
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The whole tenor of our trip changed in that moment. What had seemed like only an adventure on our way to a new life really did become the beginning of a new life of sorts, a new stage in our relationship and life together. It lent everything that came after the Grand Canyon a rosy, celebratory glow and certainly went a long way to explaining the madness over the traffic jam. </div>
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In a way, I don't know that there's any place that, for me, would have been better suited to this occasion. I love everything about the Southwest: the range of colors, both muted and bright, the wild sunflowers that pop up everywhere, the chiles, the heat and unpredictability of both weather and landscape. It may be trite to say it, but it's magical; there's a reason, after all, that the state we were headed to next is known as The Land of Enchantment...<br />
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But Arizona does give New Mexico a run--and a good one at that--for its money, with places like the Grand Canyon, the Painted Desert and little gems like La Posada and the Turquoise Room.<br />
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It seemed only right that, even though we had a tight schedule, that we take a detour to <a href="http://www.laposada.org/hotel_history.html">La Posada</a>, the famous hotel of Fred Harvey, the so-called "Civilizer of the West" who opened hotels and restaurants along the Santa Fe Railroad, that was lovingly brought to life by the architect Mary Colter, in Winslow, Arizona to celebrate our engagement. The hotel, to put it mildly, is a phenomenally beautiful place, with Spanish architecture and vibrantly colored tiles; the restaurant within it, <a href="http://www.theturquoiseroom.net/restaurant/history-of-the-turquoise-room-restaurant">The Turquoise Room</a>, is similarly lovely, bursting with color and bright light, as well as all number of southwestern delicacies. While we were a bit unlucky to arrive between lunch and dinner and thus could order only from the "Traveler's Menu," we still ate well, just as our friends, Cameron and Eric, promised we would.<br />
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The Greek followed Cameron's recommendation and had the piquant Black Bean and Corn Chowder (a seasonal variation on <a href="http://krugthethinker.com/2012/08/creamy-black-bean-soup/">this soup</a>, which Cameron has written about on her blog) with cornbread, while I decided, as I always do, to order the Sunflower Seed Hummus and piki bread. Believe me when I say that I had no idea what I would be getting, but I think I can safely say that luck was on my side that day, since it turns out that <a href="https://www.slowfoodusa.org/ark-item/piki-bread">piki bread</a> is made from finely ground blue corn that is mixed with the burnt ash of juniper berries and then blended with water to make a batter; while you could say that piki is like a Native American crepe or <a href="https://cooking.nytimes.com/recipes/1014757-socca-farinata">socca</a>, it's infinitely thinner and lighter--more like the crispest phyllo and equally delicate. When I later looked it up, I saw that it is something that young Hopi women must show they can make in order to prove their worth as brides, which, though far removed from my experience, made me think that my lunch selection was more than a little appropriate. To celebrate, we also had our first dessert since our road trip had begun: a bread pudding with prickly pear syrup, which was, like everything else that day, perfectly, utterly grand. </div>
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Katyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04290135991797809997noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4031121890854604877.post-35799083935939531542017-03-07T11:32:00.000-08:002017-03-07T11:54:57.309-08:00Not a Sad Desk Lunch #1 (Shaved Kohlrabi and Apple Salad)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Sometimes when I look at blogs, I can't help but think that none of this is real. Not only is this not how<i> </i>real people eat, it's also the fact that so much of what gets put on a blog--towering cakes of remarkable beauty, perfectly plated vegetables and meals coo<span style="text-align: left;">ked only during the daylight hours*--defies reality. Of course, the words "real" and "reality" are themselves problematic (more so these days than ever before), but even if we ignore them for a minute, an often unacknowledged truth about about cooking is that, while we like to look at beautiful pictures of dishes that are, at their heart, kitchen projects, we more often than not want to eat simply. We may want to make the dish on the cover of the latest Ottolenghi cookbook and fantasize about how amazing it would be, but, by the time we're making our way through the </span><i>seventh </i>step, we may be more inclined to abandon the whole project and to hell with the pomegranate seeds that are meant to go on top! This is probably because, ultimately, our eternal kitchen fantasy involves washing fewer dishes and spending less time overall in the kitchen. </div>
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Another oft-neglected facet of eating simply is that we want to make things with what we have on hand; we don't want to have to forage for sumac or drive to the Asian grocery store for fish sauce or even to stuff our pantries with ingredients that we might reach for only once in a blue moon. And I would almost swear that, besides the most careful of recipe testers and recipe followers amongst us (and we all know that nine out of ten cookbooks contain errors), nobody ever makes any dish in the exact same way twice. I may be wrong about this last part, but I know that when I cook, I don't always measure my salt and pepper, nor do I measure out my grated cheese. I also don't really blink an eye if the recipe calls for one type of cheese or flour and I use another, or if the one pound of beets required by a recipe becomes a pound and a half if this is what I have in the fridge; do these changes necessarily matter? There are those who would say yes and, at times, I would even agree with them, but there are also moments when fast and loose cooking, or <i>au pif </i>as the French would more elegantly say, has its place. </div>
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I started thinking about all of this lately for two reasons: 1) between the recipes for the <a href="http://diningwithdusty.blogspot.com/2017/01/the-bakers-resistance-and-watergate-cake.html">pistachio cake </a>and the <a href="http://diningwithdusty.blogspot.com/2017/02/the-age-of-exhaustion.html">dill bread</a>, I have kind of driven myself a little crazy these days with recipes that consist of many many steps, which doesn't reflect how the Greek and I cook or eat on a daily basis, and 2) I want this blog to be at least somewhat approachable and inspiring, even if it eschews the white marble craze, which still seems to be de rigueur in today's "pin-worthy" food photography. I realized that, for me, this mode of cooking is often best described by my approach to lunch. </div>
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I don't know why, but these days lunch is when I do my most "liberated" cooking. This may be because I have only myself to please and, despite the ticking clock and the speed with which a one hour lunch can fly by, it's a comfort to take a brief midday moment for myself. Of course, my ability to do this in and of itself reflects my somewhat privileged status: I work from home, which may sound fabulous in theory, but, in practice, can be a mixed bag with its own fair share of curses. There are days when I sorely miss my walks through the bustling lunch crowd in Jackson Square, with the fog swirling around me and the option of Japanese, Chinese, Thai, Californian, Italian or Greek packed into a 2-3 block radius. Both this nostalgia and the isolation of working from home may be what ultimately drives me to avoid the fate of a "sad desk lunch." Call it my personal rallying cry against the entrapment of the 9-5 job, but it's no exaggeration to say that lunch is sometimes the highlight of my day. </div>
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Just to be clear, I don't always have the luxury of making myself lunch. But if I didn't make a meal the day before that had led to leftovers, I have to make <i>something</i> or I will start to graze--almonds, chocolate, cheese--and know that I will again feel hungry within an hour or two. Sometimes this something is a tuna salad or peanut butter sandwich (I have <a href="http://diningwithdusty.blogspot.com/2012/04/five-days-of-sandwiches.html">expressed my love of the sandwich</a>, or toast, before and hold to all of these combinations even several years later); at other times, if I'm feeling more ambitious, it can be pasta with broccoli or chickpeas, or even a quick-cooking grain. If I'm feeling very fancy, I'll make a salad, use up some herbs in the crisper and dress it simply with lemon and oil. If I follow a recipe (and most days I don't), I start making substitutions before I even get past the ingredient list because, when time is of the essence, there is no time to deliberate. Decisions must be made quickly, lest the hour disappear before I've decided what I want to eat (too many options, just like a very full crisper, can lead to a crippling indecisiveness).<br />
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Fortunately, I have a lot of recipes or templates that I consider to be old faithfuls, dishes that I made at one point or another and that left an impression. One such dish, which also has the benefit of being quick, simple and good, is a Shaved Kohlrabi and Apple Salad that I found on Epicurious (via <i>Bon Appetit</i> <i>before</i> it was possessed by the urge to be a food blog in print form) back when we still lived in Berkeley. This was probably in response to the the first time we had ever gotten kohlrabi (German for "cabbage turnip") in our weekly vegetable box and, if you've ever seen kohlrabi before, you can imagine my confusion. <a href="https://well.blogs.nytimes.com/2012/03/09/discovering-kohlrabi-its-a-vegetable/">Kohlrabi</a>, a brassica like broccoli, turnips and cabbage, is basically the bald and mild-mannered version of <a href="https://www.bbcgoodfood.com/glossary/celeriac">celeriac</a>, not to mention equally difficult to peel. I would call its flavor both crisp and light--a hint of pepper with a subtle sweetness, but you want to look for smaller, rather than larger, bulbs, since they tend to be more rounded and complex in terms of flavor. As far as vegetables go, it's appealing and tasty, as well as widely available in March on the east coast; this alone may be one of its best selling points. When shaved thinly with a mandoline, paired with a thinly sliced Granny Smith apple and topped with sweet pecans, lemon zest, fresh mint and salty sharp Manchego cheese, kohlrabi reminds you that lunch, even one thrown together pretty quickly, can be both exciting and satisfying. And there's nothing sad about that, which is why I'm determined to make this a regular (semi-regular) series on the blog.</div>
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*Even if photography on food blogs defies reality, conventions are conventions, which is why I, to a certain extent, follow them. That said, these photos were snapped quickly and right as a storm rolled in, so the light is barely bright enough. Plus, I am not a natural food stylist or photographer (I blame the astigmatism) and often can't be bothered to leave a suggestive sprinkling of nuts or dreamy smattering of herbs on the counter, as this kind of thing not only drives me crazy, but also must be cleaned up by me, which makes it a less compelling aesthetic choice. Alas, such considerations must factor into real life. </div>
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<b>Shaved Kohlrabi and Apple Salad with Pecans, Mint and Lemon</b><br />
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Adapted slightly from <i><a href="http://www.epicurious.com/recipes/food/views/shaved-kohlrabi-with-apple-and-hazelnuts-51214700">Epicurious</a></i><br />
Serves 1 as a meal or 3-4 as part of a larger meal<br />
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I don't know that I've ever made this salad in the way that the chef behind it intended it to be made, but, even if I've erred on the side of shortcuts or substitutions, I've never been disappointed. Parsley or chives can easily replace the mint; if you don't have hazelnuts, a naturally sweet nut, you can replace it with pecans. Similarly, as much as I love a good Pink Lady apple, Granny Smith will also do and will provide the same welcome shock of tartness. Although I always try to keep Parmesan or Pecorino in the fridge, we were out last week, so I went with Manchego, which has the same creamy saltiness.<br />
I will write up the recipe as I made it for lunch last week, but will put in Chef Mattos' (of Estela in New York) original suggestions in brackets. Truth be told, these changes are minor, but no matter what you do, I don't think you can go wrong with this recipe. Salads can be deceptively simple, but I've also found that the heartier ones can more than withstand a few changes.<br />
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1 handful of pecans [1/2 cup blanched hazelnuts]<br />
2 medium kohlrabi, peeled and thinly sliced on a mandoline<br />
1 Granny Smith [or Pink Lady or Crispin] apple, thinly sliced<br />
1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice<br />
1/2 lemon, zested<br />
1 tablespoon white wine vinegar<br />
1 tablespoon olive oil<br />
salt and pepper, to taste<br />
3-4 stalks fresh mint, leaves removed and roughly torn [1/2 cup torn fresh mint leaves]<br />
small piece of Manchego, grated<br />
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Heat a small skillet over medium heat; add the pecans and toast, turning once, for 5-7 minutes or until lightly browned and fragrant. Remove from heat, let cool and then roughly chop the nuts. Set aside.<br />
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With the kohlrabi and the apple spread out on a cutting board (I place my mandoline over a cutting board), sprinkle them with lemon juice. Turn to coat, before placing the kohlrabi and apple onto a plate.<br />
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Top the kohlrabi and apple with the lemon zest and chopped toasted pecans. Whisk together the vinegar and oil in a small bowl with some salt and pepper. Pour the dressing over the salad, then top everything with the fresh mint and grated cheese.<br />
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Taste and adjust, if need be, the seasoning. Enjoy!<br />
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Katyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04290135991797809997noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4031121890854604877.post-48462123243738110522017-02-24T15:00:00.000-08:002017-02-24T17:27:19.445-08:00Food for Thought (and Baltimore snaps!)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Jimmy and Crake graduated from HelthWyzer High on a warm humid day in early February. The ceremony used to take place in June; the weather then used to be sunny and moderate. But June was now the wet season all the way up the east coast, and you couldn't have held an outdoor event then, what with the thunderstorms. Even early February was pushing it: they'd ducked a twister by only one day. -<i><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Oryx-Crake-Margaret-Atwood/dp/0385721676">Oryx and Crake</a> </i>(Margaret Atwood)</div>
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Upon moving to Delaware, one of the first things I realized was that this was no longer the east coast (or midwest/east coast hybrid) of my childhood and college years. Come Labor Day, it wasn't time to pull out all the long-sleeved shirts and socks; come Thanksgiving, rose bushes could still be blooming; and, come February, typically the coldest month, you would no longer need space heaters and parkas to keep you warm, but might just find yourself going about your business bare-legged and in cute dresses and skirts. It's hard to imagine complaining about sunshine--and, believe me, I'm not--but there is something awfully confusing about all of this. I had thought that the week of sunshine and 60 plus-degree weather last year in February was a fluke, but this year proves that maybe this is the beginning of a new pattern, not to mention the further shaming of poor old <a href="http://www.groundhog.org/">Punxsutawney Phil</a>, who just can't help but see his shadow and seemingly deceive us all...Of course, when it again snows in early April, Phil will, I'm sure, get the last laugh; consider it the revenge of groundhogs everywhere. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVug5rv-iXqG_ahndCpBS_5dPZjntKCik4BSV23bO_2PLpPQrH4VAOI2lQyz7olj_CRXzVDOqSDVFx2kcJ46mE3Gyit7WHc2I4fCcDYlPKfo8YqXLcPZf26aRe9RRX0oQ5ecCI0FXtfb9q/s1600/IMG_9362.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVug5rv-iXqG_ahndCpBS_5dPZjntKCik4BSV23bO_2PLpPQrH4VAOI2lQyz7olj_CRXzVDOqSDVFx2kcJ46mE3Gyit7WHc2I4fCcDYlPKfo8YqXLcPZf26aRe9RRX0oQ5ecCI0FXtfb9q/s640/IMG_9362.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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Another thing I realized about this strange place I now call home is that, whereas in California, everything was about California--<a href="http://diningwithdusty.blogspot.com/2011/10/just-beyond-pumpkin-patch.html">Sonoma</a>, <a href="http://diningwithdusty.blogspot.com/2015/05/the-great-escape.html">Yosemite</a>, <a href="http://diningwithdusty.blogspot.com/2012/06/two-days-in-tahoe.html">Tahoe</a>, the Bay Area, <a href="http://diningwithdusty.blogspot.com/2014/07/lush-and-balmy.html">the coast</a>--in Delaware, part of the allure is its proximity to the surrounding states--Maryland, Pennsylvania, New Jersey, New York, Virginia--and nation's capital. This isn't to say that Delaware doesn't have plenty of its own offerings, from the many du Pont estates to a remarkable range of state parks (including the Delaware shore) and gardens, but it's only too easy to get into your car (the one downside of life here is that you must have a car) drive for an hour and find yourself somewhere else. While this may not sound like the most glowing of endorsements, I intend it as nothing but a compliment. To live in Delaware is to be part of a larger network on the eastern seaboard. </div>
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Whereas we have been to Philadelphia many times (it's both a short drive and endlessly appealing, especially in terms of food and history), we have been to Baltimore only once. I started thinking about this trip recently, mainly because the weather right now is the same as it was last February when we, feeling adventurous and hopeful about an early spring, drove down one Saturday to explore the sights. I do think that Baltimore tends to get a bad rap; yes, it does have its fair share of crime, but it's also a vibrant and lovely city. We spent our time there wandering around Fells Point, downtown and the Inner Harbor and found only good things: interesting street art, colorful townhouses decorated with lucky <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Barnstar">barnstars</a>, a pretty waterfront, <a href="http://pitangogelato.com/">excellent gelato</a> and even a <a href="http://monumentcity.net/2011/06/06/the-pagoda-at-patterson-park-baltimore-md/">pagoda</a> and a Russian Orthodox church. Truly, there was nothing particularly noteworthy about the day, save for the sheer liberation we felt at being out and about with Elektra <i>in February. </i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmKfctmpN9actZRLTgCxrRJ6KInYSDJkJY4lxcsCPwhyphenhyphen7hOnvsc8HsycuHwx9mmnQ7cKJkeUNVO_dl5vjQEfktFvq7lGy4yUj5Pd3TtcVJb9BjVperA1bWTQRokhLU77V1II181umgk-0I/s1600/IMG_9457.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmKfctmpN9actZRLTgCxrRJ6KInYSDJkJY4lxcsCPwhyphenhyphen7hOnvsc8HsycuHwx9mmnQ7cKJkeUNVO_dl5vjQEfktFvq7lGy4yUj5Pd3TtcVJb9BjVperA1bWTQRokhLU77V1II181umgk-0I/s640/IMG_9457.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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Because I take too many photos and more than a dozen of the posts that I have planned for the year involve travel (the California-Delaware road trip <i>will be </i>blogged, as will our honeymoon and my trip last year to Hong Kong), I wanted to find a way to share some of these Baltimore photos without having to do a full travel post. Plus, as it had been too long since I had done my last "food for thought" post, it seemed only right to combine the two: beautiful Baltimore and some of the articles, books and recipes I've been enjoying lately, but this time divided into appropriate categories. Perhaps 2017 will be the year of organization? </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgB4diJYIe-w6ujPah0VwZ_fg_flg0gvvhGt3AKlwb2nUiQxsCysvSkkY4XtJu7sfgFNw6U2Ik1VfoxVt1kgMlWNx3sEmftLrYFsFn58TwWpaGhxAZz4b8-viOw3IeJ7MBP3aGHIyHvuqvg/s1600/IMG_9379.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgB4diJYIe-w6ujPah0VwZ_fg_flg0gvvhGt3AKlwb2nUiQxsCysvSkkY4XtJu7sfgFNw6U2Ik1VfoxVt1kgMlWNx3sEmftLrYFsFn58TwWpaGhxAZz4b8-viOw3IeJ7MBP3aGHIyHvuqvg/s640/IMG_9379.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpMYCB0xhs3o67kdJEmWQTuD8bi-9gNYoWC2hLvZKXjks26A12AbriGAHK1UVtESm081DNWqKfKXuqIX8f1xV_7QFd_vF66anttMgtpTzLSeNxzOBBSuqcrjicKFucu2Ho0ScFmn4mFrAn/s1600/IMG_9375.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpMYCB0xhs3o67kdJEmWQTuD8bi-9gNYoWC2hLvZKXjks26A12AbriGAHK1UVtESm081DNWqKfKXuqIX8f1xV_7QFd_vF66anttMgtpTzLSeNxzOBBSuqcrjicKFucu2Ho0ScFmn4mFrAn/s640/IMG_9375.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<b>Food:</b></div>
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If I'm looking for authentic Italian food, I usually turn to <a href="http://www.domenicacooks.com/">Domenica Marchetti</a>, so I was recently excited to see that she did an article on <a href="https://www.washingtonpost.com/lifestyle/food/how-to-make-the-most-of-a-roast-give-it-an-italian-accent/2017/01/13/5e47a562-d774-11e6-b8b2-cb5164beba6b_story.html?utm_term=.56c5b7e283ab">Italian-style roasts</a> for <i>The Washington Post</i>. When it again gets cold--and it will--I'll definitely be making one of these. </div>
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I've been trying to cut back on my dessert baking (only two cakes thus far this year!) for two reasons: 1) I've been baking a lot of bread, and 2) <a href="https://www.nytimes.com/2017/01/02/books/review/case-against-sugar-gary-taubes.html">recent studies </a>on sugar consumption have made me think that recalibrating my palate probably isn't a bad idea. But it isn't easy, especially when you want to try recipes for <a href="http://yorkavenueblog.com/melissa-clarks-apple-buttermilk-loaf-cake/">Apple Buttermilk Cake</a>, find banana bread in your freezer and, thanks to the balmy weather, find yourself craving deliciously inventive <a href="http://canr.udel.edu/udairycreamery/">UDel ice cream</a> (it helps to live near cow pastures). </div>
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The cuisine of North Carolina and how <a href="http://www.saveur.com/vivian-howard-deep-run">500 pounds of blueberries</a> can change your life. </div>
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I have always loved the <i>New York Times </i>"Dining Section," but I was disappointed lately to find that they had added <a href="https://www.nytimes.com/2017/02/07/dining/yotam-ottolenghi-baking-granita-kataifi.html">Ottolenghi as an occasional contributor</a>. Is this because I dislike Ottolenghi? No, I own three of his books and a few of his recipes are favorites. It's mainly because the man is <i>everywhere</i>: <i>The Guardian, Bon Appetit</i>, now <i>The New York Times</i>. There are other recipe developers out there, other voices, other ideas; stop with the Ottolenghi fatigue! This primarily annoys me because I have increasingly felt that the Dining Section is basically attempting to model itself, both in terms of content and aesthetics, on food magazines and, call me old-fashioned, but that's not what it's supposed to be. Newspapers <i>are not</i> magazines. </div>
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Embrace citrus season and have a <a href="http://www.thelittleepicurean.com/2016/02/blood-orange-elderflower-gin-cocktail.html">cocktail</a> (you know you need one). </div>
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A <a href="http://www.foodandwine.com/articles/mother-daughter-kitchen-confidential">mother-daughter cook-off</a>.</div>
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There is more to Thai food than curry and if you, like me, have a thing for leeks and also adore one-pot/dish meals, then this Thai recipe for <a href="http://shesimmers.com/2016/05/baked-chicken-leek-turmeric-coconut-sauce.html">Baked Chicken and Leeks in a Coconut Turmeric sauce</a> is for you. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-_c6sa22TJAxrXaVzp8mcpzrwPwMvE902WZJLKIbCAROuGzLw44KKtxyj0dYF5kNlLEU9_G8EDNQbzMiK6EjkdoEKwAuoyOznyXJasm7-yML4XAPm1EExJ2dSeHB8edu778G5idzrGfXb/s1600/IMG_9380.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-_c6sa22TJAxrXaVzp8mcpzrwPwMvE902WZJLKIbCAROuGzLw44KKtxyj0dYF5kNlLEU9_G8EDNQbzMiK6EjkdoEKwAuoyOznyXJasm7-yML4XAPm1EExJ2dSeHB8edu778G5idzrGfXb/s640/IMG_9380.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEht78Phd-127hbHV4XO3OzDNaZ8sEHd6fUMF9EjbDEUyFsmD7n2u2iKtLwrfh9H6-rRXvYGQpiaGYTVGbrcCPQ4R680ErwK1MGqhep-OoK_sM84hZO-xOM4Y-Of1cxYStleFarlaQMdu4iN/s1600/IMG_9386.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEht78Phd-127hbHV4XO3OzDNaZ8sEHd6fUMF9EjbDEUyFsmD7n2u2iKtLwrfh9H6-rRXvYGQpiaGYTVGbrcCPQ4R680ErwK1MGqhep-OoK_sM84hZO-xOM4Y-Of1cxYStleFarlaQMdu4iN/s640/IMG_9386.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<b>Literature: </b></div>
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I'm currently embracing the <a href="https://www.theatlantic.com/magazine/archive/2017/03/how-to-build-an-autocracy/513872/">dystopian mood</a> of the country by reading Margaret Atwood, but next in line is <a href="http://www.georgesaundersbooks.com/lincoln-in-the-bardo/">George Saunders</a> and then the wonderful <a href="https://www.nytimes.com/2017/02/07/books/review/ali-smith-by-the-book.html">Ali Smith</a>, who I was recently excited to discover, thanks to her having written <a href="https://www.theatlantic.com/entertainment/archive/2017/02/ali-smiths-autumn-is-a-post-brexit-masterpiece/516660/">the first-Brexit novel</a>, was finally getting the attention she deserves in America. </div>
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Investigating the <a href="http://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2017/01/16/montaigne-on-trial">father of the essay</a>. </div>
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Fairly taboo: a discussion of <a href="http://www.bookforum.com/inprint/023_05/17183">money and writing</a>. </div>
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<a href="http://www.newyorker.com/books/page-turner/the-radical-argument-of-the-new-oxford-shakespeare">Rethinking Shakespeare</a>...yet again. </div>
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I have sung the <a href="http://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2016/10/03/tana-frenchs-intimate-crime-fiction">praises of Tana French</a> before, but her novels are <i>so good</i> that it just never gets old. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsEScXquhVCEWwb0runuopsjQnbg91ZApGypquAVEcuvww-zieUaqAv6Xy2XckDkv4z-Eh7phMD6BI-1dvziKBWz-HqOjauU8VK9yPniO398bFTo7mzpr5Qg5ATDqwmiD9k5V688qzLpiI/s1600/IMG_9475.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="636" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsEScXquhVCEWwb0runuopsjQnbg91ZApGypquAVEcuvww-zieUaqAv6Xy2XckDkv4z-Eh7phMD6BI-1dvziKBWz-HqOjauU8VK9yPniO398bFTo7mzpr5Qg5ATDqwmiD9k5V688qzLpiI/s640/IMG_9475.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPRWLERxvgFiQvMh4G9dLQuKeGdxlGQQUG43nhJRV-_yTsdhXH5-ClJUu6-IAa-YkAY2UTT2wS9qnhfIus2o4Pkt1ESuq4qebXzuH7KdvVSFpeObfcJeziLAU30fug3NWHVqO4rO-oEhk_/s1600/IMG_9484.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPRWLERxvgFiQvMh4G9dLQuKeGdxlGQQUG43nhJRV-_yTsdhXH5-ClJUu6-IAa-YkAY2UTT2wS9qnhfIus2o4Pkt1ESuq4qebXzuH7KdvVSFpeObfcJeziLAU30fug3NWHVqO4rO-oEhk_/s640/IMG_9484.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4cYbw07o7fNQtFDFz8NppUE_pFyoaMhdbAL_5E0C7rwbANZPMDoQYiWcWXxcShzno160S3fsWbW3_KwE8TK59d2LeOmbNlqwLU5Rdk-su9JjXhYvqTkGFV8LOrsqgBaK2zZnBFOfy2egE/s1600/IMG_9464.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4cYbw07o7fNQtFDFz8NppUE_pFyoaMhdbAL_5E0C7rwbANZPMDoQYiWcWXxcShzno160S3fsWbW3_KwE8TK59d2LeOmbNlqwLU5Rdk-su9JjXhYvqTkGFV8LOrsqgBaK2zZnBFOfy2egE/s640/IMG_9464.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<b>Politics: </b></div>
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The (potential) <a href="http://www.nationalreview.com/article/445183/anti-trump-state-senate-race-delaware-democrats-stephanie-hansen-republicans-john-marino">national implications of tomorrow's special election</a> in the little state of Delaware (it's not too often we make the news). </div>
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I don't find much to laugh at in the media these days, but somehow the <a href="https://www.washingtonpost.com/opinions/instead-of-probing-trump-chaffetz-takes-aim-at-a-cartoon-preschooler/2017/02/13/7e74e63c-f232-11e6-8d72-263470bf0401_story.html?utm_term=.207cd484ea71">cheeky article</a> exploring Jason Chaffetz's efforts to "probe...the threat to America posed by Sid the Science kid," made me feel proud of American journalism. Given the absolute stupidity and waste of taxpayer dollars involved in these investigations when there are more pressing matters at hand, I'm happy that so many Congressmen are complaining about "all of the <a href="https://www.washingtonpost.com/local/virginia-politics/the-women-got-up-in-brats-grill-and-then-some/2017/02/21/9e8db1fa-f855-11e6-be05-1a3817ac21a5_story.html?utm_term=.4dddc8a35ade">women up in [their] grill</a>." Just for talking like petulant frat-boys, I hope the women continue to haunt all "grills" across the nation.</div>
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I don't often agree with <a href="https://www.theatlantic.com/politics/archive/2017/02/tucker-carlson-interview/516231/">Tucker Carlson</a> (or anybody from Fox News), but I think Tucker's onto something when he says, "The beginning of wisdom is to know what an asshole you are." </div>
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To show that I am nothing if not "fair and balanced," on CNN's <a href="http://www.slate.com/articles/arts/assessment/2017/02/how_cnn_anchor_jake_tapper_s_performative_neutrality_made_him_the_ideal.html">Jake Tapper and his "performative neutrality."</a></div>
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The <a href="https://www.nytimes.com/2017/02/24/us/politics/white-house-sean-spicer-briefing.html?hp&action=click&pgtype=Homepage&clickSource=story-heading&module=first-column-region&region=top-news&WT.nav=top-news">war on the press continues</a>.</div>
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I had forgotten that, come July, the question of <a href="https://www.nytimes.com/2017/02/17/opinion/the-greek-bomb-in-the-eus-foundations.html">Greece's debt would again be dominating the headlines</a>; maybe, just maybe, to save Europe, more humane policies can be enacted, ones that will show the world that the <a href="https://www.nybooks.com/articles/2017/01/19/is-europe-disintegrating/">European ideal, despite the rise of the "alt-right," isn't disintegrating</a> before our very eyes? But maybe I'm just a naive dreamer. </div>
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<b>Entertainment and the Arts: </b></div>
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I was so excited to discover that the creators of <i>The Good Wife</i> were doing a <a href="http://tvline.com/2017/02/10/the-good-fight-review-good-wife-spinoff-cbs-all-access/">spinoff with Christine Baranski's character</a>, but more than a little disappointed to find out that this show would be, save for the first episode, exclusively on CBS's online viewing platform. </div>
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The penultimate season of <i>The Americans </i>is almost here, and, believe me, if you haven't been watching, this is a great mistake that must be rectified. Thanks to he-who-shall-not-be-named (and company), the <a href="https://www.buzzfeed.com/jarettwieselman/how-the-americans-bosses-feel-about-its-sudden-political-rel?utm_term=.rjg3gge2l#.irnPQQ8Go">show is bound to more relevant </a>than ever this season. </div>
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I will admit to not having been to the movies as often as I would have liked, especially since there are suddenly so many good movies out that I would like to see. I did, however, make it to the movies a few weeks ago to see <i>Arrival </i>and, though I know it doesn't stand a chance against <i>La La Land </i>or <i>Hidden Figures</i>, it was one of the <a href="https://www.theatlantic.com/entertainment/archive/2016/11/amy-adams-arrival-review/507017/">most moving, beautiful and interesting films</a> I had seen in a long time. And the way it played with time was absolutely ingenious. </div>
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Reese Witherspoon and the <a href="http://www.slate.com/blogs/browbeat/2017/02/23/from_election_to_big_little_lies_reese_witherspoon_s_best_type_a_maniacs.html">Type-A maniac</a>. </div>
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I may be behind in my general movie viewing, but a few weeks ago I did go, with a local Meetup group, to see the <a href="https://www.nytimes.com/2017/02/07/movies/oscar-nominated-shorts-2017.html">Oscar-nominated shorts</a>, which were a provocative bunch, even if, in some cases, they left me wanting more. Although both Denmark and France bravely took on the challenge of exploring the refugee/immigrant question in 15-30 minutes, personally, my money is on Hungary's "Sing" for its portrayal of friendship and the triumph over a bully. </div>
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The <a href="https://www.washingtonpost.com/news/in-sight/wp/2017/01/13/i-knew-that-a-battlefield-of-suffering-was-in-my-eyes-the-many-faces-of-frida-kahlo/?hpid=hp_no-name_photo-story-a%3Ahomepage%2Fstory&utm_term=.350c8c4620c3">many faces of Frida Kahlo</a>. </div>
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<b>Miscellaneous: </b></div>
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<a href="http://www.emikodavies.com/blog/a-winters-day-in-san-gimignano/">Italian armchair travel</a>. </div>
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Writing advice, but also, in the <a href="https://www.nytimes.com/2017/02/22/technology/trump-news-media-ignore.html">age of social media</a> and constant disruption, <a href="https://www.brainpickings.org/2015/09/15/jane-kenyon-advice-on-writing/">words to live by</a>: "Protect your time. Feed your inner life. Avoid too much noise. Read good books, have good sentences in your ears."<b> </b></div>
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Katyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04290135991797809997noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4031121890854604877.post-63240023647026639012017-02-17T16:14:00.002-08:002017-02-17T17:12:43.669-08:00The Age of Exhaustion<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj791fB74RV7ykyzHeZRUg6s98gajOT8o96TKNMqP_Whyphenhyphen1RUJlglSx3Fi43zPS3U4eDWsp4MHQ0yuUUTjhGrkYSipl-AsP4P5NhaKGQakdjjyuH7WpQK4DP9i74_WVBZEkXoa4chJbzDQru/s1600/IMG_3596.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="458" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj791fB74RV7ykyzHeZRUg6s98gajOT8o96TKNMqP_Whyphenhyphen1RUJlglSx3Fi43zPS3U4eDWsp4MHQ0yuUUTjhGrkYSipl-AsP4P5NhaKGQakdjjyuH7WpQK4DP9i74_WVBZEkXoa4chJbzDQru/s640/IMG_3596.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="text-align: start;">Life meanwhile—real life, with its essential interests of health and sickness, toil and rest, and its intellectual interests in thought, science, poetry, music, love, friendship, hatred, and passions—went on as usual, independently of and apart from political friendship or enmity... -Leo Tolstoy (<i>War and Peace</i>)</span></div>
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If my last post was grounded in the mood of the ever-growing resistance to the new American political reality, this post can't help but convey the pure exhaustion of living in it. Seriously, I don't know about you, but I am <i>tired. </i>One day it's pomp, pageantry and games of "guess who's joining the Supreme Court"; the next it's an angry Tweet-a-thon. I can already see future seminars on American history with graduate students poring over glowing tablets filled with thousands of pages of 140 characters worth of ire, trying to understand why 2017 was the year when America, if not the world, lost the plot. Believe me when I say that the very fact that I am nodding to a future belies an optimism that I don't necessarily feel. </div>
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There is certainly something to be said for being kept on your toes, though. It leads to a certain civic involvement that you maybe didn't feel when, in your mind, things were going well. Until recently, for example, I had never a) watched a Cabinet confirmation hearing, b) called and emailed senators to try to persuade them not to support a candidate or measure, c) <a href="https://www.instagram.com/p/BP_baLuAFqJ/?taken-by=diningwithdusty&hl=en">volunteered for any political candidate</a> (there is a special election on February 25 that will determine which party controls the Delaware State Senate), d) watched a Daily White House press briefing, and e) so actively donated to organizations that I believe in. Of course, my efforts (and those of millions of others) regarding Betsy DeVos failed, but Puzder is out, which feels like a small, but welcome victory. And who knows how upcoming special election will turn out, but I felt that there was something empowering and humbling about picking up a burner phone and, while sitting in a cold room at a local school with my husband, calling multiple numbers and making a sales pitch to strangers. One woman, one of the first I actually got through to, started yelling at me when she heard I was calling on behalf of the Democratic party: "Are you people just going to <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fjxWfmGIiKM">roll over and confirm all of his nominees</a>? How are you going to fight? The man is crazy; I don't feel safe!" Seventeen minutes, several outbursts and several apologies later--it took some time to explain that I was calling her because I was angry too- I had convinced her to check out the candidate and had given her a rough roadmap to making her voice heard. Another woman hung up on the Greek because she was sick of politics. A twenty-year-old girl listened, but told me she wasn't into "this kind of thing." It almost felt like she was suggesting I was offering her something both illicit <i>and</i> really dull, but I didn't persist (no Liz-reference intended) or try to convince her otherwise and not because I agreed with her, but because it's exhausting to insist that everybody should feel or think the same way that you do about things. </div>
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But not every waking moment can be devoted to politics or spent waiting for the next scandal to drop (as a quick aside, that, I just want to say that, despite all the gory details of the whole Michael Flynn/Trump/Russia debacle, I have been getting most agitated <i>not</i> by the question of who knew what and when, but by the way that reporters have been pronouncing Putin: <i>Piu--</i>as in <i>pyou--</i>tin instead of the proper <i>Poo, </i>as in Winnie--<i>tin</i>. The man has been in the news for years; if George W could handle this one, today's journalists can too). There are optometry appointments to go to, classes to take at the gym and activities like mandatory jury duty to keep us busy. Despite the various ways that I can and do spend my time, I am still very much a believer in the healing and restorative power of the kitchen. And, lately, there have been all sorts of comfort foods coming out of my kitchen: Thai curries, a blood orange cake as dense as a cheesecake, lots and lots of dumplings, different soups, a three-course Indian feast for Valentine's day dinner...But my real love these days, or, what I would call my coping mechanism <i>du jour, </i>is baking bread. It's all about a minimal amount of ingredients and patience and is quite possibly the most elemental kind of baking there is.</div>
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It's not like I haven't dabbled in bread baking in the past (<a href="https://diningwithdusty.blogspot.com/2012/08/seeking-perfect-loaf-italian-rosemary.html?view=flipcard">this</a>, <a href="http://diningwithdusty.blogspot.com/2012/09/seeking-perfect-loaf-pane-integrale.html">this</a> and <a href="http://diningwithdusty.blogspot.com/2014/02/cozy-up.html">this</a> post can attest to that, as well as many undocumented efforts), but this time I have gotten even more serious about it. I've been religiously studying Jeffrey Hamelman's (of King Arthur Flour) seminal book, <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Bread-Bakers-Book-Techniques-Recipes/dp/1118132718" style="font-style: italic;">Bread: A Baker's Book of Techniques</a>, reading about rye baking (<a href="http://theryebaker.com/">Stanley Ginsberg</a>'s <i>The Rye Baker </i>reads like a novel) and creating a rye starter and also exploring the world of Israeli bread with <a href="http://www.tabletmag.com/jewish-life-and-religion/128569/a-new-york-bakerys-israeli-roots">Uri Scheft</a>'s <i>Breaking Breads. </i>It's kind of like a self-directed, one-woman seminar on bread baking and, consequently, is not without a fair amount of trial and error. My whole wheat honey bread from Hamelman's book would have been perfect had I not burned myself as I rotated the loaves and then underbaked them; of course, had I not first overheated the oven, they wouldn't have sprung so high that one loaf was getting scorch marks from hitting the top of the oven rack, leading me to believe that they were ready to be removed from the oven (the "knocking on the bottom of the loaf to see if it sounds hollow" test is not foolproof; thanks to this experience, I will now forevermore use a thermometer). The whole wheat pecan and raisin loaves that I baked last week were nicely textured with a good crumb, but, if you were to look at their bottoms, you would see the bread baker's equivalent of cellulite: <i>visible seams </i>(<i>sad!</i>). The Greek brushes aside all of the flaws that I point out, happily toasting and buttering any bread that I put before him, but me, I long for a perfectly textured and shaped loaf. </div>
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Maybe I'm simply asking for too much too fast. I recognize it's quite possible that, in some ways, I'm attempting to bake bread a little above my skill level. While I've mastered cakes and cupcakes and all kinds of savory cooking (a different skill set from baking in and of itself), I still sometimes falter with doughs--pie and bread alike--which perhaps stems from a general weakness relating to symmetry and shaping (the same can be said of my relationship to clay, another elemental "dough" of sorts). But the simple truth is that the only way to get better is to practice, practice, practice and so, whenever something annoys me in the news, I now find myself gravitating to one of the many bread books stacked around the kitchen and to my pantry full of flour. This is how, the weekend after the executive order regarding the travel ban was issued, I found myself in the kitchen on a Sunday morning crumbling fresh yeast into warm warm and mixing chopped dill and onions into springy dough. </div>
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I couldn't help but want to bake the Dill Bread in Scheft's <i>Breaking Breads</i>. Not only am I a sucker for herbed loaves (the Italian Herb Loaves in Carol Field's <i><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Italian-Baker-Carol-Field/dp/0061812668">The Italian Baker</a> </i>are a favorite), but the description (and the accompanying photo) of this bread compelled me to make it: "[It] is formed into a coil and then snipped with scissors to create the shape of a flower (kishlaya), which is how challah is traditionally shaped [on the island of] Djerba, Tunisia." While I have seen many things done with bread and have recently gotten excited about the possibility of "<a href="http://blog.kingarthurflour.com/2016/08/10/artisan-bread-stenciling/">artisan bread stenciling</a>" (I am not there yet, but one day!), I have never attempted to do anything this elaborate in my own kitchen, so, naturally, it seemed high time that I try. This was, I can now say with the help of hindsight, if not a mistake, then something like a miscalculation on my part. The truth is that this bread is one of the most advanced recipes in the book; if you're not the most experienced in the ways of shaping, you may run into some problems rolling out coils that should be no less than 40 inches long and ideally, so that your kishlaya don't rise or bake lopsided, should maintain the same thickness throughout. But despite our lack of technique, the Greek and I managed to create coils and loaves that, upon emerging from the oven, did resemble flowers (that said, we cheated with the third loaf, which we couldn't bring ourselves, or our tired arms, to shape into the required pyramid; we shaped it into a batard and put it in a loaf pan and, you know what, it was perfectly edible) and had fun doing so. The golden loaves, imperfect though they were, were both the result of teamwork and a true kitchen project--rewarding and involved--but that was the point. For a few hours on that sunshine-filled Sunday, we were distracted. We worried not about the madness in the world at large, but about things, about the making of our daily bread--in this case a lightly and pillowy pull-apart bread scented with the freshness of dill-- that were solely within our power.<br />
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It felt good, rejuvenating and right, an antidote to the age of exhaustion in which we find ourselves. Consider this the first post in a monthly series on the blog on bread baking; I'm certainly no expert, but that's not to say I won't be consulting them and that we also can't learn from each other.<br />
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<b>Tunisian Dill Bread</b><br />
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Makes three small loaves<br />
From Uri Scheft's <i><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Breaking-Breads-Baking-Flatbreads-Legendary-Chocolate/dp/157965682X">Breaking Breads</a></i><br />
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Depending on how experienced you are with bread baking--I am, as I have said, a novice--you may or may not know that <span style="text-align: center;">every baker seems to have a preferred and <i>different </i>way of developing gluten. While most professional bakers love using stand mixers for the initial kneading, and preferably Kitchen Aid at that, it is at the next step when methods seems to differ. Hamelman likes to let the bread rest and then fold it; Lahey, very (ironically) hands off given his profession, is famous for the "no-knead" method; Field is wonderfully old-fashioned and simply prefers to knead as your grandmothers most likely would have kneaded their loaves; the bakers behind the Hot Bread Kitchen suggest letting the mixer do all of the work; and Scheft likes to knead the way he learned from his mother, by stretching, tearing and pushing the dough away from him before folding it back on itself (he says this leads to better gluten development without overtaxing your arms). If you're not familiar with this method (I was not and am not sure that, even with the visual aids in the book, I did it correctly), it might be a little tricky at first, so feel free to modify how you knead the dough. The how shouldn't matter as much as long as the gluten is being properly developed and, clearly, there are multiple ways to achieve this. </span><br />
<span style="text-align: center;"> Also, for those of you on the east coast, I've discovered the joy of baking with fresh (baker's) yeast, which I can find in the refrigerated section (near the yogurt and cheese) at my local ShopRite. It definitely leads to more flavor, so I would say it is worth looking for. </span><br />
<span style="text-align: center;"> This is a long recipe--most of Scheft's are--so if anything is unclear, please ask questions in the comments. </span><br />
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<b>For the dough: </b><br />
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<b><br /></b>180 grams (3/4 cup) cool room-temperature water, or more as needed<br />
35 grams fresh yeast (1/4 cup) or 2 1/2 teaspoons (12 grams) active dry yeast<br />
840 grams (6 3/4 cups) all-purpose flour, sifted, plus more as needed</div>
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50 grams (1/4 cup) sugar<br />
15 grams (1 tablespoon) fine sea salt<br />
171 grams (3/4 cup) plain whole-milk yogurt<br />
71 grams (5 tablespoons) unsalted butter, at room temperature, cut into small pieces<br />
1 small yellow onion (50 grams), finely chopped<br />
35 grams (roughly 2 cups) fresh dill fronds, finely chopped<br />
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<b>For the egg wash:</b><br />
1 large egg<br />
1 tablespoon water<br />
Pinch fine sea salt<br />
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Combine the water and yeast in the bowl of a stand mixer, whisking by hand until the yeast has dissolved. Add the flour, sugar, salt, yogurt and pieces of butter.<br />
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Attach the dough hook and knead on low speed until the dough comes together, 1 to 2 minutes. If, after 2 minutes, the dough has dry spots at the bottom of the bowl or the dough looks very wet, add more water or flour, a little at a time, as needed. Once the dough comes together nicely, continue to mix on low speed for 3 minutes. Then increase the mixer speed to medium and knead until the dough looks shiny and bounces off the side of the bowl, about 5 minutes, stopping after about two minutes to feel the dough with your hand. You don't want it to get too hot, or "overwarmed," as this might mean that the mixer is overworking the dough and disempowering the gluten. If it feels very warm to the touch, lightly flour the top of the dough, cover it with a kitchen towel and let it rest for 20-30 minutes. Once it has rested and cooled, turn the mixer back on and finish the initial kneading.<br />
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Lightly flour a work surface and set the dough on it. Lightly flour the top of the dough. Grab one edge of the dough and stretch the dough until it tears, then fold it on top of the center. Give the dough a quarter turn and continue the stretching, folding and turning for about 2 minutes. Use a bench scraper or chef's knife to cut the dough into 12 roughly equal pieces, then return the pieces to the mixer bowl; Scheft points out that, breaking up the dough this way will help to incorporate the onion and dill.<br />
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Add the onion and dill; knead on low speed until they are well incorporated. Transfer the dough to a lightly floured work surface and fold again, giving it about four turns. Place the dough in a lightly floured large bowl, dust the top with flour and cover the bowl with plastic wrap. Let the dough rest at room temperature until it has doubled in volume, about an hour.<br />
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Transfer the dough to the lightly floured surface; divide it into 3 equal pieces (<i>N.B. Use the kitchen scale as your guide</i>). Firmly press down on each piece of dough with the heel of your hand to release the gas, and then pull it to make a 9-by-5-inch rectangle with a short side facing you. Fold the top edge (the one farthest away from you) a quarter of the way down and use the heel of your hand to seal along the edge of the bottom part of the folded dough. Repeat 3 more times to make a log. Repeat with the remaining pieces of dough. Use your hands to roll each piece to form a 20-inch-long rope, being careful not to over-flour the dough. Once the dough has been shaped, brush off any extra flour that remains to avoid creating streaks in the completed loaves. Cover the three ropes of dough with a clean kitchen towel and let rest for 15 minutes.<br />
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Line two baking sheets with parchment paper.<br />
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Flatten each rope to a rectangle again and repeat the flattening process, folding the top down by a fourth, using the heel of your hand to seal along the edge, then repeating 3 times to make a log. Now use your hands to roll each log to make a 40-inch-long rope (the Greek and I did this on the counter, rolling the dough as you would clay or playdough, but the <i><a href="https://www.washingtonpost.com/recipes/dill-bread/15634/?utm_term=.d7eb4116b90c">Washington Post</a>, </i>which wrote about this bread in late November, suggests that an easy way to stretch the dough is to hold one end in each hand and slowly twirl it as you would a jump rope). Again, brush off any excess flour that remains to avoid incorporating streaks of flour into the completed dough. Use clean kitchen scissors to snip (or a sharp knife to cut) diagonal slits three-quarters of the way through the dough at one-inch intervals.<br />
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Coil the snipped rope into a spiral shape, overlapping to create a pyramid--the base should be wide base, whereas the top will be narrow--and set it on the baking sheet. Gently pull the snipped segments apart, separating them from one another. Repeat with the other 2 ropes, creating two more coiled pyramids. Place the remaining coils on the other parchment-lined baking sheet, making sure to leave space between them.<br />
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Cover the pyramid-coils with kitchen towels and let rise in a warm, draft-free spot for 1 1/2 to 2 hours or until the dough has risen and a slight press of the finger creates a lasting indentation (<i>N.B. Scheft says that the dough will have been properly proofed when, if you press into it with your finger, it doesn't spring back immediately and leaves a slight impression in the dough)</i>.<br />
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About 30 minutes before the loaves are ready to bake, set a rimmed baking sheet on the oven floor (or, if not possible, on the lowest oven rack), adjust the racks so that one is in the upper-middle and the other in the lower-middle position and preheat the oven to 350 degrees.<br />
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Make the egg wash by whisking the egg, water and salt together in a small bowl.<br />
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Uncover the coiled loaves and, using a pastry brush, lightly coat them with some of the egg wash. Place the two baking sheets in the oven. Pour 1/4 cup of water with two ice cubes in it into the rimmed baking sheet on the bottom of the oven and quickly close the oven door. Bake for 12 minutes, then rotate the baking pans, turning them front to back for the last 5-8 minutes.<br />
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Set the baking sheets on a rack to cool. The bread, wrapped well in plastic, will keep for 3-4 days. The loaves can also be frozen and then defrosted; they will emerge as if they were just baked.<br />
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Katyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04290135991797809997noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4031121890854604877.post-61264951153719932852017-01-22T11:13:00.003-08:002017-01-22T11:13:59.185-08:00The (Baker's) Resistance and Watergate Cake<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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No, I do not weep at the world. I am too busy sharpening my oyster knife. -Zora Neale Hurston ("<a href="http://xroads.virginia.edu/%5C~MA01/Grand-Jean/Hurston/Chapters/how.html">How it Feels to Be Colored Me</a>")</div>
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Yesterday, in tiny Newark, Delaware, I stood amongst my fellow brothers and sisters and marched, not just for women, but for a whole range of issues: LGBTQ rights, the Affordable Care Act, the rights of the disabled, for women's reproductive health, the importance of facts (<i>not </i>alternative facts, which, as <a href="http://www.nbcnews.com/meet-the-press/video/conway-press-secretary-gave-alternative-facts-860142147643">Chuck Todd</a> rightly pointed out, are <i>falsehoods</i>), and for peace and education and love. The event, though called a "Women's March," was as inclusive as they come. Though it was a cold, grey and drizzly day, over a thousand people--women, men, babies, children, teenagers, elderly people walking with canes and some even being pushed in wheelchairs--came out to be heard and to participate in a symbolic act of protest and resistance. I am not as stoic as the Zoras of the world because, seeing all these people, reading their signs, understanding their fear, made me, little old stoic me, want to weep, even as I was surrounded by messages and chants of hope. </div>
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I realize that conservatives think that all liberals are unpatriotic and whiny babies (this insult, in fact, was recently hurled at my aunt on Facebook, but in much cruder terms), who just can't come to terms with the results of the election that favored their candidate, but let's be frank here: if Hillary Clinton had won, and it had come out that the Russians had supported her as "their" candidate, there would have been a conservative uprising that would have put the beginnings of the Tea Party to shame. We should, as Americans, all be concerned when the Russians meddle in the outcome of democracy, as well as when nominees chosen to run the Department of Education don't know what the <a href="http://idea.ed.gov/explore/view">Individuals with Disabilities Education Act </a>(IDEA) is, when Republican leadership is not only voting to repeal the Affordable Care Act (aka Obamacare), which some believe to have <a href="http://www.forbes.com/sites/theapothecary/2011/10/20/how-a-conservative-think-tank-invented-the-individual-mandate/#d3eb968621bd">originated with the Heritage Foundation</a>, a conservative think tank, but are also voting to make things like <i>pregnancy</i> again qualify as a preexisting condition. If they were being honest with themselves and with women, they would reframe the law to say that to be a woman is a preexisting condition. This is why women came out in droves yesterday (as <a href="https://www.nytimes.com/2017/01/22/arts/aziz-ansari-monologue-transcript-snl.html">Aziz Ansari said on Saturday Night Live</a>, "Yesterday, Trump was inaugurated. Today, an entire gender protested against him. Wow.") and why I, a person who usually fears political protests as I don't like crowds and their unpredictability, also felt I needed to take a stand--even if it was purely symbolic and I have yet to understand how all of that anger, goodwill and hope can be harnessed into something tangible. </div>
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And while I know that blog posts that veer into politics can be divisive and drive readers away, there are things that have to be said. I don't believe that, in a country that supposedly values free speech, these conversations should be brushed under a rug. Nor do I believe that the average Trump voter is a racist or inherently sexist or stupid. I come from coal-mining country in southwestern Pennsylvania, an area that was as red as the electoral map can be. I know that there are real problems in these parts of the world, real concerns propelling voters to the polls--that people are hurting economically, that opioid abuse is on the rise, that towns that once had signs of life are now nothing more than ghost towns (Brownsville, Pennsylvania, I'm looking at you and the hopelessness--and the anger and hatred that this hopelessness wrought--of some of your residents. <a href="https://www.washingtonpost.com/national/finally-someone-who-thinks-like-me/2016/10/01/c9b6f334-7f68-11e6-9070-5c4905bf40dc_story.html?utm_term=.eeed7754bc57"><i>The Washington Post </i>wrote about a Trump supporter in Brownsville</a> back in October and, as it turned out, my mother had known her in high school). I can see why they might be attracted to a campaign slogan that invokes nostalgia and the promise of American greatness. </div>
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But I also believe that this election was fraudulent, one of the biggest cons in American history, and that there are people in this country who are fooled into voting against their own interests. Welfare doesn't have to be demonized, nor should the wealthy or middle class care if a person with less than them decides to buy a can of pop (or soda, depending on where you are from) with food stamps. Women's healthcare and reproductive decisions shouldn't be dictated by men, nor should organizations that provide cheap mammograms and pelvic exams to women be considered agents of evil. People who look, think and worship differently from you are not the enemy, nor should they be perceived as such. I don't agree with the average Trump voter or with many of Trump's planned policies, but if he were to practice a kind of Rockefeller Republicanism and improve some of America's infrastructure, I would applaud him. Similarly, if he were to bring back jobs and give the Rust Belt an economic jolt, I would think this was a job well done. But none of this should be done at the expense of going backwards. It is not heartening to see, on Trump's first day in the White House, that the administration had taken down the pages devoted to LGBT rights and climate change. </div>
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Marching was not my only act of resistance this week, though it was by far the most effective avenue I could think to pursue at this juncture. My more quiet act of resistance this week involved my going into the kitchen and baking a cake, which in and of itself is hardly a rare or noteworthy occasion. But it wasn't any cake, it was a Watergate Cake with Impeachment Frosting, a throwback to the 1970s and the age of Nixon; the recipe, which comes from Julie Richardson's inspired collection, <i><a href="http://www.penguinrandomhouse.com/books/211676/vintage-cakes-by-julie-richardson/9781607741022/">Vintage Cakes</a></i>, <i> </i>is described as becoming popular "sometime after 1975, the year Kraft Foods developed pistachio pudding mix, and a time when cake mix cakes were at their peak of popularity." Richardson recreated the recipe, making everything--the pudding and the cake--from scratch, which means that, as far as recipes go, this is a time-consuming enterprise. But, given the occasion of Trump's inauguration, my love of all pistachio desserts and the fact that today is the official one year anniversary of the Greek's and my civil union, it seemed worth it--and not just because it serves as a reminder that good things take time to build. To me, it also serves as a symbol that people are watching and waiting; we will give him a chance, but, if need be, he will, just as past presidents have been, be held accountable for his actions (keep in mind that I don't want him to fail because, as Obama said, if he fails, then America fails but, just in case he does, we are ready to pounce). This election, if nothing else, has made watchdogs of us all, and we might as well eat cake--one as wildly nutty as our new president (whether consciously or unconsciously, I also personalized this cake with some orange zest in the batter and orange blossom water in the frosting)--while doing it. </div>
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<b>Watergate Cake with Impeachment Frosting (Pistachio Cake with Pistachio Frosting)</b><br />
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Adapted from Julie Richardson's <i><a href="http://www.penguinrandomhouse.com/books/211676/vintage-cakes-by-julie-richardson/9781607741022/">Vintage Cakes</a></i><br />
Serves 8-12<br />
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Richardson's recipe calls for four essential steps: the first, making the pudding; the second, making three eight-inch cakes; the third, making the frosting; and, the fourth, caramelizing pistachios. I will confess that I ran out of steam after the third step and decided to abandon the caramelized pistachios in favor of plain old roughly chopped pistachios.<br />
I made some other changes, substituting turbinado (raw cane sugar) for half of the granulated sugar the pudding recipe called for, as well lightening it by using whole milk instead of half and half.<br />
I also decided, as I mentioned above, to add the zest of one navel orange to the cake batter and a teaspoon of <a href="http://www.gourmetsleuth.com/ingredients/detail/orange-flower-water">orange blossom water</a> (a nod to the flavors of the Middle East). To continue with this theme, I almost sprinkled pomegranate arils on top of the cake, but decided not to add another flavor that would compete with the pistachio and orange.<br />
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<b>For the pistachio pudding: </b><br />
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1 cup (5 ounces) shelled unsalted pistachios<br />
1/3 cup turbinado sugar<br />
1 1/2 cups whole milk<br />
1/3 cup granulated sugar<br />
4 egg yolks<br />
1/2 teaspoon salt<br />
1 tablespoon cornstarch<br />
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In the bowl of a food processor fitted with a metal blade, grind the pistachios with the turbinado sugar until finely ground. In a medium saucepan, heat the milk and ground pistachio mixture until hot, but not boiling.<br />
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While the milk mixture is heating, whisk together the remaining sugar, egg yolks and salt in a small bowl. Whisk in the cornstarch, then slowly add about one third of the hot pistachio cream, whisking constantly. Pour the mixture back into the saucepan and gently cook, whisking often, over medium-low heat until the mixture comes to a boil and begins to thicken. Strain the mixture through a medium-mesh sieve into a shallow bowl (<i>N.B. If you have only a fine-mesh sieve, as I do, you can use this instead and scoop the nuts back into the pudding</i>.). Place plastic wrap directly on the surface of the pudding and refrigerate until cool (for at least a few hours).<br />
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This recipe makes about 2 cups of pudding--just enough for the cake.<br />
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<b>For the cakes: </b><br />
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2 cups (10 ounces) all-purpose flour<br />
1 1/2 teaspoons baking powder<br />
3/4 teaspoon salt<br />
1/2 cup (4 ounces/1 stick) unsalted butter, at room temperature<br />
1 1/2 cups (10 1/2 ounces) granulated sugar<br />
zest of one navel orange<br />
1/3 cup canola or other flavorless oil<br />
1 teaspoon vanilla extract<br />
4 eggs<br />
1/2 cup whole milk<br />
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Grease three eight-inch cake pans and line their bottoms with parchment paper. Center the oven rack and preheat to 350.<br />
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In a small bowl, whisk together the flour, baking powder and salt. Measure out one scant cup of pistachio pudding and set aside until ready to use.<br />
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Measure out the sugar and add the orange zest, rubbing it in with your fingers to release the oils. Let sit for a few minutes. In the bowl of a stand mixer fitted with a paddle attachment, cream the butter and orange-scented sugar on low speed until well blended. With the mixer on low speed, slowly add the oil and the vanilla; let the mixer run until combined, then turn the mixer speed up to medium-high and beat until fluffy, or for about 5 minutes, stopping the mixer a few times to scrape the sides of the bowl with a rubber spatula.<br />
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Again with the mixer on low speed, add the eggs one at a time, waiting until each egg has been fully incorporated before adding the next one. Add the flour mixture in three parts, beginning and ending with the dry ingredients and alternating with the milk, which should be added in two parts. After each addition of dry and wet ingredients, mix until barely blended and make sure to scrape down the sides. When adding the last of the dry ingredients, stop the mixer before the flour has been fully incorporated. Add the cup of pistachio pudding and fold both it and the visible flour into the batter.<br />
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Divide the batter evenly into the prepared pans (<i>N.B. Richardson's recipe said there should be approximately 1 pound per pan, but I got only .93-.94 pounds per cake pan; maybe this difference stemmed from the use of whole milk instead of half and half in the pudding?</i>) and smooth the tops. Place on the centered oven rack and bake for 20-24 minutes or until the cakes are golden and spring back when touched (you can also use a toothpick to test if the cake is done).<br />
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Cool the cakes in their pans on a rack for 30 minutes, then invert the cakes on the rack and turn them so they are top side up. Continue to cool until they reach room temperature (if waiting until the next day to assemble the cakes, wrap the cakes in plastic wrap and set aside).<br />
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<b>For the Impeachment Frosting, aka Pistachio Cream</b><br />
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1 cup (8 ounces) heavy cream<br />
1 cup (8 ounces) mascarpone<br />
2 tablespoons granulated sugar<br />
1 teaspoon vanilla extract<br />
1 teaspoon orange blossom water<br />
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Place the bowl of a stand mixer (or a regular mixing bowl) in the freezer or refrigerator for 5-10 minutes to chill.<br />
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Measure out 1 cup of the pistachio pudding and add it to a medium-sized bowl. Set aside.<br />
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Place the cream, mascarpone, sugar, vanilla extract and orange blossom water into the chilled bowl and mix on low speed until it has come together. Then, turn the mixer up to high and whip until firm peaks have just begun to form (<i>N.B. Richardson notes that this should be done carefully, as mascarpone will become grainy if it is overwhipped.</i>). Gently fold about one third of the mascarpone cream into the pistachio pudding; continue to fold the cream into the pudding mixture in thirds until fully combined and no longer streaky.<br />
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<b>To assemble the cake</b>:<br />
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1/3 cup pistachios, roughly chopped<br />
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Remove the parchment from the cake layers and lay one of the cakes on a serving plate or cake stand, top side up. Place a few strips of parchment paper under the cake to prevent the serving plate or stand from getting messy.<br />
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Spoon a cup of pistachio cream over the cake, using an offset spatula to spread it in an even layer. Set the next cake layer on top, again top side up, and repeat the process, using an offset spatula to spread the icing across the cake. Finish with the top third layer of cake (top side up) and spread another cup of frosting over the top of the cake. As I (inexplicably) had extra frosting, I decided to cover the whole cake, spreading frosting around the cake's border, making soft pleats over the cake with the offset spatula.<br />
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Sprinkle the cake with the chopped pistachios and, if not serving immediately, refrigerate the cake (because of the pistachio cream). Remove the cake from the refrigerator at least an hour before serving it.</div>
Katyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04290135991797809997noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4031121890854604877.post-35920210402506549592017-01-16T09:28:00.000-08:002017-01-16T11:19:34.935-08:00A Tale of Two Pizzas<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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At the best of times, January can feel like the bleakest month. The twinkling Christmas lights disappear, grey rules the sky and, after any snowfall, the pristine landscape that seems to mirror the blank slate of the new year turns into a muddy mess. This year, however, things feel even more grim, fraught with anxiety and base showmanship, although there are the occasional glimmers of hope from the <a href="http://www.newyorker.com/news/news-desk/marco-rubio-doesnt-let-rex-tillerson-off-easy">most unexpected</a> of places. Even so, all of this makes me want to retreat back into the promise of December, when I was home for the holidays and treated to daily helpings of family stories. </div>
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These stories inevitably focus on my maternal great-grandparents, though they also sometimes veer into the more distant past. There was the great-great-great-grandmother who was serenaded by a gentleman back in Italy (where, we don't know for certain, but I like to imagine Tuscany) and married against her family's wishes; a car accident in the 'new country' that nearly claimed lives and instilled a lifelong fear of motor vehicles; children abandoned and raised by their older siblings; and enough broken hearts and stolen money to populate a serial on the BBC (or a Dickens novel). Hearing these stories, I am always struck not only by how much the world has changed and how shocked these people would be to discover these changes, but also by how colorful and how rich their lives seem in comparison to our computer-dominated existences. I also sometimes think that, given the surreal nature of some of these tales and the fact that I had been made privy to them at a fairly young age, it's no wonder I found myself on the doorstep of Russian literature.</div>
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<span style="text-align: center;">Of course, I don't mean, or intend, to trivialize my family members in any way; they were real and, in memories and family movies, </span><span style="text-align: center;">continue to be</span><i style="text-align: center;"> </i><span style="text-align: center;">as real as ever. It's just that, for me, they have always seemed both larger than life and, as I never actually met them, somewhat elusive. I know that my great-grandfather had a hearty laugh and a love of sports and that my great-grandmother and namesake was a card shark who loved to gamble, was prone to exaggeration (really, just a euphemism for lies, but white lies only) and could cook circles around you in the kitchen. She also just happened to be petite and feisty, and I am often told that I am like her. When I look at her photograph and try to figure out what we more noticeably have in common, I immediately see the bump in her nose. And when I hear that, after being diagnosed with the brain tumor that would claim her life, rather than heeding the advice of the doctors, she instead stuffed her change purse full of the medication that she was supposed to be taking, I know that we are indeed cut from the same cloth. </span><br />
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<span style="text-align: center;">In the early 1950s, Kathryn (the First) opened a small restaurant, the Ten Mile Pizza Hut, along the Monongahela River in southwestern Pennsylvania. Throughout my childhood, I heard much about this pizza, from my family and the parents of friends, who, upon meeting me, would say that my great-grandmother had made the best pizza in town. I would smile and say thank you, that I had heard of this pizza, but had obviously never tried it; secretly, I wondered if it was as good as everybody said, or if they were just being polite, remembering fondly what was no more. To my grandparents and mother, I would ask questions about both the family business, wanting to know why we never made this kind of pizza and why we weren't, as the relatives of a woman who had run a 'Pizza Hut,' filthy rich. The second question was simple to answer: my great-grandmother had never licensed the name (it's also possible that the brothers who founded the first ever 'Pizza Hut' in Wichita, Kansas, in 1958, themselves came up with the name and had never heard of the Ten Mile version). The first question was more complicated, and represents, in addition to spoiling her children one of the greatest regrets of my grandmother's life: that nobody had ever thought to ask for this recipe until it was too late and the effects of the brain tumor had taken this knowledge away. </span><br />
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<span style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">Fast forward to 2010, the year I began writing this blog. I went home that summer, high on the success of having passed my qualifying exams and excited to have, at long last, more time for personal pursuits. My summer goals were to learn to make pies and pizza and, while we did make both (I wrote </span><a href="http://diningwithdusty.blogspot.com/2010/06/whats-in-pie.html" style="text-align: left;">this</a><span style="text-align: left;"> and </span><a href="http://diningwithdusty.blogspot.com/2010/06/when-moon-hits-your-eye.html" style="text-align: left;">this </a><span style="text-align: left;">post and took some less than ideal food photos!), when it came time to prepare the pizza, I was shocked to discover that my grandmother used store-bought shells. I remember slowly processing this, "Shells...from the store?" It may sound (and maybe is) snobby, but it seemed impossible that a woman who could bake her way into the good graces of an Ottoman sultan and whose mother had run a small pizza empire would ever make pizza using "shells from the store." I've had to accept, however, that, whereas I have quaint ideas about reclaiming the past and making cakes and all kinds of things from scratch, my grandmother has fully embraced the wide world of modern conveniences. And, in the case of the pizza shells, it wasn't even so much a reliance on convenience; rather, it was the disappointment of having tried different recipes and flour ratios and never having been able to replicate the taste of the past. She had so hated the taste of these failed experiments that she had made herself sick trying different recipes. The store-bought shell was a concession and one that I think she made only so as to be able to enjoy pizza at all. The pizza that we made with it was fine, even good, but I knew that, when it came to homemade pizza, I was going to have to make my own way.</span></span><br />
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<span style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">I started looking up recipes in the </span><i style="text-align: left;">New York Times </i><span style="text-align: left;">and on blogs, as well as asking trusted friends who had seemed to master the art of pizza which recipe(s) they liked. As I tried these recipes--</span><a href="http://cooking.nytimes.com/recipes/12399-mark-bittmans-basic-pizza-dough" style="text-align: left;">Mark Bittman's</a><span style="text-align: left;">, </span><a href="https://www.tastingtable.com/entry_detail/99/Jim_Lahey_reveals_his_recipe_for_no-knead_pizza_dough_.htm" style="text-align: left;">Jim Lahey's</a><span style="text-align: left;">, </span><a href="https://www.nytimes.com/2014/04/09/dining/a-little-pizza-homework.html" style="text-align: left;">Roberta's</a><span style="text-align: left;">--I also started a campaign, sending them to my grandma and encouraging her to try them. She had her preferences (Bittman's was her favorite of the bunch) and I had mine (Roberta's dough was excellent, but, since I rarely plan to make pizza ahead of time, I needed a more reliable and speedy dough) but it was only in Delaware in fall 2015, when my grandparents arrived on the Sunday before Thanksgiving to find me for them, that our pizza dough preferences converged. While I was shaping the dough, Deb Perelman's "rushed pizza dough," pulling and stretching it, she commented, "That's nice dough, easy to work with too. It reminds me of my mother's." When the pizza, roasted sweet potato with a sage gremolata (a riff on the recipe I'm providing today), came out of the oven, and we all sat down to eat, she said, breaking the almost holy silence that fills a room when people are eating well, "This is good pizza. It reminds me of my mother's. I want you to send the recipe to me." I promised that I would and, life being what it is and despite my best intentions, I am doing so only now.</span></span><br />
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Given our family's history with pizza, it seems strange that a recipe that I adapted from a lady in New York would become our (new) family recipe. Recipes, after all, are supposed to be passed down, but this one is being passed <i>up. </i>Parts of it, if you really think about it, have even come at us from the side: the addition of cornmeal that my <a href="http://krugthethinker.com/">Slavic BFF Cameron</a> introduced me to, the world's obsession with baking with whole-grain flours like spelt, which compelled me to try the dough with 1/2 cup of its nutty flavor, the interconnected nature of kitchens today via blogs and word of mouth, which is how Deb's fast, easy and reliably good recipe ended up becoming my pizza recipe of choice. Truly, I have tried a lot of doughs and her trick of placing the prepared dough in an oven that has been warmed for 30 minutes (or longer in my experience) leads to the most supple and pliable of doughs, which, when baked, blisters and puffs up in all the right places. It also means that pizza can be dinner on any night of the week, provided you have the bare minimum in your fridge and pantry (flour, yeast, salt, oil, as well as cheese and your toppings of choice).<br />
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My favorite pizza, at least in the fall and winter, is one that my great-grandmother was definitely not serving in her restaurant. It is one that I first tried in Berkeley several years ago at a small hole in the wall called <a href="http://www.gioiapizzeria.com/locations/berkeley.html">Gioia's</a> (Bay Area residents, though the pizza at both establishments is Brooklyn-style, don't confuse the North Berkeley location with the much fancier and more spacious San Francisco one; the shop on Hopkins Street is tiny and has a gritty, New York feel to it): a "white" pizza with roasted butternut squash, mozzarella, gorgonzola and gremolata, an Italian garnish made of lemon zest, parsley and garlic. This combination--tangy, sharp, bright--livens up the soft sweetness of the squash, which, as we all know, can start to feel tired and overdone at a certain point in the fall and winter (I encounter this problem a lot; <a href="http://diningwithdusty.blogspot.com/2013/12/a-breath-of-fresh-air.html">this post</a>, <a href="http://diningwithdusty.blogspot.com/2014/04/seasonal-confusion.html">that post</a> and <a href="https://www.washingtonpost.com/lifestyle/food/madhur-jaffrey-indian-vegetarian-food--is-the-best-in-the-world/2015/11/09/14aacc08-86ef-11e5-be39-0034bb576eee_story.html?utm_term=.2273e21067cf">this new favorite</a> can help you overcome your squash fatigue). Maybe even right about now...<br />
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<b>Quick, Yeasty Pizza Dough</b></div>
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Adapted from <i>The Smitten Kitchen Cookbook</i></div>
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Makes 2 pizzas (round or rectangular) </div>
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I like making my pizza dough by hand, but you can also use a food process or mixer as well. </div>
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1 cup warm water </div>
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2 1/2 teaspoons active dry yeast</div>
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240 (2 cups) grams unbleached bread flour (<i>N.B. If not using spelt or cornmeal, use 360 grams bread flour</i>)</div>
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60 grams (1/2 cup) spelt flour</div>
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86 grams medium grind cornmeal* (<i>N.B. This is if you like more texture; if you don't, use 66 grams [1/2 cup] fine cornmeal</i>)</div>
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2 teaspoons kosher salt</div>
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Olive oil for coating</div>
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Preheat the oven to 225 F. Once it reaches and maintains this temperature for 5 minutes, turn it off.</div>
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Pour the cup of water into a large bowl and sprinkle the yeast over the water. Let stand for 5 minutes or until lightly foaming. </div>
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While the yeast is being activated, whisk together the flours, cornmeal and salt. Once the yeast and water mixture is ready, slowly pour it into the bowl with the dry ingredients. Using a wooden spoon, mix until the dough roughly comes together (if more water is needed, add one tablespoon at a time), then turn the dough and any loose scraps onto a lightly floured countertop. Knead for 5-7 minutes or until the dough is smooth and springy. Test the dough by poking it with your index finger; if it springs back, it is ready to rest. </div>
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Lightly coat the inside of a mixing bowl with olive oil and place the dough in the bowl, turning it over once so that both sides of the dough have been coated with oil. Cover with a towel and place in the previously warmed oven. Let the dough sit in the oven for at least 30 minutes (longer is also fine). When you take the dough out of the oven, it should have doubled in size. </div>
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Turn the dough out onto a lightly floured countertop and divide the mass into two parts (you can use a scale for precision, but I usually eyeball it). </div>
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Lightly rub olive oil into your hands and shape and stretch your dough to about 12 inches (if making a round pizza) or to roughly 9x13 inches (if making a rectangular pizza); if it tears, just lightly patch it together. Add your toppings (see recipe below), then repeat with the second ball of dough. </div>
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*These measurements are based on Bob's Red Mill brand, which I use. And, just in case you were wondering, this is not a preference based on sponsorship, but quality. </div>
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<b>Butternut Squash Pizza with Gremolata and Gorgonzola</b></div>
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Makes 4-6 servings, with a side salad</div>
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I like to prepare my toppings in advance, so I would recommend at least roasting the squash and before starting the dough. In fact, given the recipe for this dough, it would be easy to put the prepared dough into the oven after removing the squash and letting the oven cool for at least 10-15 minutes.</div>
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When I was experimenting with different pizza recipes I was finding online and in cookbooks, I liked the trick, which I learned from <a href="http://cooking.nytimes.com/recipes/1016232-cheeses-pizza">Sam Sifton's article on Roberta's Pizza</a>, of coating the dough with a little cream--at least for a white pizza-- before adding the toppings. I now do this with some of my favorites: for spring, asparagus and taleggio; for summer, a zucchini and tarragon pizza that I learned from my friend Cameron and call, in my head, the Cameron and Eric; for fall and winter, this one, as well as <a href="https://www.instagram.com/p/BFpck9-R20O/?taken-by=diningwithdusty&hl=en">herbed ricotta pies</a>. </div>
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<b>For the squash: </b></div>
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Peel and cube a butternut squash. Lightly coat with oil, sprinkle with salt and pepper and roast at 400F for 20-25 minutes.</div>
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<b>For the gremolata</b>: </div>
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Gremolata, as I mentioned above, is a classic Italian garnish that combines parsley, garlic and lemon zest. But, as with all things, it doesn't have to be that way. You could mix up your herbs (I have made sage gremolata and cilantro gremolata and even three-herb--parsley, rosemary and thyme--gremolata) and even your citrus (why not lime, orange or blood orange?). When I was making and photographing the photos for this recipe, I didn't have enough parsley on my plant or in the fridge, so I used parsley, rosemary and thyme; I will provide this version below, but feel free to mix things up. </div>
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Also, while I recognize that this is supposed to be put on the pizza once it comes out of the oven (the Gioia way), I have started putting it on the pizza <i>before </i>baking it. It's not traditional, but, again, it works. </div>
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3 tablespoons fresh parsley, finely chopped</div>
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1 tablespoon fresh rosemary, finely chopped</div>
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2 teaspoons fresh thyme</div>
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2 cloves of garlic, finely chopped</div>
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zest of one lemon</div>
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<b>For the pizzas: </b></div>
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2 teaspoons of heavy cream (1 tsp. per pizza) </div>
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10 ounces of grated low-moisture mozzarella, divided into two 5-ounce piles</div>
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3 ounces of crumbled gorgonzola or other bleu cheese, divided into two 1.5 ounce piles</div>
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roughly one cup of cubed roasted squash (about 1/3-1/2 cup squash per pizza)</div>
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the prepared gremolata, halved</div>
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olive oil, for rubbing on the crust</div>
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a squeeze or two of lemon juice (optional)</div>
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<b>To assemble one pizza: </b></div>
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Preheat the oven to 500 F. If you have a pizza stone, place it in the oven. </div>
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Using the dough that you have stretched and shaped onto a pizza pan or rectangular baking sheet, rub the teaspoon of cream onto the dough, leaving the outside border (about one inch) bare. Scatter the mozzarella over the dough evenly, then add the crumbled gorgonzola and cubed squash. Sprinkle the gremolata over the prepared pie. Lightly rub or brush the exposed dough with a little bit of olive oil, then place the pie in the oven (or on top of the pizza stone that has been heating in the oven) for 8 to 10 minutes, or until the dough is blistered in places and the cheese is bubbling. </div>
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Remove the pie and serve immediately, adding a squeeze of lemon juice if desired. </div>
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Repeat the process with the second ball of dough.</div>
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Katyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04290135991797809997noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4031121890854604877.post-85753059012078890212017-01-05T17:30:00.000-08:002017-01-06T09:05:53.479-08:00A Year of Reading, Cooking and Baking <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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There is a great deal of unmapped country within us which would have to be taken into account in an explanation of our gusts and storms. -George Eliot (<i>Daniel Deronda</i>)</div>
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My goals, in 2016, were nothing if not lofty. In addition to the posts I would write and the the dishes I would make, I had a long list of all the books I would read: Lahiri, Strout, Messud, Franzen, Collins, Smith (Zadie, not to be confused with all the other possible literary Smiths in the world)...Of just these six, I read an embarrassing <i>zero, </i>though this isn't necessarily for a lack of trying. Whenever I made this list--sometime in early January of last year?-- I had thought that these were the books that I wanted to read. Some of them were; I did cross two off the list: Lily King's <i><a href="https://www.theguardian.com/books/2014/dec/24/euphoria-lily-king-review-margaret-mead-new-guinea">Euphoria</a></i>, which had been a Christmas present from the Greek, and Rachel Cusk's <i><a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2015/01/11/books/review/rachel-cusks-outline.html?_r=0">Outline</a></i>, which, given my recent preference (both conscious and unconscious) for reading female authors and the fact that, since I had read <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2015/05/10/books/review/kate-atkinsons-a-god-in-ruins.html">Tom Perrotta's review of Kate Atkinson's <i>A God in Ruins </i></a>("In recent years, a number of talented novelists have experienced a sudden and alarming loss of faith in their chosen literary form. David Shields thinks most novels are boring and disconnected from reality. Nicole Krauss is 'sick of plot and characters and scenes and climax and resolution.' Rachel Cusk has decided that conventional fiction is 'fake and embarrassing.' Karl Ove Knausgaard goes even further, dismissing the entire enterprise: 'Fictional writing has no value.') I had been curious about this voice that has disavowed the power of fiction, I bought for myself. The failure of this list, like with so many of the lists that I make, should convince me that it's wrong to attempt to plan "a reading year" so far in advance, that there are moods and times for all books (and recipes and shows), that sometimes you just need to be guided by what leaps out at you as stare at your increasingly overcrowded shelves.<br />
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Despite my hits and misses as a reader, I have learned the importance of giving up if a book doesn't feel quite right. I had, for example, been wanting to read Lauren Groff's <i><a href="http://www.nationalbook.org/nba2015_f_lgroff.html#.WG7JpHeZNsM">Fates and Furies</a> </i>(many have called it a more gothic <i>Gone Girl </i>for the literary crowd<i>; </i>James Wood, however, was <a href="http://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2015/11/02/scenes-from-a-marriage-books-james-wood">not convinced</a>) since it came out in 2015, but, when the moment finally arrived and despite the immensely pleasing cover with its calming wavelike pattern of blue and white, I couldn't read past the first page. Maybe I would feel differently if I picked it up now, maybe not. Whereas I used to claim that I would read anything I could get my hands on--and this was largely true--I am now a picky reader, one who wants to be grabbed immediately by the author's voice and released only after absorbing every morsel of pleasure that I can from both the characters and the twists of plot and language. I wonder sometimes if this means I am simply (or have become) a lazy reader, one who seeks pleasure first and challenge second, but life is short, books are plentiful and hopefully I will one day be old, grey, in full possession of my faculties and finally still and free enough to be able to read all the novels I will inevitably have cast aside over the years.<br />
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For now, though, we will just focus on my somewhat youthful tastes, my favorite reads from 2016. While I ultimately didn't read all that many novels, I did read a good mix of genres (classics, mysteries and contemporary fiction, a lot of which blurs the line between memoir and fiction) and even a few books written by men. Winnowing these books down into a short list was not an easy task, especially when you consider that 2016 brought me an unexpected dose of Potter, which I initially slurped up with the same gusto I would a bowl of udon at a noodle bar on a cold winter day, all before realizing I would have to pace myself, my first Ali Smith novel and more of Maria Semple's <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2016/10/09/books/review/maria-semple-today-will-be-different.html">zany observations</a> ("Stop talking about Jesus! People will think we're poor!"). Had I finished <i>Daniel Deronda </i>(again in progress after a long hiatus), or managed to read the pile of books (<i>Longbourn, Bel Canto, The Signature of All Things</i>) that I would virtuously carry around on various trips and never actually crack open, this list might have been very different.<br />
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Also, because I spend a lot of time reading and flipping through cookbooks, I decided to offer my favorites from these categories as well. Happy reading and may we all read more (and stay off the quicksand of the internet) in 2017! Let life look like <a href="http://www.newyorker.com/culture/culture-desk/cover-story-2014-10-20">this</a>.<br />
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<b>Five Favorite Books of the Year</b><br />
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<i><a href="http://www.tanafrench.com/">Tana French</a> everything</i>: I read not one book in French's Dublin Murder Squad this year, but <i>three: Faithful Place, Broken Harbor </i>and <i>The Secret Place. </i>If the titles don't impress you, don't worry; they didn't impress me, either. But to judge the books by their titles alone would be a huge mistake. <i>Huge</i>. These mysteries are less about the <i>whodunnit </i>(in two of the three books, I was able to guess outright, or at least suspect the killer; surprisingly, this didn't affect my opinion of the books) and more about the psychology of both the detective working the case and the murderer. There is always a chilling and somewhat supernatural element to them (the bond of four friends at a private school that leads to something like witchcraft, but that is never overtly stated as such; the mysterious disappearance of two children in the woods; the specter of a wild animal in the attic), as well as a strong sense of coincidence: each detective ends up having to solve the mystery that most gets under his or her skin because they resonate with his or her past. They are smart, creepy and downright engaging. When I recently exchanged Christmas greetings with a friend who was reading <a href="http://theamericanreader.com/a-conversation-with-mikhail-shishkin/">Mikhail Shishkin</a> on her Finnish holiday, I told her I was embarrassed to say that I was spending my holiday reading a mystery, but one by Tana French and that I was certain Dostoevsky would approve. I hold to that belief.<br />
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<i><a href="http://www.npr.org/2015/04/29/403046849/3-600-page-autobiographical-novel-is-an-honest-and-masterful-selfie">My Struggle, Book One</a></i>: I first read Karl Ove Knausgaard a few years ago in <i>The New Yorker</i>. The piece was, I think, taken from the third or fourth book in his autobiographical series and, while I enjoyed it (it was light and funny; I read it with the Greek American boy I was tutoring at the time, which, given some of the racy elements to Knausgaard's sexual discovery, was probably not the best choice, but he was game and I decided to go with it), I didn't think to myself that I wanted to sit down and read the whole series. At the time, something about it felt claustrophobic to me; it also was overwhelmingly masculine, which I wasn't interested in reading about in my spare time. But two years later, I found myself wanting to read it, starting to and then falling into it rather obsessively. I suddenly couldn't look away, from his violent struggles with his own children (some of the descriptions make you wonder, is this parenting or is this child abuse?) to his hardened affection for his alcoholic father, it reeled me in. I still had 200+ pages to go before the Greek and I left for our honeymoon and, somehow, even though I didn't feel Knausgaard was my idea of appropriate honeymoon reading, I continued to read it from Lisbon to Lagos to Porto. By the end, it too felt like a Scandinavian murder mystery with the discovery of his grandmother's own complicity in his father's drinking and the presence of blood in a scene that had formerly been believed to be the scene of a peaceful death by drunkenness. I haven't gone back yet to read <i>Book Two</i>, but 2017 may be the year to do so; I just hope that it offers some kind of answers to the questions that it dangled before the reader in <i>Book One</i>.<br />
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<i><a href="http://www.celesteng.com/everything-i-never-told-you/">Everything I Never Told You</a></i>: I had seen this book on the bestseller lists and year-end roundups a few years ago, but something about it--the cover? the title?--turned me off. When I went to Hong Kong this year, however, I found out that the friend I was visiting was reading it and had only good things to say about it. Since she and I have shared many book tips over the years, I figured that, once I was again stateside, I would take her good advice and run with it. Only this past summer, after finishing the Knausgaard, did I finally open it, but I read it-- a tale of a broken family, marital discord and grief--quickly and voraciously. In a matter of two days, which, for me, a fairly slow reader, is saying a lot, I was done reading, but not done thinking about the book. It was a timely read in a lot of ways, given its portrayal of a biracial family (Asian father, white mother) in the 1960s and 70s and the quiet, almost invisible acts of racism that are directed towards them. It also tackled, and with real insight and delicacy, the inevitable choices that women have to make when they have children; when Marilyn, a formerly bright and promising scientist, attempts to reforge her path and finds that it is too late for her, you are as crushed as she is. But how these lost dreams and family secrets impact the present and future is what really drives the novel, which somehow manages to surprise you at each and every turn.<br />
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<i><a href="https://www.nytimes.com/2014/06/08/books/review/euphoria-by-lily-king.html">Euphoria</a></i>: A former instructor of reading and writing classes that focused on novels of adultery, I love stories about marriages challenged by the presence of a disruptive outsider. But, though this novel could be seen as a typical novel of adultery (in so far as there <i>is </i>a typical novel of adultery) this is only one of the reasons I loved <i>Euphoria. </i>Its exploration of passion goes beyond the desire to connect with another human being and extends to the passion involved in research and discovery, which is, in a lot of ways, the preferred form of passion for these characters (they are loosely based on Margaret Mead, her second husband, Reo Fortune and, Gregory Bateson, the man who would become Mead's third husband) and the one the novel is most interested in exploring. While the novel is beautifully written (Lily King is a poet in prose), it is also sharp and witty, full of intellectual discourse and insight into human nature. For anybody who has ever studied Anthropology (I did and badly, though this book makes me wish I had taken Columbia's "Monkey Sex" class more seriously), you will appreciate the novel's serious engagement with this field. You may also, just as I did, want to read more about Mead and her anthropological discoveries.<br />
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<i><a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2016/10/13/books/news-of-the-world-paulette-jiles.html">News of the World</a></i>: I wasn't sure this book would make the cut. It's a Western: slight, with jaunty prose, a sense of adventure and a somewhat predictable outcome (good triumphs over evil, doubtful hero decides to listen to his conscious rather than follow the rules; young ingenue is saved). It's not even the kind of thing I usually read. In spite of all those things, or maybe because of all of those things, it stuck with me. There's something inherently inviting about this kind of straightforward storytelling. I learned something not only about white children who were kidnapped by Native Americans (apparently, even when rescued, they either committed suicide or escaped; they did not want to be reintegrated into "white" or European culture), but also about both Texan and American political history. This, in fact, is why I picked this book up in the first place; the Greek has applied to a few jobs in Texas (Houston, mainly) and I figured that I ought to learn something about Texan history. What I learned was rather heartening or disheartening; I suppose it depends on your perspective. For all of our talk this year about American politics being at its absolute worst and about how we need to return to the good old days when there was bipartisan support and cooperation, there is a telling scene in this well-researched novel that might just shatter our illusions. The main character, Captain Kidd, is attempting to enter a small town and he is stopped by a local group that has taken law enforcement upon itself; they tell him, "Nobody who voted for Davis [a republican who served as governor of Texas from 1870-1874] is getting into Erath County" (130). Clearly, this line struck a chord with me and, when I looked up Davis (this novel offers a lot of historical information, but expects you to do your homework to understand the various allusions), I discovered that as a governor during Reconstruction who was committed to advancing the civil rights of African Americans, he was a despised figure; when he lost in 1873 to a Democrat, Davis was so certain that the election had been marked by "irregularities" that he refused to leave his office on the ground floor of the Texas Capitol. This refusal forced Governor-Elect Coke, when meeting with the legislature, to climb a ladder to the second floor. Even once Davis left the office, he got in one final jab at his successor, locking the door and taking the key, which forced the Governor-Elect's supporters to break in with an ax. Oh, America, or maybe it's just Texan politics as usual? Obviously, for this anecdote alone, I am eternally grateful that I picked up this book.<br />
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<b>Favorite Cookbooks of the Year</b><br />
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Let me just say, and briefly, that this is not an exhaustive list of all of the books that inspired my cooking and baking this year; if that were the case, this blog post would rival <i>War and Peace</i>. These are simply the five books that I cooked from the most, either during or in the final months of the year. <br />
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<i><a href="http://www.penguinrandomhouse.com/books/247835/classic-german-baking-by-luisa-weiss/9781607748250/">Classic German Baking</a>: </i>I've long been a follower of The Wednesday Chef's (aka Luisa Weiss) blog and Instagram feed, so there was never any doubt in my mind that, when this book came out, I would be buying a copy. This may sound hyperbolic, but I have never been happier about a cookbook purchase (that is, once I overcame my initial disappointment that the book contained fewer photographs than I would have liked, given my general lack of knowledge about German pastries), nor have I ever used one so exhaustively in the first month of owning it. In this month, I made Chocolate Streusel Cheesecake, Cabbage Strudel, a Leek and Bacon Tart, Chocolate Hazelnut Loaf Cake, Quark, Quark Stollen! If I wasn't rivaling the output of a German bakery, I was, at the very least, trying recipes and methods that were entirely new to me. Reading it and discovering the secrets of classic German baking are not the only pleasures the book has to offer; the fact that you are guided by Luisa's calm and reassuring voice is a real bonus, as she is an experienced editor, having gotten her start in cookbook publishing. Even if I one day winnow down the collection, this is one book that is bound for the keeper shelf.<br />
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<i><a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2016/09/28/dining/sqirl-cookbook-review-everything-i-want-to-eat-jessica-koslow.html">SQIRL, Everything I Want to Eat</a>: </i>Let me say, before saying anything else, that I have never been to SQIRL. I am neither a worshipper at the altar of Koslow, nor a believer that "cookbooks should be kept weird," which was the reaction that some bloggers had to this book (I like a well done and quirky cookbook, but I don't know that an item that should be functional should necessarily be <i>weird. </i>What exactly does weird mean anyway in this context?). I simply like good and interesting food and I don't mind working for it, even though I'm convinced that I enjoy cooking more when I don't spend the whole day sweating in the kitchen. And, yes, I've read a lot about SQIRL; I would love to go there someday and stand in line for a grain bowl and a turmeric juice. Call me crazy or just somebody who used to live in California and misses the frou-frou delights of these things...All of these things aside, however, this is an excellent cookbook: the recipes are clearly written, shortcuts for the home cook are suggested at each and every turn and, true to the promise of the title, you will want to eat everything that Koslow describes, from the Buckwheat Pancake with Cocoa Nib Pudding to the Kohlrabi Tzatziki. It's the small twists to the classics, as well as the generally and generously healthful bent to the recipes, that make this book shine. Personally, I could live without the pictures of the celebrities and the regulars who frequent SQIRL, but I appreciate that cookbooks, like all books, are a product of their time and place.<br />
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<i><a href="https://www.splendidtable.org/story/the-road-to-samarkand">Samarkand</a></i>: I already talked a lot about this book in my <a href="http://diningwithdusty.blogspot.com/2016/12/the-year-of-weddings.html">last post</a>, so I won't repeat myself too much here. Suffice it to say that this book, with its focus on Central Asian (Eastern European meets Middle Eastern/Balkan) flavors, is not only a looker, but is also full of both classic and innovative recipes. The stories offer the insights and experiences of the authors, while the accompanying photography is gorgeous and evocative of a region rich with vibrant dishes and various ingredients.<br />
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<i><a href="http://www.abramsbooks.com/product/essential-turkish-cuisine_9781613128718/">Essential Turkish Cuisine</a>: </i>There was a month, earlier in the year, when the Greek and I were pretty much exclusively eating Turkish food. I had, you see, gone a little crazy after buying Engin Akin's beautiful and informative book (for example, in Turkish, if you say that somebody "eats quince," you are saying that this person will experience trouble; it is often said when couples are getting married). While I already had a trusted Turkish cookbook (<i><a href="http://www.abramsbooks.com/product/essential-turkish-cuisine_9781613128718/">Purple Citrus and Sweet Perfume</a></i>, which I have featured recipes from four or five times), I was persuaded that I needed another by the historical information and chatty headnotes in this one. I also liked that Akin discusses, in a fairly scholarly way, the origins of recipes and the fine lines that exist between Turkish and Armenian cuisine (as well as other ethnic cuisines) and that she features both classic Ottoman dishes and recipes from specific regions (Kale Dolma from the Black Sea; <a href="https://food52.com/recipes/38765-engin-atkin-s-turkish-radish-and-herb-salad-anatolian-gypsy-salad">Anatolian Gypsy Salad</a>, which is bright and bracing with tomato paste, pomegranate molasses and sumac; Red Lentil Balls with Cornichons from Gaziantep). The food is wonderful--inviting and simple--but the writing may be enough to satiate your hunger. <br />
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<i><a href="https://doriegreenspan.com/book/around-my-french-table-more-than-300-recipes-from-my-home-to-yours-2/">Dorie's Cookies</a></i>: I didn't want to like this book, nor did I really think that I need another by Dorie, beloved though she may be. I also was initially put off by the photography; I don't mind being up close and personal with my food, but I found some of the images to be disarming, like when you find yourself before a magnifying mirror and suddenly wonder if this is what other people see when they look at you. My discomfort aside, the more time I spent with this book, the more time I realized that a) up close and personal has its charms and b) you could own 20 books exclusively on cookies and still learn something from Greenspan. I already baked several kinds of cookies from this book (Moroccan semolina, Cabin Fever Banana Bars, the fabulous <a href="http://diningwithdusty.blogspot.com/2016/12/food-for-thought-and-cookie-recipe-too.html">Double Ginger and Molasses Cookies</a>, the Pumpkin Spice Jammers) and bookmarked several more. I have always felt that cookies, besides pies, are the most consuming dessert to make and, while I stand by this belief, I have found that all the extra work of spooning out the dough, rolling it into little balls, properly spacing it and then rotating the baking sheets is more than worth it. There is nothing better than having a cookie around and, if you believe that, then Greenspan and her inventive recipes are fine company indeed.</div>
Katyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04290135991797809997noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4031121890854604877.post-13446070530947457562016-12-31T21:36:00.001-08:002016-12-31T21:36:57.951-08:00The Year of the Weddings<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Five hundred twenty-five thousand</div>
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Six hundred minutes</div>
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How do you measure - measure a year?</div>
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In daylights - in sunsets</div>
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In midnights - in cups of coffee</div>
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In inches - in miles</div>
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In laughter - in strife. - Jonathan Larson (<i>Rent</i>)</div>
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2016 has been a weird year--quite possibly, the strangest and most disruptive year of my 33.5 years on earth. After thinking about it all day, I was even almost tempted to begin this post with a nod to one of the wittiest women in English literary history by saying that "it is a truth universally acknowledged that anybody with a lick of common sense must rejoice at the prospect of saying goodbye to 2016," but, despite all of the disruption, acrimony and fear, I just can't see 2016 as an inherently bad thing. Politically, it was most definitely a bust; there's no way of getting around that. Personally, however, the year was, more often than not, good--and, when it wasn't good, it wasn't even terrible: just your run-of-the-mill mixed bag kind of days, the type we're all more than a little familiar with. </div>
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Besides the results of the election, my biggest disappointments this year primarily stemmed from my own inability to do everything I had set out to do: look for and find a new job, write more, read and go to yoga more often, call and visit friends...There were times when I would get into a groove, really accomplishing my to-do list, but then something would happen to destabilize the fragile routine I was creating for myself. When I wonder what I could have done differently, I ask myself if my loss of momentum (is it just 2016 or has my prose really been overrun by political catchphrases?) on these fronts occurred because of my own human inertia, the fact that I was genuinely busy getting ready for all of the weddings or because I was reminded that my life in Delaware, even while it increasingly felt permanent, was really only temporary? </div>
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It's also possible that I've just judged myself too harshly this past year, that when I think of my list of blog posts <i>still</i> to be written (23, including this one), books <i>still </i>to be read (too many to count) and recipes <i>still</i> to be cooked and baked (all while knowing I lack the stomach and freezer space to consume them all), it's only natural that that I feel somewhat overwhelmed. But even if I didn't manage to cross everything off my list, there's no way I really managed to squander 2016's standard paltry offering <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hj7LRuusFqo">525,600 minutes</a>. </div>
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In this case, I guess it just all boils down to my having had other important things to do. 2016 was not only the Year of the Weddings, events set in stone in late 2015, but also a time for spontaneity, creativity and travel. I can still myself, at different times of the year: </div>
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Brazenly deciding, in the middle of a cold and seemingly endless January, that, my job and responsibilities be damned, I would just go to Hong Kong and visit my college roommate for a week in late March; </div>
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Walking to the courthouse with the Greek to get our marriage license in late January, feeling triumphant and adult-like, only to be told that I couldn't enter the courthouse because of the mace in my pocket; </div>
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Participating in the "Beyond Academia" conference in February; walking through the pouring rain to Berkeley Bowl and, upon arriving there, discovering the sweet smell of <i>strawberries; </i></div>
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Wandering the balmy streets of an uncharacteristically hot Thessaloniki in June; boiling in my wedding dress and fantasizing about using it to one day, but not <i>that hot day</i>, to roast marshmallows; </div>
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Seeing and spending time with so many friends that I had never expected to be in the same place at the same time; </div>
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Honeymooning in the brightly tiled city of Lisbon, where I ate sandwiches on buns made of squid ink and found an excuse to eat <i>pasteis de nata </i>each and every day--and sometimes more than once; </div>
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Traveling to SF in late August for work and, while walking the streets <a href="https://www.anthropologie.com/shop/knotted-dot-jumpsuit">inappropriately dressed</a> in a summery jumpsuit (even after living there for nine years, I can never manage to get it right), getting stopped by a woman who wanted to know where I had bought my jumpsuit; after answering her, she told me I had a "great energy" and that "career change was in my future." Whether real or not, it was exactly what I had wanted to hear.</div>
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There are so many redeeming moments from this last year, even from this last lazy week in Pennsylvania: hearty country breakfasts with my grandparents, pineapples and pears being turned into a <a href="http://www.lottieanddoof.com/2011/02/lemony-pineapple-pear-preserves/">jam the color of sunshine</a> and evenings playing poker for nickels and dimes. Even today's mountain adventure at Frank Lloyd Wright's <a href="http://kentuckknob.com/">Kentuck Knob</a>, where we met and hiked through the snowy sculptural garden with an elderly couple from Brooklyn, seemed to cast the year in a hopeful light; somehow, in those chilly thirty-some minutes, there was so much good will and conversation. The woman and I discussed Moscow and St. Petersburg, the election, jobs and the hardships women face when pursuing both careers and families, editorials in the <i>New York Times</i>...The cynical side of me says it was a fluke, the kind of thing that happens only in strange places and with strangers, but it doesn't even matter if it was. The connection felt as real as any I've had or made all year. As we were saying goodbye, the Greek threw a snowball at me and, encouraged by my hiking companion, I retaliated and hit him squarely in the shoulder with nice round snowball. She yelled after me that female power would have its moment yet. Call me crazy, but I consider that an auspicious sign for the new year. </div>
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But since the new year isn't quite here yet, I wanted to try to end the blog on a high note, to share a recipe from a book that was, if not my favorite cookbook of the year, definitely <i>one</i> of<i> </i>my favorites of the year (in addition to writing posts on the travel that I did last year and alluded to earlier in this post, I plan on writing a post on my favorite books and cookbooks of 2016 in the next few days), <i><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Samarkand-Recipes-Stories-Central-Caucasus/dp/1909487422">Samarkand</a></i>. It was a book that I never expected to buy, but right after my run in with the psychic in the streets of San Francisco, I decided to visit City Light Books, but just to poke around and to take advantage of my time in a city where there are lots of independent bookshops. Well, in case you haven't noticed, I'm not one of those people for whom just poking around ever works out when in a bookstore. Before I knew it, I was downstairs in the cookbook section and flipping through <i>Samarkand. </i>Not only did I like the photography (call me a sucker for the food styling that involves steaming tea pots in the background and perfectly chosen plates), but the recipes were like a mash-up of everything I love about Middle Eastern and Eastern European food: pistachio halva, apples baked in phyllo, breads stuffed with feta and herbs, plovs (or pilafs) with fruits and nuts. And when I saw the recipes for pumpkin manti with tomato sauce and Afghan pink wedding chai, I knew that there were at least two things in this book that I hadn't seen anywhere else. </div>
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When I got home from my trip, the Greek and I cooked from this book extensively, making chicken kebabs, the pumpkin manti and tarkhun (tarragon soda) for a BBQ with friends. I quickly recognized that, while I still found the recipes to be exciting and the kinds of thing I wanted to make for dinner, that the proportions in the book weren't always spot on (if the recipe invites you to use more chicken in order to make more kebobs, it should also specify, though it is also common sense, that you should make more marinade) or that the directions (in the case of the manti, which can be tricky to shape since they are tiny) aren't always as clear as they could or should be. That said, the final dishes in each case were incredibly tasty; both just required a certain level of attention and kitchen savvy that tighter editing might have avoided. When I again cooked from the book, riffing on the Jewish Mountain (chicken and onion) omelet, I modified things according to my tastes and pantry, and we ended up with a fantastic dinner. I've decided that, when it comes to cookbooks, some are instructive, others are aspirational, and some are inspiring in the sense that they make you want to cook and combine flavors that you would otherwise never think to. This book, for me at least, is largely the inspiring kind; plus, the evocative photos and the stories that the authors tell make me nostalgic for the melting pot of Russian cuisine, which is where I first encountered a lot of these flavors. </div>
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I had planned, long, long, ago, in what feels like another life, to post about the Afghan pink chai on the eve of the Pennsylvania wedding and not just to mark the event, but to memorialize the official end of the Year of the Weddings. However, as with so many things this past year, it just didn't work out that way. So here I am, on New Year's Eve (a holiday that I hate anyway because it's absurd to pin all of your hopes for the new year on one midnight every year), finally writing this post and saying goodbye to 2016. It seems fitting, though, since this tea, <i>qymaq chai, </i>is served on formal and special occasions (mainly weddings). While chai, spiced tea, is popular throughout the world (I have written about <a href="http://diningwithdusty.blogspot.com/2014/02/settling-in.html">Kashmiri chai</a> in the past), what makes this particular chai special is that after baking soda is added to it, it is poured from one pan, held high in the air, to another, which aerates the tea and transforms it from green (it is made with green tea) to dark red. It really is something to behold, a little bit of kitchen magic (baking soda for the win!). You then mix in either creme fraiche (or, if you can find it, <i><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kaymak">qymaq</a></i>, or kaymak, which is made from the milk of water buffalos and is similar to clotted cream) or whipped heavy cream, which turns it a lighter pink. After adding the milk and whipped cream, to my eye, the tea had the appearance of only a dusty pink, which I've decided is really just a pretty way to say light brown or a rosy brown. Whatever the color, the flavor is fantastically rich: creamy and fragrant with notes of licorice (star anise), warm spice (cinnamon) and sweet citrus (cardamom). Even if no celebrations are in order, it's easily the kind of drink I find myself reaching for on cold winter nights--nights like tonight, in fact. </div>
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On that note, a happy new year (new year, new horizons is what I am calling this one) to you all!</div>
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<b>Afghan Pink Chai</b></div>
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4-6 servings</div>
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Adapted slightly from <i><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Samarkand-Recipes-Stories-Central-Caucasus/dp/1909487422">Samarkand</a></i></div>
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Despite my love of green tea, I didn't have a plain green tea in the cupboard. I had oolong and jasmine, both of which would probably have worked just fine, but, for some reason, I opted to use a fruity green tea blend from Mariage Freres. In part, this was because the recipe didn't specify which kind of green tea to use, but it was also because I thought the fruity flavor of the tea would complement the spices that would infuse it. </div>
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I also used almond milk, instead of the whole milk the recipe called for, again because it was what I had on hand. Because the almond milk was sweetened, I added only two tablespoons of sugar to the finished tea, so if you use whole milk, you might want to add more to make it sweeter. </div>
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2 tablespoons, loose-leaf green tea (use your preferred blend)</div>
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1 star anise</div>
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5-6 green cardamom pods, lightly crushed </div>
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1 cinnamon stick</div>
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1/4 teaspoon baking soda</div>
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1 cup almond or whole milk</div>
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2-4 tablespoons sugar, to taste</div>
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pinch of salt</div>
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1/4 cup heavy cream, whipped</div>
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Bring four cups of water to a boil in a medium saucepan and then add the green tea and spices.<br />
Simmer for 5-10 minutes until the tea is fragrant and the liquid has turned green. Add the baking soda (the liquid will foam, but not dangerously) and let the mixture boil for another two minutes.<br />
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Remove the pan from the heat and strain the tea, using a fine-mesh strainer, into another pot or bowl. Continue to pour the tea, holding the pot or bowl with the tea higher, from one vessel to another. This process of pouring the tea from on high will aerate the tea, changing its color.<br />
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Add the milk to the tea, which will turn the tea a dusty pink. Add sugar to taste, a pinch of salt and then pour into teacups. Dollop with whipped cream and serve.<br />
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Katyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04290135991797809997noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4031121890854604877.post-40814951896243902572016-12-17T14:42:00.001-08:002016-12-17T14:42:24.052-08:00Food for Thought (and a Cookie Recipe, too)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Afterward, late, when he was alone and the fire of mesquite wood was dying, it came to him that he should take on the task of dispensing these interesting, nay, <i>vital</i> facts gleaned from the intelligence reports and the general press. For instance, the struggles going on at the top levels of the Mexican Army. If people had true knowledge of the world perhaps they would not take up arms and so perhaps he can be an aggregator of information from distant places and then the world would be a more peaceful place. He had been perfectly serious. That illusion had lasted from age forty-nine to age sixty-five. </div>
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And then he had come to think that what people needed, at bottom, was not only information but tales of the remote, the mysterious, dressed up as hard information. And he, like a runner, immobile in his smeared printing apron bringing it to them. Then the listeners would for a small space of time drift away into a healing place like curative waters. -Paulette Jiles (<i><a href="https://www.amazon.com/News-World-Novel-Paulette-Jiles/dp/0062409204">The News of the World</a></i>)</div>
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There was a moment there when I wasn't sure that I would return to this space. I always had intended to: the blog schedule had been drafted, the photos uploaded, the quotes selected...Everything was basically ready; all I needed was time and, I suppose, both the willpower and something to say. I wouldn't even say that I lacked those things, exactly. It was more that events--a cold; the horrible, horrible election; the mad desire to read everything I could to try to make <i>sense </i>of the election; a fall, which led to a <i>mild</i> head injury (the beagle will one day kill me, of that I am certain) that made me call my 9-1-1 for the first time ever in my 33 years (you could be dying, and 9-1-1 operators will not give you a single iota of medical advice; even better, if you hesitate when they ask if you want an ambulance to come to your house--how do they know you haven't lost consciousness?--they <i>will </i>hang up on you); houseguests, holidays and job applications--all conspired to throw me off track. </div>
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Plus, these days I haven't been feeling terribly kindly towards to the internet. The very thing that was supposed to democratize the word in a way that could be rivaled only by the rise of the printing press had instead somehow come to undercut and destabilize our reality. I wondered if somehow we had been too eager to let non-experts and enthusiasts into our homes; after all, if I had a medical problem, would I go to a quack or would I go to a doctor? The answer should be obvious. And it's not that I don't believe that the internet doesn't have good, substantive things to offer. I just think that my academic side, a side that somebody once told me was my dominant side in that I wanted to intellectualize things rather than to feel them, has increasingly been bothered by the lack of rigor that you find online, from food blogs that either purport to give nutritional advice or essentially act as advertisements for food companies to the articles that show journalists eagerly devouring Trump's latest tweet. Given the sudden attention that is being paid to tweets alone, you have to wonder if the rise of social media, the proliferation of digital cameras and the ease with which we can like any snappy saying or overly styled photo have ultimately done us and our "democracy" any favors. I haven't been a member of Facebook for years, but I've long held the belief that it was good only when it could be used to tell you if your crush in a crowded lecture on was single or not or to get an assignment that you missed if you had been absent from class. </div>
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But to return to the idea with which I began this post, I decided that to give up on blogging now would be to admit defeat, to take away a personal pleasure and to remove myself from the one online platform from which I could potentially make a difference and persuade somebody of something--even if that something is as inconsequential as making <a href="http://diningwithdusty.blogspot.com/2014/06/seize-day.html">fresh pasta</a> for dinner or realizing that <a href="http://diningwithdusty.blogspot.com/2016/03/a-true-turkish-delight.html">phyllo</a> just isn't that difficult to work with. If, along the way, I, as somebody who has lived in Putin's Russia, manages to convince a reader that Putin's and Trump's bromance is something worth fearing, rather than celebrating, then I would consider that a job well done. Writing, after all, is meant to persuade, to challenge and to inform. Certainly, I myself am no expert, only an enthusiast at best. I don't believe, however, that I have ever professed to be the former (except for on topics relating to my PhD and, yes, seven years of toil do give you that right) and, if I <i>have</i> spoken authoritatively on any subject, I have backed it up with the necessary support. </div>
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On that note, as this is my first post in some time and I wanted to accomplish as much as possible (possibly too much, but alas), I've decided not only to provide you with a list of links worth reading, but also a recipe worth making for the holidays. The recipe, which hails from <i>Dorie's Cookies</i>, is my new favorite cookie, especially if you, like me, are a lover of all things spicy and made darkly rich by molasses. I'm not at all a fan of the word "moreish," as it strikes my American ear as a little silly, but if ever I was to use the word, it would be in relation t these cookies, which ingeniously combine cocoa powder, molasses, light brown sugar, bittersweet chocolate and candied ginger. You will find the recipe below. For now, links of my recent favorite reads: </div>
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Yes, you <i>can</i> cook <a href="https://www.washingtonpost.com/lifestyle/food/if-you-think-you-cant-cook-real-chinese-food-at-home-shell-prove-you-wrong/2016/10/31/7dc65dd4-9aed-11e6-9980-50913d68eacb_story.html">real Chinese food</a> at home. </div>
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<a href="http://www.theatlantic.com/magazine/archive/2016/07/the-unbelievable-tale-of-jesus-wife/485573/">The Gospel of Jesus' Wife</a> and proof that conmen are everywhere. </div>
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A <a href="http://www.newyorker.com/cartoons/daily-cartoon/afternoon-tuesday-november-8th-praying-atheists">cartoon</a> that a dear friend sent on election night as the outcome was becoming more and more clear. </div>
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Dissecting the election (if you can still stand to think about it): from <a href="http://www.theatlantic.com/politics/archive/2016/12/hillary-clintons-surprising-vote-deficit/509174/">why and where HRC fell short</a> to the <a href="http://www.npr.org/2016/12/15/505595890/mailbag-could-faithless-electors-keep-donald-trump-out-of-the-white-house">potentially faithless electors </a>(<i>should we hope</i>?). Also, the best article that I read in the wake of election: <a href="http://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2016/10/31/hillary-clinton-and-the-populist-revolt">HRC and the populist revolt</a>. </div>
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<a href="http://www.saveur.com/pinon-coffee-beans-new-mexico">Coffee</a>, the New Mexican way. </div>
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It may be that the Republican Party did not implode in the spectacular way that many democrats believed it would, but <a href="http://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2016/11/07/fox-news-a-melodrama">Fox News certainly did</a> and the phoenix rising out of its ashes was none other than <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2016/12/17/fashion/megyn-kelly-fox-fashion.html?_r=0">Megyn Kelly</a>. </div>
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I've been dying to read Zadie Smith's <i>Swing Time</i>, but between work and cookie baking madness, haven't yet managed to do so. <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2016/10/17/t-magazine/zadie-smith-swing-time-jeffrey-eugenides.html?_r=0">This article</a> will have to do for now. </div>
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A quick study of <a href="http://luckypeach.com/guides/building-blocks-japanese-cuisine/">essential Japanese ingredients</a>. </div>
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<a href="http://www.phdcomics.com/comics.php?f=1909">Handy Academic apps</a>, courtesy of PhD comics (as a sign of my age, I recently learned what "on fleek" means).</div>
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The <a href="http://www.eater.com/drinks/2016/10/7/13189442/pumpkin-beer">appeal of pumpkin beer</a>.</div>
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A few nights ago, I read <a href="http://www.washingtonpost.com/sf/style/2016/12/07/when-every-moment-of-childhood-can-be-recorded-and-shared-what-happens-to-childhood/">this</a> before going to bed and had horrible nightmares of a world like an amusement park with cameras and posing, preening children everywhere. </div>
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When the Greek and I were driving to Virginia in late October, we were listening to "Snap Judgment" on NPR. Let's just say that <a href="https://soundcloud.com/snapjudgment/hot-water-snap-judgment-campfire-tales-iii">this particular account</a> stuck and not because it was a warm and fuzzy tale of a great camping adventure. Prepare to be frightened. </div>
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<a href="http://www.saveur.com/hunter-thanksgiving-midwest-amy-thielen">A Midwestern Thanksgiving</a>, or why Amy Thielen is one of the best food writers in America. </div>
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The university and the fight over the <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2016/10/17/opinion/my-syllabus-my-self.html?action=click&pgtype=Homepage&clickSource=story-heading&module=opinion-c-col-right-region&region=opinion-c-col-right-region&WT.nav=opinion-c-col-right-region">syllabus</a>. </div>
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Even though 'tis the season for cookies and <a href="https://www.washingtonpost.com/recipes/dorie-greenspans-ginger-and-jam-buche-de-noel/15648/?utm_term=.a8dc0b421cd9">buche de noel</a>, if you are a lover of cake, hopefully you didn't miss <a href="https://food52.com/topics/the-fall-cookbook-cake-parade">Food52's Fall Cookbook Cake Parade</a>, as there were some keepers! Plus, we should all be doing our part to #<a href="http://www.npr.org/sections/thesalt/2016/11/07/501032393/make-america-bake-again-a-history-of-cake-in-the-u-s">MakeAmericaBakeAgain</a> (or #BakeAmericaGreatAgain or #<a href="http://thevanillabeanblog.com/2016/11/ginger-cake-with-pumpkin-creme-mousseline-bakeamericacakeagain.html">BakeAmericaCakeAgain</a>). Take your pick.</div>
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From the Greek, a bit of sugary <a href="http://www.eater.com/2016/10/25/13390222/how-sugar-works-culinary-science">culinary science</a>. </div>
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<a href="http://www.foodandwine.com/comfort-food/one-pot-dinners-make-now">Seven one-pot dinners</a> for this cold winter days. </div>
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One of my favorite cookbooks of the year was undoubtedly the <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2016/09/28/dining/sqirl-cookbook-review-everything-i-want-to-eat-jessica-koslow.html">SQIRL cookbook</a>. A few weeks ago, for a Friendsgiving dinner, we made the Braised Duck Legs and the Dill Creme Fraiche Spaetzle. Was it as <a href="http://www.eater.com/2016/10/25/13381914/sqirl-cookbook-new-california-cooking-review">painstaking as this article made it out to be</a>? Kind of, but not really. Does it show that there is more to Californian cuisine, which is <a href="http://www.eater.com/2016/10/30/13451620/sqirl-jessica-koslow-profile-los-angeles-california-fantasy">having a moment</a> (among many moments), than David Chang's famous complaint about figs on plate? Absolutely. </div>
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For those on the east coast, a <a href="https://www.tastingtable.com/dine/national/washington-dc-shaw-guide-dabney-all-purpose?utm_medium=email&utm_source=TT&utm_campaign=Daily&utm_content=Editorial">Washington DC dining guide</a>. </div>
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And, now, as a palate cleanser: <i>cookies!</i></div>
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<b>Double Ginger Molasses Cookies </b><br />
Adapted, ever so slightly, from <i><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Dories-Cookies-Dorie-Greenspan/dp/0547614845">Dorie's Cookies</a></i><br />
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2 1/4 cups (306 grams) all-purpose flour<br />
2 tablespoons unsweetened cocoa powder<br />
1 1/2 teaspoons ground ginger<br />
1 teaspoon ground cinnamon<br />
1/4 teaspoon ground cloves<br />
1/2 teaspoon baking soda<br />
1/2 teaspoon salt<br />
1 1/2 sticks (12 tablespoons/6 ounces/170 grams) unsalted butter, softened and cut into small pieces<br />
1/3 cup (67 grams) granulated sugar<br />
1/3 cup (67 grams) light brown sugar, packed<br />
1 large egg yolk, at room temperature<br />
1/2 cup (120 ml) unsulphered molasses<br />
1 1/2 teaspoons pure vanilla extract<br />
1/3 cup (55 grams) crystallized ginger, chopped (<i>the ginger should be on the softer side, which means if yours isn't, steam it for a few minutes, anywhere from 3-5, before using it</i>)<br />
7 ounces (200 grams) bittersweet chocolate (either chips or roughly chopped)<br />
Turbinado sugar, for rolling<br />
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Whisk together the flour, cocoa, spices, baking soda and salt together in a bowl. Set aside.<br />
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Either in a stand mixer fitted with the paddle attachment or in a large bowl with a hand mixer, cream the butter and sugars together on medium-low speed, mixing for at least 3 minutes. Scrape the bowl as needed and mix until fully blended. Add the yolk and beat for one minute, then add both the molasses and vanilla; mix until smooth and then turn the mixer off.<br />
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Add the dry ingredients all at once and pulse a few times to combine (this is to avoid the risk of having flour go all over the place). Once this risk passes, mix the dough on low speed until the flour is <i>almost</i> but not entirely incorporated. Fold in the crystallized ginger and bittersweet chocolate, also folding in any remaining streaks of flour. When the flour is fully mixed in and the chocolate and ginger evenly distributed, gather the dough into a ball, flatten it and wrap it in plastic. Place it in the fridge for at least 2 hours or up to three days. <br />
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Once the dough has rested and been chilled, position the racks to divide the oven into thirds and preheat it to 350 F. Butter regular-sized muffin tins or line baking sheets with parchment or silpats. Set aside your baking apparatus of choice.<br />
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To shape the cookies, you can use either a medium ice cream scoop or a rounded tablespoonful of dough for each cookie. If you're using muffin tins (I used both methods), find a glass or jar that will fit into the tins and can be used to flatten the dough; if you don't have a glass that will fit all the way in, you could also just push down on the center of the ball of dough with your thumb and then press down on the sides to push the dough towards the sides of the muffin cup. If using baking sheets, press the ball of dough with your hand to flatten the cookie to about 1/2-inch thick.<br />
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For each cookie, mold a scoop or spoonful of dough into a ball between your palms, roll it in the sugar to coat it and then place it in the muffin cup or on the prepared baking sheets. If using muffin tins, flatten the cookie as described in the paragraph above; if using baking sheets, leave two inches between each ball of dough and flatten with your palm.<br />
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Bake the cookies for 13 minutes, rotating the tins or sheets top to bottom and front to back after 7 minutes. When done, the cookies will be set around the edges and softer in the center. Transfer the tins or sheets to a rack and let them rest for 15 minutes before unmolding them from the tins or moving them from the baking sheets. If baking in batches, wait until your muffin tins or baking sheets are cool before preparing the next batch.<br />
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Dorie says that the cookies will keep for up to 4 days once baked, although I think they will keep for a little longer, especially now that it's downright cold in the house. She also says that the cookies can be shaped and frozen for up to 2 months; if you opt to freeze your pre-formed cookie dough, let the cookies sit at room temperature for at least 15 minutes before baking them.<br />
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Katyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04290135991797809997noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4031121890854604877.post-64853670966094326582016-10-12T19:27:00.003-07:002016-10-13T09:23:44.889-07:00Bean Lover: Chickpeas à la Grecque<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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The past few weeks, after all the hoopla surrounding the wedding, have been a slow and steady descent back into normalcy. The tupperware full of wedding cookies is now gone, the Greek's parents have returned to Thessaloniki and the weather has taken a dramatically cold turn for October, one that we feel acutely as the fan in our heater/air-conditioner has stopped working. On top of this, my allergies are in revolt against the very air I breathe--at least I think it's my allergies; it could very well be the flu shot that the Greek and I got this past weekend because, when it's a grim and rainy Saturday, what is more necessary and exciting than being a responsible adult and getting your yearly flu shot (you may be laughing at or pitying this confession, but even I, a lifelong hater of needles, believe that a flu shot is infinitely more fun than the flu)? Clearly, given this sad state of affairs, not to mention my near death at the multiple legs of a <a href="https://www.instagram.com/p/BLZjPJVgt6X/?taken-by=diningwithdusty">sneaky centipede</a> this past week, there are good, solid reasons that honeymoons are recommended immediately following a wedding (even a second or third wedding...I think). </div>
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But the good news is that we are working on it. Next weekend the plan is to take a road trip to Virginia, although we are still undecided as to <i>exactly where</i> in Virginia: Charlottesville or Richmond (if you have strong thoughts or recommendations, we would love to hear them)? In the meantime, however, I am dreaming of last summer's whirlwind trip to Greece, which included two days in Thessaloniki, the Greek's hometown and the undisputed Culinary Queen of the Greek State. </div>
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Just a hop, skip and a jump from the <a href="http://www.visitgreece.gr/en/culture/monuments/the_white_tower">White Tower</a>, and around the corner from some of my favorite street art in the city, is or, sadly, <i>was </i>(the Greek's parents reported that, when they tried to go there one day for lunch before their trip to the US, they discovered that it was closed. The sign indicated that the owners had gone to Germany to live and work, yet another example of the negative effects of the crisis) the loveliest little Cretan restaurant, <a href="http://www.lonelyplanet.com/greece/northern-greece/thessaloniki/restaurants/other/myrsini">Myrsini</a>. It was one of those places that, on the outside, was wholly nondescript, but once you entered or sat down at one of the outdoor tables, transported you, quite literally, to a paradise of salty cheese and honey pies, barley rusks and sprinklings of wild fennel. Not to mention, of course, the requisite dousing of olive oil, which in Greece somehow never feels excessive, but just right. </div>
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Despite having been to Greece four times in the past six years, I was first treated to a trip to Myrsini only last summer. The Greek, his mother and I must have been on some (wedding-related?) errand because we were meeting his father there. When we arrived, we discovered that he had started without us by ordering a dish of liver cooked in vinegar, which he insisted I try. If you know me, you know that not only is liver <i>not</i> my dish of choice, but also that, despite my belief in not wasting food, I avoid the appropriately named offal like the plague. I demurred more than once, but as the pressure was mounting, I decided to give in by taking the smallest piece possible. Much to my surprise, it wasn't awful (pun not intended), either. The vinegar had either masked the flavor or, as I really object to it based on its chalkiness, improved the texture immensely. Whatever the cause, I immediately realized that a restaurant that could make me enjoy a bite of liver was probably not going to disappoint on any other front. And when I heard that one of the specials was "revithia...sto fourno...me piperia kai melitzanes" [chickpeas...in the oven...with peppers and eggplant], I poked the Greek and said that I didn't care what else we ordered as long as that was one of the dishes. </div>
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Greek cuisine may be known for some of its flashier dishes--pies of all stripes encased in crisp, ready-to-shatter phyllo, yeasted balls of dough fried and then glazed with honey and lamb carefully caramelized on a spit--and its workhorses like tzatziki and souvlaki, but the truth is that nobody does legumes quite like the Greeks. Truly, ask me to choose between <i><a href="http://diningwithdusty.blogspot.com/2011/09/overcoming-culinary-bias-learning-to.html">gigantes</a> </i>(giant lima beans) and spit-roasted meat, and I would, bean lover that I am, undoubtedly reach for the beans. No matter how they are prepared, they are always tender, perfectly spiced and immersed in a liquid that is practically longing for physical contact with bread. What I like best about the Greek preparation of beans, though, is that it is exceedingly simple, an example <i>par excellence </i>of why a dish doesn't need approximately 27 ingredients or to lead to the dirtying of 6 bowls and one food processor (I adore you, Ottolenghi, but, yes, I am looking at you) to result in something spectacular. </div>
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Maybe it's just that I'm getting crotchety in my old age, or maybe six years with a Greek have finally taken a toll on my adoration of the modern kitchen's obsession with adding a little bit of this and little bit of that. While both of those things do play a role here, I think what I really like about Greek-style beans is that they represent how I (and real people everywhere) cook on a daily basis, when time is of the essence, or your work runs over or you just want something nourishing, easy and <i>good</i> (the most bland word ever, but one that represents how dinner should always taste) to eat. </div>
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When we returned home from Greece last summer, I immediately set about recreating these beans in my own kitchen. The dish seemed accessible and, more importantly, the memory was fresh in my mind. While I liked my first attempt (I used canned chickpeas, baby eggplant and peppers I had bought from the lady down the road who sells produce out of her garage), it didn't quite have the same melting texture of Myrsini's beans, which were cooked all day in a clay pot, nor were the flavors as rich and melded. I made a few notes in my the recipe journal I haphazardly jot all of my kitchen impressions in and decided I would leave it until the following summer. </div>
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When I came back to the recipe this summer, I immediately understood what had been missing. If your first thought was <i>more oil</i>, you not only have been paying attention, but also have come to understand on of the tenets of Greek cooking (call this the Greek version of Julia Child's belief that anything could be improved by more butter). This, however, wasn't the only improvement I made: I also prepared my own beans, cooking them for 6 hours in the slow cooker (I am new to the slow cooker club, but the Greek and I bought one earlier in the spring and it has definitely changed how often I make beans at home) with a few cloves of garlic, fresh parsley and a light drizzle of olive oil; I also added a <a href="http://sparoza.gr/en/products/herb-spice-blend-with-lemon-zest-2/">spice blend</a> the Greek's aunt gave me--it combines bay leaves, coriander, ginger, lemon zest, mustard seeds, ground black and pink pepper, rosemary, sage and thyme--that I find indispensable in the kitchen. With these additions, it suddenly smelled right, tasted right and could even give the Myrsini's beans a run for their money. </div>
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It makes you wonder sometimes if recipes are necessary at all. Just tinker and taste, taste and tinker. A little help from your memory (and an exacting Greek husband) doesn't hurt either. </div>
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<b>Chickpeas à la Grecque (or à la Myrsini)</b><br />
Yields 4-6 servings<br />
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When I make this, I usually cook more chickpeas than I actually need; it's nice to have the extra beans around for salads or for hummus, or even for freezing. Plus, I find that the bean broth makes for a good braising liquid, especially when combined with the olive oil. I'm not sure if this style of braising beans is common in Greece; <span style="text-align: center;">after getting the recipe right, I went to a few of my favorite Greek sources, mainly to Vefa and Diane Kochilas, to see if there was a recipe for Cretan-style chickpeas with eggplant and peppers. While both </span><i style="text-align: center;">The Food and Wine of Greece </i><span style="text-align: center;">and </span><i style="text-align: center;">Vefa's Kitchen </i><span style="text-align: center;">featured recipes for chickpeas with eggplants, there were no peppers in either one; similarly, the braising liquid for each recipe was a combination of canned tomatoes, water and olive oil. It may be that Cretan home cooking will sometimes use an oil-based liquid, rather than a tomato-based one, but it could also be that the absence of tomatoes in this dish really allows the sweetness of the peppers, the earthiness of the beans and the bitterness of the eggplant to shine. </span><br />
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<span style="text-align: center;">Also, as we're now knee-deep into fall and eggplant and peppers will soon be scarce, this recipe could also be turned into a fall/winter staple with slow-cooked chickpeas and their liquid, a 14-ounce can of tomatoes, 1/2 teaspoon cinnamon (or a whole cinnamon stick), 1/2 teaspoon cumin, 1/4 teaspoon ginger, and 1 teaspoon dried marjoram or oregano. After braising, you could top it all with feta and put it under the broiler for a minute or two. </span><br />
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1 lb. chickpeas, soaked overnight<br />
water<br />
a few sprigs parsley<br />
a drizzle of olive oil<br />
three cloves garlic, rinsed with their skin on<br />
kosher salt, to taste<br />
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Place the soaked beans either in a large pot or in a slow cooker and cover with water. Add the parsley, olive oil and garlic cloves. Cook on low until tender (in a slow cooker, this should take at least 6 hours; the automatic setting for beans in a slow cooker is usually 8 hours, but, in this case, you don't want the beans turning to mush). Once the beans have cooked, season them with salt (usually 2 teaspoons to a tablespoon of kosher salt will do).<br />
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1 eggplant, sliced into half moons<br />
2 bell peppers (one green, one red; use what you have), roughly chopped into 1/2 inch pieces<br />
1.5 tablespoons olive oil<br />
3 cups chickpeas + 3/4 cup bean broth<br />
2 teaspoons spice blend OR, to substitute for this, 1/4 teaspoon coriander, ginger and black pepper; 1/2 teaspoon dried or fresh rosemary, thyme and sage; the zest of 1 lemon; and 2 bay leaves)<br />
1/4 cup olive oil (preferably Greek/Cretan, which you can easily find at Costco)<br />
kosher salt and black pepper, to taste<br />
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Place a rack in the middle of the oven and then preheat to 350 F.<br />
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Heat the oil on a medium high in a large oven-safe skillet or cast-iron braiser. Once shimmering, add the eggplant and peppers and cook for 6-8 minutes or until they have started to soften. If they brown a little, this is not the end of the world; color equals flavor!<br />
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Lower the heat to medium/medium- low and then add the spice blend. Allow the spices to release their aroma (1-2 minutes) before adding the chickpeas and their liquid. Bring to a boil, then remove them from the heat and stir in the 1/4 cup of olive oil.<br />
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Cover with a lid and place in the oven for 1 hour. Remove the lid and cook for an additional 10-15 minutes, or until the chickpeas, eggplant and peppers are tender and have started to melt into each other, as well as their liquid.<br />
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Remove from the oven and let cool for a few minutes. Serve while still hot, preferably with sesame bread or pita (or, if you live in Newark, Delaware, naan from the local supermarket, which worked surprisingly well) and melitzanosalata (eggplant dip). Tzatziki would also do.<br />
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Katyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04290135991797809997noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4031121890854604877.post-79797337080495301682016-10-04T18:37:00.000-07:002016-10-04T18:37:53.095-07:00The Gold Standard<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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I'm so glad I live in a world where there are Octobers. -L.M. Montgomery (<i>Anne of Green Gables</i>) </div>
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Yesterday, while texting with a friend, I mentioned that I would like nothing more than to fall into fall. Or really, at this point in time, just to fall <i>over</i>, preferably into a large and comfortable bed. This may seem a little extreme, but, believe me, the past month, from Labor Day until now, has truly been a doozy. There was <a href="https://www.instagram.com/p/BJ_IOi3gEUb/?taken-by=diningwithdusty">apple picking</a>, round 1, which resulted in 19 pounds of Orange Honey (a specialty of a <a href="http://www.milburnorchards.com/apples/">local Maryland orchard</a>, so local in fact, that the Greek and I biked there. Mind you, I did question the intelligence of biking to an orchard, as, in my mind, the whole point of apple picking is to collect pound upon pound of apples, more apples than can possibly be carried on a bike, but, even without proper transportation, we did okay for ourselves) and Honeycrisp; the arrival of the Greek's parents; the start of the fall pottery term (I have already made <a href="https://www.instagram.com/p/BKZioaKAbkT/?taken-by=diningwithdusty">two bowls, a pumpkin and several tiles</a>) and a road trip to Pennsylvania for the final (!!) wedding in the "year of weddings," which, though a lot of work, was everything I had hoped it would be, from the cookies to the weather (when there are photos, I will again break my No. 1 Blogging Rule and share them here). It was the strangest thing, but even though the forecast for the Saturday of the wedding said it would be 74 and sunny, the PA wedding seemed to usher in the fall, as the weather that day was quintessentially autumnal--misty, chilly and damp. And, since then, fall hasn't let up.</div>
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Although there is a tiny part of me that is sad to see the summer go (I already miss the long and bright days, not to mention the mornings spent tending to the plants), I am absolutely over the moon about the end of mosquito season, the crisp weather, the changing leaves and the arrival of apples, quince and, dare I say it since I know these words will come to haunt me in just a few short months, all the winter squash. But apples, <i>apples </i>are truly the gold standard of fall. I had forgotten how much I had missed them--and who can blame me as I had the best of summer this year with tons of apricots and peaches and cherries--but, after going apple picking, I again found myself slipping into old habits, munching every day on my favorite snack of an apple with an overly generous tablespoon of peanut butter (protein!), with a wily beagle watching my every move and hoping against hope that a small piece would make its way onto the floor. This happens only sometimes, primarily because I am rather selfish when it comes to my most comforting afternoon ritual, but also because beagles shouldn't get too big for their britches (as if <a href="https://www.instagram.com/p/BKs5lX-gLe4/?taken-by=diningwithdusty">this</a> hasn't <a href="https://www.instagram.com/p/BJqGiT-AOEd/?taken-by=diningwithdusty">already happened</a> <span style="font-family: "apple color emoji"; font-size: 13px; text-align: left;">😳🙄</span>) .</div>
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Besides my obsession with apples and peanut butter, I also have a rather large soft spot for apple desserts. On this blog alone, I've featured two apple cakes, one <a href="http://diningwithdusty.blogspot.com/2013/10/apples-in-october.html">German </a>and one <a href="http://diningwithdusty.blogspot.com/2015/11/the-pleasures-of-mundane.html">Italian</a>, as well as <a href="http://diningwithdusty.blogspot.com/2011/12/christmas-in-california.html">roasted apples with agave</a> (an ideal topping for vanilla ice cream) and an <a href="http://diningwithdusty.blogspot.com/2015/02/on-choosing-simple.html">apple and peanut butter tart</a>, and these recipes don't even reflect my complete fall baking repertoire. There isn't time enough in the world to pay tribute to all of the apple desserts that I love--<a href="http://cooking.nytimes.com/recipes/1017026-gluten-free-apple-crumble">gluten-free crisps that sing notes of butterscotch</a>, <a href="http://www.thewednesdaychef.com/the_wednesday_chef/.../marie-h%C3%A9l%C3%A8nes-apple-cake.html">French apple cake </a>released, as one blogger put it, from the "tyranny of cinnamon," <a href="http://cooking.nytimes.com/recipes/1017857-easy-as-pie-apple-cake">a simple cake with nuts and spices</a> that easily doubles as breakfast--although I am certainly more than happy to try. But as the list continues to grow with each baking book that I pick up (my next great love, I suspect, will be the much touted <a href="https://food52.com/recipes/61833-apple-almond-cake-apfel-marzipan-kuchen">Apple and Marzipan Cake </a>from Luisa Weiss', aka <a href="http://www.thewednesdaychef.com/">The Wednesday Chef</a>, new book, <i><a href="http://www.penguinrandomhouse.com/books/247835/classic-german-baking-by-luisa-weiss/9781607748250/">Classic German Baking</a></i>), I am more than certain that I could spend a lifetime baking recipes only with apples and never manage to blog them all. </div>
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I am, however, foolish enough to try. My latest apple cake <i>du jour</i> (or, really, <i>du mois</i>), in fact, is practically an ode to autumn, perfumed with a mixture of spices and spiced apple butter. Given its embrace of all things apple, it may just eclipse (I wanted to use another word, but am I the only one for whom the verb "to trump" has now been ruined? How does a perfectly fine verb recover from the slums of "<a href="http://www.theatlantic.com/politics/archive/2016/08/the-era-of-the-bitch-is-coming/496154/">Trump that Bitch</a>" nonsense?) all the apples cakes that came before it. That said, there is a time and place for every cake, and this one is truly the best kind of everyday cake: simple, with both a tender crumb and a satisfying bite from the addition of toasted walnuts. Plus, thanks to the combination of grated apples and apple butter, the texture of this cake is as refreshingly damp as a dewy morning in the mountains. Forgive the brief poetic moment, but I stand by my assertion that this cake is an apple lover's dream.<br />
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It's hard to believe that I found it almost by accident. It was a few days after we had gone apple picking and, while I knew I wanted to make apple butter (I had had my eye on <a href="http://www.101cookbooks.com/archives/000125.html">this recipe</a> from the early days of 101 Cookbooks; seriously, even if you are not an avid follower of food blogs, all you have to do is compare this recipe to more recent recipes on the site and you will see how much food blogging has changed...and maybe not entirely for the better. And just an FYI: that isn't a dig, but an observation), I wasn't sure what else we should do with our apples besides eat them--obviously, what a sad predicament. I wasn't quite ready for apple pie, nor was I in the mood to repeat any of my old faithfuls. I briefly thought about Tarte Tatin, which I have always been a little afraid to make, but then decided that the path to success could lay only in the baking advice of Dorie Greenspan. I picked up my copy of <i><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Baking-Home-Yours-Dorie-Greenspan/dp/0618443363">Baking:</a></i><i><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Baking-Home-Yours-Dorie-Greenspan/dp/0618443363"> From My Home to Yours</a> </i>and immediately flipped to the apple section of the index. Everything sounded good--firstly, it's Dorie; secondly, it's apples--but the recipe that jumped out at me was the ambiguously titled "Double Apple Bundt Cake." I briefly wondered what "double apple" could mean before making my way to page 184; once there, I discovered that this was, unbeknownst to me, exactly what I had been looking for all along, a cake that combines, in the words of Dorie, "apple butter and grated fresh apples, which melt into the batter during baking." </div>
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Even as I had found the cake to be exactly what I wanted to bake, still there were things in the recipe that I wanted to tweak. Dorie's recipes are generous this way and, more importantly, given her own love of tweaking recipes she collects from friends and bakers from all over the world, I figured that she would approve of my changes: holding the raisins, cutting back on the sugar, substituting 3/4 cup of spelt flour, one of my go-to flours when I want to add some whole grains into my baking, for some of the all-purpose and, instead of a glaze made of confectioners' sugar and orange or lemon juice, a glaze made out of confectioners' sugar and walnut oil, which would be in the spirit of the <a href="http://diningwithdusty.blogspot.com/2016/05/food-for-thought-and-seasonal-musings.html">Gjelina cake </a>that I baked earlier this year. And, probably just because I like to make more work for myself, I wanted to make my own apple butter, even though Dorie says to use store-bought (I'm sure you could, but when you have more than 15 pounds of apples, you might as well be a little industrious). While I certainly can't take all of the credit, I can say that the cake was a blazing success, devoured by the Greek and his parents (and me, too). It also served as the <i>de facto</i> birthday cake for the Greek's father this year and, even if the very embodiment of an everyday cake in spirit, believe me when I say that, once baked in a Bundt pan full of decorative peaks and ridges, it becomes a cake fit for a <i>paterfamilias.</i> </div>
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<b>Apple Bundt Cake with Spiced Apple Butter and a Walnut Oil Glaze </b><br />
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Serves 8-10<br />
Adapted from Dorie Greenspan's <i><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Baking-Home-Yours-Dorie-Greenspan/dp/0618443363">Baking: From My Home to Yours</a></i><br />
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As I made a lot of changes to Dorie's recipe, I am writing it up exactly as I made it. The cake, when made this way, was just sweet enough (if you like things on the sweeter side, I would recommend using an additional 1/4 cup of granulated sugar) and was topped with a nutty glaze that complemented the fall-spiced base. If glaze isn't your thing, though, I offer a few Dorie-approved alternatives below.<br />
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<b>For the cake: </b><br />
1 cup walnuts<br />
1 1/4 cup (150 grams) all-purpose flour<br />
3/4 cup (90 grams) spelt flour<br />
2 teaspoons baking soda<br />
1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon<br />
1/4 teaspoon ginger<br />
1/4 teaspoon freshly grated nutmeg<br />
1/2 teaspoon kosher salt<br />
1 1/4 sticks (10 tablespoons) unsalted butter, softened<br />
1 cup sugar<br />
2 large eggs<br />
1 cup spiced apple butter, homemade or store-bought<br />
2 medium apples (I used one Orange Honey and one Golden Delicious), peeled, cored and grated<br />
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Preheat the oven to 350 F and butter a 10- to 12-cup Bundt pan. Dust the inside with flour, then tap out the excess. Set aside.<br />
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Place the walnuts on a baking sheet and toast for 5-6 minutes. Once cool, chop the nuts and set aside.<br />
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In a medium bowl, whisk together the flour, baking powder, baking soda, spices and salt.<br />
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Using either a hand-held or standing mixer (fitted with a paddle attachment), beat the butter and sugar on medium speed, scraping the bowl as needed, until the mixture is thick, creamy and pale. Mix in the eggs, one at a time, beating for about 1 minute after each addition. The batter should be pale and fluffy. Beat in the apple butter on low; the batter will look funny and slightly curdled, but, don't worry, the addition of both the apples and the flour mixture will make things right.<br />
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Still on low, add the grated apples and mix until well incorporated. Add the dry ingredients, mixing on low and only until just combined (personally, I like to leave off with the mixer after a minute or two and fold the rest of the flour in with a silicon spatula). Then, fold in the toasted walnuts with a spatula. Spoon the batter into the prepared Bundt pan and smooth the top. You can also give the pan a few whacks on the counter to make sure the batter has settled into the nooks and crannies of the pan.<br />
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Bake for 45-50 minutes, or until a toothpick inserted into the center of the cake comes out clean. Transfer the pan onto a rack and let it cool for 5-10 minutes, then unmold the cake.<br />
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Dorie suggests that, once the cake has completely cooled, you wrap it in plastic wrap and let it stand overnight, as this helps to "ripen the flavors." You can then either make the Walnut Oil Glaze--the most decadent option--or sprinkle the cake with confectioners' sugar. Another option that Dorie proposes is that you serve the cake with applesauce.<br />
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<b>For the glaze: </b><br />
3/4 cup (75 grams) confectioners' sugar, sifted, plus more as needed<br />
1 tablespoon hot water<br />
1.5 tablespoons walnut oil<br />
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Whisk the confectioners' sugar with the hot water until a smooth and thick glaze forms. If the glaze strikes you as too thick, add a little more hot water; if too thin, add a little more confectioners' sugar. Slowly drizzle in the walnut oil, whisking constantly, then pour the glaze over the cake. Let the glaze set before serving the cake.</div>
Katyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04290135991797809997noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4031121890854604877.post-63785304795982464582016-09-18T21:31:00.001-07:002016-09-18T21:35:54.399-07:00Food for Thought <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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I am a keeper of flocks. </div>
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The flocks are my thoughts </div>
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and all my thoughts are sensations. </div>
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I think with my eyes and my ears, </div>
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with my hands with and with my feet</div>
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and with my nose and my mouth. </div>
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For to consider a flower is both to see it and smell it </div>
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and to eat of fruit is to understand its meaning. -<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fernando_Pessoa#Alberto_Caeiro">Alberto Caeiro</a> ("I am a keeper of flocks")</div>
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When we were on our honeymoon in Portugal, I picked up a small collection of Portuguese poetry translated into English: <i>Lisbon Poets</i>. It was a surprising purchase for me--what could I, an avowed hater of verse (besides Shakespeare) want with a book of poetry?--but one that I often turned to when we had a few extra minutes on our hands, either waiting for a bus somewhere or relaxing on the beach. The poetry was strange in a way that felt familiar to me (modernism is modernism, regardless of where it took place), yet also unlike anything I had read before. It was like a language I could recognize, from the outrage of scorned lovers to the ravings of madmen believing that women with watermelon heads could be walking down a busy city street, but didn't quite understand. </div>
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Given this disconnect, I found myself somewhat inexplicably thinking about these poems tonight as I was preparing to write this post; I suppose I couldn't help but be drawn towards a symbol of my summer, especially now that it is well and truly fading away, and towards all the sensory pleasures that the season has to offer: the hot and lazy sun that fools you into thinking time is infinite, the plentiful peaches that rightly make their way into many a pie, an abundance of color both at the market and on the table...Even if you adore fall and are more than ready to say goodbye to humidity and mosquitoes (no love lost here), it's hard to resign yourself to the loss of freedom and time that the end of each summer represents. </div>
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But we must make do, eat our squash, shiver through the winter and, eventually, the days will lengthen again. Clearly, I'm letting "my flock" get too far ahead of itself. One step at a time, one minute lost, but eventually regained. </div>
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As it's been a long time, <i>too </i>long, since I wrote one of these posts, feel free to consider this both the "end of" and "best of" the summer edition:</div>
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The photo at the beginning of this post displays the prettiest pie I made this summer, peach and blackberry. My grandparents were visiting and my grandmother, for the umpteenth time, gave me yet another pie tutorial; this one, however, may have finally stuck. People may get weird about ingredients like shortening, but the recipe for <a href="http://diningwithdusty.blogspot.com/2010/06/whats-in-pie.html">her pie dough</a>, which I first posted back in 2010, can be rolled like a dream. I had made a <a href="http://www.foodandwine.com/recipes/georgia-peach-pie">Georgia peach pie</a> from <i>Food & Wine </i>a few weeks before my grandparents came to visit and, while I am sure the fault could be pinned on both my own dough-rolling skills and the fact that the weather was incredibly hot that day, the all-butter crust nearly drove me to despair. </div>
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I would also add that my grandma and I made this pie with no recipe; we blanched and peeled the peaches, then we added sugar; because when we tasted them and it didn't seem like enough, we added more sugar. We filled the shell with the peaches, added blackberries and then covered it with the top layer, brushing it with cream and sprinkling Turbinado sugar on top. We then popped it in the oven and waited for 45-50 minutes until we had bubbling filling and a golden brown crust. This is why, despite the <a href="https://food52.com/blog/17719-almost-nothing-in-food-media-is-new">recent claim of Amanda Hesser</a> that Food52 had some kind of ownership over the concept "not recipes," I just don't buy it. You can brand something, market it and profit from it, but that doesn't mean the idea belongs to you. And you also have to ask yourself that, if this is the kind of argument professionals are having, then are the stakes not ridiculously low? Of course, nobody ever said <a href="http://firstwefeast.com/eat/2016/02/problems-with-food-media">food media</a> was without its problems. </div>
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A few years ago, I read an article in <i>Lucky Peach </i>about a feast whose main course consisted of the hump of a baby camel; this article alone nearly drove me to vegetarianism. Considering my reaction to this piece, I'm not sure why I clicked on the article about <a href="http://luckypeach.com/taste-spanish-fighting-bull/">where the meat goes after a bull fight</a>, but I did. I'm happy to say it wasn't nearly as harrowing a tale as the baby camel's slaughter and I don't know if this is because the quality of the magazine's/blog's journalism has gone down or if it's because bull fights already invite an expectation of violence. </div>
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My disappointment in this piece aside, I was really excited about <i>Lucky Peach</i>'s recipe for <a href="http://luckypeach.com/recipes/elote-pierogis/">Elote Pierogis</a>. And about the <a href="http://www.thewednesdaychef.com/the_wednesday_chef/2016/08/lucky-peachs-miso-claypot-chicken-no-claypot.html">recipe from their Chinese cookbook</a> that Luisa Weiss (The Wednesday Chef) recently posted; it had been too long--several years!--since I had made dinner in my rice cooker...that is, only if steaming dumplings doesn't count. </div>
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Speaking of Chinese food, I was delighted to discover that Fuchsia Dunlop, the first food writer I ever read, has a new cookbook coming out on Jiangnan (the eastern coastal provinces, including Shanghai) cuisine. If the actual book is half as good as the <a href="https://www.theguardian.com/lifeandstyle/2016/jul/17/china-best-kept-food-secret-fuchsia-dunlop-jiangnan-recipes-sea-bass-prawns">preview in </a><i><a href="https://www.theguardian.com/lifeandstyle/2016/jul/17/china-best-kept-food-secret-fuchsia-dunlop-jiangnan-recipes-sea-bass-prawns">The Guardian</a> </i>would lead us to believe, it's going to be yet another must-have keeper...especially since we'll at least be in Delaware for another year, possibly even two. </div>
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Recently, I have been obsessed with the <i><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Samarkand-Recipes-Stories-Central-Caucasus/dp/1909487422">Samarkand</a> </i>cookbook, which, in terms of both <a href="http://www.ediblefeast.com/food-drink/samarkand-recipes-stories-central-asia-caucasus">recipes </a>and perfectly styled food photos, is not so different from Olia Hercules' <i>Mamushka. </i>If all goes as planned, I should be posting something--a celebratory drink--from <i>Samarkand </i>this week. </div>
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Food media aside, one of the highlights of my summer was the new <i>Harry Potter </i>book. Although a play and not a long and rambling novel, it still was <a href="ttp://www.newyorker.com/books/page-turner/finally-a-new-harry-potter-story-worth-reading?mbid%3Dnl_160808_Daily%26CNDID%3D20839793%26spMailingID%3D9324060%26spUserID%3DMTA5MjQwMDI4NDc2S0%26spJobID%3D980648535%26spReportId%3DOTgwNjQ4NTM1S0&source=gmail&ust=1474342357344000&usg=AFQjCNEURNS7_ZSgDi-EdmirViG7JhhAiA">exhilarating to be reunited with the characters for one last adventure</a>. </div>
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The eternal question and one that, while no longer relevant to me, I still think about a lot: <a href="http://www.theatlantic.com/education/archive/2015/09/whats-the-point-of-a-phd/405964/">to get a PhD or not to get a PhD</a>? </div>
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It seems all too easy to move from an article about PhDs to the <a href="https://www.washingtonpost.com/national/health-science/loneliness-can-be-depressing-but-it-may-have-helped-humans-survive/2016/09/02/c01a15f4-38a0-11e6-8f7c-d4c723a2becb_story.html">benefits of loneliness</a>. </div>
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The strangeness of <i><a href="http://www.lrb.co.uk/v04/n01/fr-leavis/gwendolen-harleth">Daniel Deronda</a>. </i>(Unfortunately, this is just a preview as I no longer have academic library privileges.)</div>
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Yet another frightening Zika-related discovery: <a href="http://www.theatlantic.com/science/archive/2016/08/the-mystery-of-zikas-path-to-the-placenta/496349/">how it manages to slip by the placenta undetected</a>. </div>
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On the <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2016/09/12/world/europe/italian-grows-forgotten-fruit-what-she-preserves-is-a-culture.html">preservation of both fruit and culture</a>. </div>
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Because I always find myself interested in the supernatural and strange: an article on <a href="http://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2016/09/12/familienaufstellung-germanys-group-therapy">how Germans try to overcome the ghosts of World War II</a> and <a href="http://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2016/09/19/emma-donoghues-art-of-starvation">the relationship between fasting and faith</a>.</div>
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To celebrate the new season that is upon us, a <a href="https://www.bostonglobe.com/lifestyle/food-dining/2015/10/27/sweet-pumpkin-name-savory-portuguese-jam/wTFoah5L8yyTQuuaOwu9KP/story.html">recipe for a Portuguese pumpkin jam </a>that I will be making not once, but hopefully many times this fall. </div>
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Katyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04290135991797809997noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4031121890854604877.post-12489898410439430592016-09-09T14:22:00.003-07:002016-09-09T14:44:50.974-07:00A Not Quite Fat, But Adequately Plump, Greek Wedding<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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And looking round, he met her eyes, and from their expression he concluded that she was understanding it just as he was. But this was a mistake; she almost completely missed the meaning of the words of the service; she had not heard them, in fact. She could not listen to them and take them in, so strong was the one feeling that filled her breast and grew stronger and stronger. That feeling was joy at the completion of the process that for the last month and a half had been going on in her soul, and had during those six weeks been a joy and a torture to her [...] "The servant of God, Konstantin, plights his troth to the servant of God, Ekaterina." -Lev Tolstoy (<i>Anna Karenina</i>)</div>
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Almost every month, I come up with some kind of grand blogging plan; on Saturday I will write about Syros; on Thursday, I will tell you about my discovery of mujadara; on the following Monday, I will finally post about the Grand Canyon...and then, inevitably, something happens that blows this schedule to bits and pieces. Sometimes it's amazing things like apple picking or working my way through pounds and pounds of peaches, but, these days, it's piddly things like negotiating the flower arrangements for the wedding celebration in Pennsylvania (15 days!) or stressing about the platters and trays we will use for the insane amount of cookies (25 recipes and counting!) that my grandmother and grandfather have been painstakingly baking since they got back from the Greek wedding. Even, in some cases, hunting down guests who don't see fit to RSVP--despite the simplicity of checking a box and slipping a card into a pre-stamped envelope--just to make sure that, should they actually be coming, you have a seat for them. It's hard to say what's actually worse: those who don't respond to an invitation after providing their address or those who don't give you their address in the first place. I realize that it's probably best, and definitely healthier, not to spend too much time contemplating the strange behavior of people, though it isn't always easy when you consider these people friends. At times like these, I have to remind myself to take a deep breath and to repeat to myself that things like vendor meal preferences don't matter that much; that it's the taste of the cookie, rather than the tray it appears on, that counts; that even though you've never planned an event of this magnitude before, all weddings are basically a variation on a master theme and that it will all be <i>fine, fine, fine</i>. </div>
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More importantly, I know, from the simple fact that this isn't my first rodeo (it is, after all, the Year of Weddings) that it's not so much the details that count--really, nobody will remember or care. It's more about sharing your union with the people nearest and dearest to you. To keep this rather sage advice at the forefront of my thoughts, I've decided to revisit the Greek wedding* and to remind myself of what really matters.</div>
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*While I realize that sharing personal photos violates one of the central tenets of the blog, there are certain events in life that invite a certain flexibility to even the firmest of rules. </div>
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One of the best things about this day, besides the absolute luxury of being pampered in the "Empress Suite" at the Makedonia Palace, was getting to hang out with my college friends. I don't think we had spent this much time together, sans boyfriends and husbands and in one room, for several years; they were my honorary bridesmaids, or, as we decided, "handmaidens." Throughout the day they helped to instill a sense of normalcy, to keep me calm and to support me when I ran into some linguistic troubles with the very Greek hairstylist and makeup artist. Though she had told me to leave my hair "dry, very, very dry," when I emerged from the shower with dry hair, she immediately demanded to know why my hair was dry. Ever the pacifist, I apologized and said that I must have misheard, but one of my friends went to bat for me, insisting that the mistake had been poor Athena's as she had heard "dry" instead of "wet" too. Despite one shower too many and a minor flooding of the bathroom (call it the American inability to handle European showers), Athena did a fantastic job of taking my shorter, thicker and more unruly hair and giving it the <a href="http://www.instyle.co.uk/hairstyles/hair-trends/hair-updos/alicia-vikanders-wispy-red-carpet-do">Alicia Vikander red carpet treatment</a>, although you had better believe that I had to fight for the bangs to be left as they are. </div>
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When the photographer in charge of me, Dimitris, eventually joined us and started snapping photos of my sparkly heels and sneakers (I may be fairly low maintenance, but I do like my sparkles), he also encouraged us to take a few shots that were "age appropriate" and on the silly side. Ever the fan of classic <i>Zoolander</i>, I call this look Bridal Blue Steel. </div>
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Of course, there was also time for a few "serious" portraits with my family. Most of these had to be taken indoors, though, since it was absolutely boiling (105 F!) outside; in fact, it was so bright outside that the curtains couldn't even be opened in the room, or the light would have been too harsh. </div>
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While Dimitris and I were taking tons and tons of photos at the hotel, the Greek was back at his family's house, getting ready and performing the Greek ritual of receiving guests--mainly family and close friends--at the house. Even though I had been at the house that morning, I wasn't entirely aware of all that would take place in my absence: that <a href="http://www.visitgreece.gr/en/gastronomy/traditional_products/mastic">mastic (or tree resin from the island of Chios</a>) -flavored (and perfectly white) meringues would be offered, that family members would bring gifts and that it would all be as joyful and noisy as movies like <i>My Big Fat Greek Wedding </i>would lead us to believe. </div>
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This photo is particularly poignant as both this dress shirt and these cufflinks were never to be seen again after the wedding. Either they were absorbed into the bowels of the Makedonia Palace's vast laundry room, or they were sacrificed to some pagan wedding god or spirit with an eye for fine cotton and good silver. </div>
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But material goods aside, the lovely people below, on the right, the Greek's cousin (who shares the same name) and his wife, our <i><a href="http://www.greekboston.com/wedding/wedding-sponsors/">koumbaroi</a> </i>(kind of like the best man and woman, although they were really like our sponsors) and, on the left, one of the flower girls (who shares <i>my</i> name), helped to make the day special by standing up with us at the church.</div>
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The church itself, <a href="http://www.inthessaloniki.com/en/agios-dimitrios">Agios Demetrios</a>, is one of the most important (and beautiful) churches in Thessaloniki, as it not only highlights the city's history (from Byzantine-style church to Ottoman temple and back again), but is also devoted to its patron saint, St. Demetrios, who is also buried in its crypt. As you can imagine, this church has seen a lot in its long and varied history, so it's hard to believe that our own story, however small it may be, is now rooted within its walls. </div>
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What I didn't necessarily know beforehand, but discovered only a few days before the wedding, was that, unlike the custom in the United States, brides and grooms meet, with all of the guests there to witness it, <i>outside</i> of the church and then walk down the aisle together. Here, the Greek stands with my bouquet (the groom gives the flowers to the bride) and seems to be calm and collected. Little did he know that only a few blocks away from the church, the little white SUV with me and my grandfather sat waiting until it was appropriate to pull into the church parking lot. Those 7-8 minutes sitting in the car and watching the time pass by ever so slowly, with passersby peaking into the back windows so as to get a look at the bride and other cars beeping as they passed us by, were some of the longest of my life. I was supposed to arrive at 6 and, as a fairly punctual person, I wanted to arrive at 6; however, the driver, accustomed to Greek time, believed that only a few minutes after 6 would do--that is, until I told him, in a very authoritative tone, that it was time to go: "<i>Ade ade</i>." Let's go. Honestly, how was I expected to wait another moment? </div>
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There were people to see, faces in the crowd that I hadn't seen for more than a few years, and I was more than a little eager to get things moving. </div>
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My adorable flower girl-attendants were only too happy to help me move along; believe me, without them, I would have ended up in a tangle of lace on the stone stairs. </div>
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Though I had read the many books that I had been given explaining the ceremony to me and also knew of Orthodox marriage rites from my former life as a Slavist, nothing could have prepared me for the reality of it all. Even if my Greek were perfectly fluent, I am certain that I would have understood very little of the priests' chanting besides the refrain of my name "Kathryn Marie," slurred repeatedly into Ketrinmari, Ketrinmari...It is, in truth, the strangest feeling; you are there, but you are not there. All eyes are on you and you can hear and see things, too, but it is hard to recall any given moment. You may know that you made eye contact with friends in the crowd or that you sipped from the glass of wine, but it is almost like an out-of-body experience. One could say that this was a religious epiphany of sorts, but, even though I swore that I could feel a cool breeze emanating from the robes of one of the three priests marrying us, I would argue that this was more the result of being the focal point of so much attention and of participating in an ancient ritual. </div>
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Both magical and prosaic, it is all over in the blink of an eye. </div>
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And then you will be pelted with rice, so much rice that whenever you move for the rest of the evening, you will feel little grains hitting the floor. It may not be the most pleasant sensation (believe me, rice hurts!), but it's <i>tradition </i>and is believed to bestow fertility on the couple.<br />
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You can't help, when all is said and done, to feel somewhat euphoric: it's over! You've done it! No more rice! But the ceremony, even if the most important part, takes only a small portion of the day. </div>
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You may want to collapse with a glass of punch, or at the very least to have a small rest, but there are photos to be taken, rounds to be made, dancing to be done. Even if done badly and, at a certain point half-heartedly (that is, after having your bare pinky toe crushed by the heel of a fellow merrymaker), dancing is required. </div>
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You will be congratulated hundreds of times--"<i>Na zisete!" </i>Live happily!-- and kissed even more. In all possible ways, it was a joyful celebration and a veritable feast. Not that I, as the bride, had the chance to partake in the deliciousness of all the Greek dishes that I normally so love eating: tzatziki, <i>taramasalata</i> (cured roe dip), <i>melitzanosalata</i> (eggplant dip), <i>gigantes</i> (lima beans braised in tomato sauce). There was no time for feasting, nor, truth be told, was there much room in my dress. As the Greek's aunt commented to me when we returned from our honeymoon: "If you even gained one kilo, the dress wouldn't fit! Brava!"</div>
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But if you're as lucky as we were, there may be a few slices of cake waiting for you in your room at the end of the night, to be enjoyed on your balcony with the sound of the sea gently rising and falling below you. </div>
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Katyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04290135991797809997noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4031121890854604877.post-80178410256226734442016-08-29T13:24:00.000-07:002016-08-29T13:24:16.099-07:00A Glut of Peaches<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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I pity the man who can travel from Dan to Beersheba, and say, "'Tis all barren": and so it is: and so is all the world to him who will not cultivate the fruits it offers. -Sterne (A Sentimental Journey) via George Eliot (Daniel Deronda)</div>
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During the last week of July, with the soundtrack of the Democratic convention in the background, I peeled, pitted and chopped 25 pounds of peaches. I realize that this sentence would be infinitely more romantic if I were in possession of a peach tree that was producing an abundance of fruit. But, rather than representing a bucolic ideal of going out to my little yard to pluck fruit from a tree's branches, the peaches that I worked with in late July were procured the "old-fashioned way"-- by calling the <a href="http://www.highlandorchardsfarmmarket.com/">local farm</a> from which we also get a CSA box and ordering a half-bushel for pickup. Clearly, there are moments when I have to acknowledge that capitalism has its advantages. </div>
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When I told the Greek about the order I had placed, his first thought, beyond the obvious question of why a family of two would need so many peaches, was peach pie. An obliging wife, I honored his request, although I had bigger, if not equally sugary, plans for the surplus of peaches that I had brought upon myself: I wanted to preserve them; to fill the cupboards with jar upon jar of glistening summer fruit; to prepare for the fact that, come January, I knew I would be craving the sweetness of summer. If anything could channel that, at least out of the fruit that was still readily available on the east coast (both the cherries and strawberries had come and gone while we were in Europe, and I'm not sure the apricots ever arrived), it would be peaches. </div>
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I also had an ulterior motive. After a summer of being on the go and a solid eight months of being in wedding planning mode, I felt the need to undertake a kitchen project and engage in a little self-therapy. While it may sound a little odd, for me, preserving has become intertwined with self-care and contemplative peace and quiet. I suspect this connection is largely the result of my last semester of teaching R&C when, after a particularly bad meeting with a student who used to visit my office hours and cry and who even threatened to report me to the department for "unfair grading practices" (mind you, this was because she was getting an A-; I'm sad to say that, even now, the accusation still rankles), I took refuge at <a href="http://www.mrsdalloways.com/">Mrs. Dalloway's</a>, where I promptly fell under the spell of Diana Henry's beautiful volume on preserving, <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Salt-Sugar-Smoke-preserve-vegetables/dp/1845336755">Salt Sugar Smoke.</a> Or maybe it is also because, in the year after I filed my dissertation, I worked on the <a href="https://jam-experiments.com/">jam blog</a>, preserved tomatoes, oranges, strawberries and pounds upon pounds of apples, and even worked in the Preserves category at the <a href="http://www.goodfoodawards.org/">Good Food Awards</a>. Given this history, preserving can't help but suggest some level of freedom to me, even though I am the first to admit that it is curious that an act that suggests an amalgam of transformation and suspension, of capturing the fruit in its best form, would also be closely connected in my mind with freedom--especially when you also consider the sheer effort that it takes to prepare the fruit and stir (and stir and stir) it over a hot stove. </div>
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It may be that my affinity for making jam and jelly will never make sense, which, in and of itself, might underscore the sincerity of the attraction. Regardless of what compels me, I am always eager to experiment with new recipes and ingredients, even if I generally believe that recipes aren't really required, as long as you have a good food scale, jars and patience. This is why, when I saw that <a href="http://www.domenicacooks.com/about/">Domenica Marchetti</a>, whose many "Glorious" cookbooks on Italy have long had pride of place in my kitchen--her <a href="http://diningwithdusty.blogspot.com/2013/09/as-tightly-as-i-can.html">tomato marmalade</a> and <a href="http://casayellow.com/2013/09/19/baked-delicata-squash-with-cream-parmigiano/">baked Delicata squash with cream</a> from <i><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Glorious-Vegetables-Italy-Domenica-Marchetti/dp/1452108862">The Glorious Vegetables of Italy</a> </i>are still favorites of mine--was coming out with a book on preserving the Italian way, I became extremely excited. And not just because I knew that I would learn from Domenica's research and authority, but also because, given my own Italian(-American) roots, this book would take me one step closer to understanding how my ancestors had lived and eaten. The book, on all accounts, is a success, both beautifully photographed and full of food--jam, liqueurs and sauces--that you can't help but want to make and eat, even if some recipes like garlic, cheese and wine sausage amount to day-long projects. </div>
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Although my eyes widened at the possibilities of Coffee Cream Liqueur, Brandied Chestnut Cream Jam and Oil-Preserved Butternut Squash with Mint, at this particular moment, I knew I could only have eyes for recipes involving peaches. Amongst those, while the choice was not easy and the peaches more than plentiful, I opted for the Peach and Almond Conserva with Marsala rather than the Peaches in Grappa-Spiked Syrup. I had never made a <i>conserva </i>before<i>, </i>nor was I sure that I even knew what constituted one; Domenica, however, explains the differences between different types of preserves in the introduction to the chapter on sweet jams and jellies: "Conserves are jams to which dried fruits and/or nuts have been added. They are extra-thick and delicious with cheese as an appetizer or with roast meats." The addition of nuts, in fact, was what had first caught my attention with this recipe; I liked the sound of a textured preserve, of something that would have a little crunch and more substance than the average jam (<i>conserva</i> is texturally not that different from quince paste, except for the latter's lack of nuts). I was also intrigued by the presence of Marsala, a dark amber Sicilian wine fortified with brandy or grape spirits that is famous for being paired with chicken, which promised to round off the tart sweetness of the peaches.<br />
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The Marsala made for a prettily colored jam, transforming the soft orange of the peaches into a tawny shade of saffron. In part, the dark color of the preserves stems not only from the wine, but also from the not insubstantial cooking time. Although simple to make, this <i>conserva </i>requires about an hour of active stove-top stirring, which may seem like a long time, but is ultimately a small price to pay for several jars of a thick, almond-studded spread flecked with vanilla bean seeds. Since late July, I've been eating this on toast with good salted butter for breakfast, or on crackers with Pecorino or Manchego cheese for a snack. The one downside is that I know that the crunchiness of the almonds won't last. But since I <i>also</i> doubt that the <i>conserva </i>will last beyond the beginning of fall, I may just win this particular race against time.<br />
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Even if not, with each new season I'm more than certain that I'll have cause to use this book again and again. </div>
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<b>Peach and Almond <i>Conserva</i> with Marsala</b><br />
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Yields 4-5 half-pint (8-ounce) jars<br />
Slightly adapted from Domenica Marchetti's <a href="http://www.domenicacooks.com/cookbooks/preserving-italy/"><i>Preserving Italy</i></a><br />
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While I generally followed Domenica's instructions to the letter, I did make a few small changes to the recipe, which were largely based on what I had in my pantry. For example, I used a sweet Marsala instead of the dry variety; I had thought that this would require me to reduce the sugar in the recipe by about 100-150 grams, but upon tasting the Marsala I had bought, it didn't strike me as overly sweet--especially considering that my peaches were under-ripe and fairly tart. The flavor and sweetness will vary according to the brand, so if you make this and also choose to use a sweet Marsala, be sure to taste your wine.<br />
Domenica's recipe calls for either vanilla sugar or regular sugar. Although I do keep a jar of sugar in the cupboard with a few leftover vanilla beans in it, I had had to buy a new bag of sugar for the express purpose of making these (and the other two batches I made that week) preserves. Because it didn't have time to absorb the flavor of the vanilla, I simply added the vanilla bean to the preserves as they cooked and then removed it before ladling it into jars (I then let it dry out and added it to the full jar of sugar in the cupboard).<br />
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3 pounds (1.4 kg) peaches (under-ripe or just ripe are preferable, as are the <a href="http://www.clemson.edu/extension/peach/faq/what_is_the_difference_between_a_freestone_and_clingstone_type%20peach.html">freestone</a> variety; don't try to make this with overripe fruit)<br />
2 cups (400 g) vanilla sugar or regular sugar<br />
1 lemon, juiced<br />
1 vanilla bean, with its seeds scraped out<br />
1/2 cup (118 g) sweet Marsala wine<br />
1 cup (100 g) sliced almonds, lightly toasted<br />
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Preheat the oven to 350 F. Line a cookie sheet with either a Silpat or parchment paper, then spread the almonds out onto the baking dish. Bake the almonds for 7-10 minutes, or until lightly golden. Remove from the oven and let cool.<br />
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Lower the oven temperature to 250 F and place your jars on a cookie sheet. When the oven has reached 250 F, put the cookie sheet in the oven.<br />
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As you bring a pot of water to a boil over high heat, prepare an ice bath near the stove. Then, using a sharp knife, put an x in the bottom of each peach. When the water is ready, carefully add the peaches in batches. Blanch for 2-3 minutes to loosen the skins, then remove the peaches with a slotted spoon and plunge them into the ice bath. After a minute, drain the peaches in a colander in the sink. Repeat this process (most likely, 2-3 more times) until all of the peaches have been blanched.<br />
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Peel the peaches and pit them, then cut them into quarters. Place the peaches in a heavy-bottomed saucepan (or Dutch oven) or copper preserving pot and mash them with a heavy wooden spoon or <br />
potato masher. If the peaches aren't completely mashed, this is okay, as they can be mashed more as they cook down. Stir in the sugar and lemon juice, then add the vanilla bean seeds and the pod.<br />
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Turn the heat onto medium low and stir until the sugar is fully dissolved. Raise the heat to medium-high and bring the mixture to a boil. Continue to let the mixture simmer, stirring often, until the its color has darkened and it has started to thicken. This should take 20-30 minutes. Skim any scum that forms as the mixture bubbles.<br />
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Add the Marsala and continue to boil for about 30 minutes, or until the mixture has reached 220 F <i>or </i>passes the freezer/wrinkle test (<i>this test involves placing several small plates--I use soy sauce bowls--in the freezer and testing the preserves' consistency by placing a small spoonful onto a plate. You then put the plate back into the freezer for 3-5 minutes and, upon removing it again, test the preserves by poking it with your finger; if it wrinkles, it is ready, whereas, if it runs, it needs to be heated and tested again. It's essential that the preserves be taken off of the hot burner while you do this, otherwise there is the danger of overcooking it</i>). As a <i>conserva</i> is a thicker preserve than a jam, it should not only appear glossy, but should also have reduced considerably in the pan and should be so thick that you can scrape a path along the bottom of the pan with a silicone spatula. Of course, if you prefer your preserves on the softer side, you can remove it when it just barely passes the wrinkle test; making preserves requires a certain amount of intuition, know-how and also acknowledgement of your own preferences.<br />
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When the <i>conserva </i>is done cooking, turn off the heat and, using a silicone spatula, stir in the toasted almonds. <br />
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Remove the sterilized jars from the oven and ladle the <i>conserva </i>into the jars, leaving 1/4" headspace. Using a cake tester, stir the contents of each jar to remove air bubbles. If any of the preserves spills on the lid, wipe it off using a clean damp cloth before screwing on the lids. <br />
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Place the jars onto a cookie sheet and put them in the oven at 250 F for 30 minutes. Once done, place the cookie sheet on a rack to cool. If the jars have sealed properly, you will hear a popping sound as they cool. Keep in mind that, even if you don't hear a popping sound, the jars might have sealed anyway; just look to see if the lid is concave (or curled down in the center). Once upon, keep the <i>conserva </i>in the refrigerator. Domenica says that this is best enjoyed quickly as the almonds become less crisp and the flavor of the Marsala less pronounced the longer it sits. <br />
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Katyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04290135991797809997noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4031121890854604877.post-28245945933809869702016-08-24T00:23:00.000-07:002016-08-24T00:23:13.173-07:00The Salad of Summer<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Goodness is a large, often a prospective word; like harvest, which at one stage when we talk of it lies all underground, with an indeterminate future; is the germ prospering in the darkness? At another, it has put forth delicate green blades, and by-and-by the trembling blossoms are ready to be dashed off by an hour of rough wind or rain. Each stage has its peculiar blight, and may have the healthy life choked out of it by a particular action of the foul land which rears or neighbors it, or by damages brought from foulness afar. -George Eliot (<i><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Daniel_Deronda">Daniel Deronda</a></i>)<br /><br />It’s easy to forget how fleeting summer is. With each passing day, I feel it slipping away; the days are getting shorter and, when out walking, I can’t help but notice that the once crisp green leaves on the trees are now giving way a faint yellowing—no matter that this yellow will eventually turn to the loveliest gold or burnt orange—and that the plants and flowers that were once flourishing have begun to wilt. I remind myself that these things <i>could</i> stem from the unprecedented heat of this particular summer, a summer of heat domes and record temperatures, but I can’t kid myself: the tell-tale signs of seasonal change are clear. <br /><br />I suppose that this summer was always going to feel somewhat truncated to me, what with the wedding and the travel and the need to look ahead to September’s festivities, but now that it’s late August, I just want to hit the pause button and take the opportunity to eat all of the tomatoes and peppers, preferably in the sunshine. Call me simple or overly easy to please, but this, this, is my current definition of paradise. And instead of living this dream, I am currently sitting on a plane headed to San Francisco, where it is not only partly foggy, but a stressful work environment also awaits me. You may wonder how anybody in her right mind could lament a trip to San Francisco (and especially after a few boiling weeks on the east coast), but a) I never said I was in my right mind, and b) I do have the tendency to be a homebody, or, if not exactly a homebody, somebody who greatly enjoys the comforts of home and preparing my own food. <div>
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While I like eating out as much as the next person, on most days I still prefer to finish my work (brain work) and then head into the kitchen to perform the small ritual of turning seemingly random ingredients into a complete meal. No matter that this means my nails are stubby and weak and will probably be so forevermore, I am more than willing to sacrifice them. I like working with my hands, watching how the oil shimmers as it grows hot, hearing the sizzle and pop of my kitchen laboratory around me. In these moments, it’s not as if my brain, despite the overwhelmingly manual aspect of the labor, is really turned off; it’s more that it’s the moment of relaxing, experimenting and, on a visceral level, controlling the things around me in a way that, as an employee, is denied me throughout my day. What can I say? I, like the contrary and headstrong heroine of <i>Daniel</i> <i>Deronda</i>, i.e. my latest attempt to read the classics that slipped through the cracks in my literary education, enjoy being the mistress of my own fate…A part of me does find it funny that, for all the ways in which I resisted cooking as a young girl because I didn’t want to succumb to the pressures to perform the expected role of my sex (if you don’t learn to cook, my reasoning went, you will never have to do it), I now find my greatest freedom in the kitchen. How very contrary indeed. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpQgGDgt_VKbxz5xNHcrtQPmMqVW1Rjmjvbm-GxGPGzRGzCOcP08pQVIEvLD79GBJrMFiHl7xLiD2OiUqU1TDTsiBc_duDV3ElaRTdeMYSRrNU8H_CcFRq_4LYnhBzwZc_z6LjrlLVm2Ug/s1600/IMG_2632.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpQgGDgt_VKbxz5xNHcrtQPmMqVW1Rjmjvbm-GxGPGzRGzCOcP08pQVIEvLD79GBJrMFiHl7xLiD2OiUqU1TDTsiBc_duDV3ElaRTdeMYSRrNU8H_CcFRq_4LYnhBzwZc_z6LjrlLVm2Ug/s640/IMG_2632.jpg" width="640" /></a><br /></div>
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To return to the matter at hand, though I like cooking in all the seasons, sumer affords the cook a </div>
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certain luxury: an abundance of quality ingredients. While most of the time, I am loathe to do too much to these ingredients, being of the mind that a tomato ripened in the sun is best enjoyed simply (or not at all), sometimes I become either bored or inspired, mainly (and fortunately) the latter. Despite the possibility of boredom, I will also confess to a penchant for repeating a thing that I am taken with, be it a <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=31crA53Dgu0">song</a> or a recipe, over and over again. Maybe I’ll never listen to it or eat it again, but in the moment, I can’t imagine life without it. Six summers ago, it was Mark Bittman’s <a href="http://diningwithdusty.blogspot.com/2010/06/going-for-greens.html">green bean salad</a>; last summer was the <a href="http://diningwithdusty.blogspot.com/2015/08/food-for-thought.html">very simple yogurt salad</a>—labneh or Greek yogurt, cherry tomatoes, cucumber, parsley, olive oil, salt and Triscuits; and this summer’s official “the salad of summer” winner was a warm green pepper salad with feta, capers and Kalamata olives. </div>
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<br />This salad, or the original version of it, hails from Deborah Madison’s <i><a href="http://www.penguinrandomhouse.com/books/213727/vegetable-literacy-by-deborah-madison/9781607741916/">Vegetable Literacy</a></i>, which is hands-down my desert island cookbook. If I had to fend for myself on an island with no other souls around, I would want Deborah’s gardening advice, kitchen wizardry and general vegetable wisdom to be right there with me. If you’re wondering how I, a cookbook collector, could so boldly claim allegiance to just one book, let me tell you that I found this recipe by accident, as I was searching for a way to use up the peppers that we had recently gotten in our CSA box. I don’t even like peppers that much, or at least I never thought I did, but this salad, which also has the advantage of coming together quickly, was enough to convert me to into a worshipper at the altar of bell-shaped peppers, so much so that I have now gone out and bought peppers with the express purpose of making this salad. The original recipe calls for red (or yellow or orange) bell peppers (both sweeter and more mature—<a href="http://www.thekitchn.com/the-simple-reason-why-green-peppers-are-always-less-expensive-220876">not to mention more expensive</a>—than the green variety) that are seared and then combined with fried halloumi cheese and a mixture of cherry tomatoes, capers, minced garlic and Kalamata olives. From start to finish, it’s a quintessentially Mediterranean (very Greek) dish and one that speaks to my affection for all things salty, briny and vibrantly colorful. Never mind that I decided to use green bell peppers, which are more bitter, and to replace the Halloumi with a creamy feta. The salad is both perfectly balanced, yet complex, with the acidic sweetness of the tomatoes mingling with the sharpness of the capers and olives, the feta melting into the collapsed and slightly sweetened peppers and the presence of fresh mint and parsley providing a somewhat sobering, but no less welcome, influence. Whether you make it the Madison way or my way, this salad is a worthwhile tribute to summer, for as long as it lasts. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqGSX-w7Yuh7sXuCqKTJYP7hhCgZ_jtlp2OH1v7bGTlOGghjQYNiT6qBsozB4jgNy76GfooKkujnoyf_qcNmpSWZvGMwvNOvzH6jS8kfu2B2WUpCWGbeGBMjAYxR_Bn5QV1BEInWoDPXKV/s1600/IMG_2651-001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="432" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqGSX-w7Yuh7sXuCqKTJYP7hhCgZ_jtlp2OH1v7bGTlOGghjQYNiT6qBsozB4jgNy76GfooKkujnoyf_qcNmpSWZvGMwvNOvzH6jS8kfu2B2WUpCWGbeGBMjAYxR_Bn5QV1BEInWoDPXKV/s640/IMG_2651-001.jpg" width="640" /></a><br /><br /><br /><b>Seared Green Peppers with Feta, Olives and Capers</b></div>
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Adapted from <i>Vegetable Literacy</i></div>
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Serves 2 as a meal and about 4 as a side</div>
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Large handful of cherry or grape tomatoes (100 grams), halved or quartered </div>
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about 10 Kalamata olives (45-50 grams), halved and pitted</div>
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2 tablespoons capers (20 grams), roughly chopped</div>
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1 garlic clove, minced</div>
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2 tablespoons + 1 teaspoon of olive oil, divided</div>
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2 large green bell peppers (roughly 240 grams/.5 pounds), seeded and sliced lengthwise into strips (1/2 inch thick)</div>
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3-4 oz. feta, crumbled</div>
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salt and pepper, to taste</div>
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about 1 tablespoon fresh mint, chopped</div>
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about 1 tablespoon fresh parsley, chopped</div>
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In a small bowl, combine the tomatoes, olives, capers and minced garlic. Lightly season with salt and pepper, then add 1 tablespoon + 1 teaspoon of the oil. Stir to coat the ingredients and set aside.</div>
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Then, heat 1 tablespoon olive oil in a heavy-bottomed skillet over high heat. Once the oil is hot (it should glisten), add the peppers and cook until they are seared on both sides, about 3-4 minutes per side.</div>
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Lower the heat to medium and add the tomato-caper-olive mixture to the pan. Cook for 1-2 minutes, then turn off the heat. Add the feta and stir to combine.</div>
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Transfer to a serving bowl and, if needed, adjust the seasoning. Top with chopped mint and parsley and serve, either on its own as a salad or with pita bread.</div>
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Katyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04290135991797809997noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4031121890854604877.post-5769780513812926222016-08-15T19:27:00.000-07:002016-08-15T19:27:34.467-07:00Six Years and the Cultivation of a Garden<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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The little society, one and all, entered into this laudable design; and set themselves to exert their different talents. The little piece of ground yielded them a plentiful crop. Cunegund indeed was very ugly, but she became an excellent hand at pastrywork; Pacquette embroidered; the old woman had the care of the linen. There was none, down to Brother Giroflée, but did some service; he was a very good carpenter, and became an honest man. Pangloss used now and then to say to Candide, “There is a concatenation of all events in the best of possible worlds; for, in short, had you not been kicked out of a fine castle for the love of Miss Cunegund; had you not been put into the Inquisition; had you not travelled over America on foot; had you not run the baron through the body; and had you not lost all your sheep, which you brought from the good country of El Dorado, you would not have been here to eat preserved citrons and pistachio nuts.” “Excellently observed,” answered Candide; “but let us cultivate of our garden.” -Voltaire (<i>Candide</i>)</div>
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A long, long time ago, as valedictorian of a tiny class of 105 students, I gave a speech that ended, as all specials inevitably do, with a flourish--in this case, a paraphrased quote from Voltaire's <i>Candide</i>: that our mission, as graduates, was to "cultivate our gardens." Never mind that I didn't particularly care for <i>Candide, </i>nor could I be certain that I understood what Voltaire was even suggesting, but something about the quote, at least to me, seemed right for the stage of life we suddenly found ourselves in. I don't know that this choice of quote won me any brownie points with my fellow graduates (the salutatorian had quoted a song by a fellow graduate, the prom king and lead singer of a local popular band), but I couldn't help but think of it as I prepared to write this post. </div>
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Never mind the fact that I first drafted the opening to this post in early June, on the eve of this blog's sixth birthday (!), and that a thousand things--a wedding, a honeymoon, a homecoming, more meetings of the supper club--have happened since then. And let's also ignore the small matter that the sixth year of the blog was not its best, as it fell to the wayside in the face of my transition into a very new life. While I'm a little sorry that this post will not include a recipe (it had become somewhat dated in its choice of recipe), I stand by my conviction that <i>Candide </i>and I must have our moment and, more importantly, that I can easily make recipe amends with the next post. </div>
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The Greek and I have now been in Delaware for almost exactly one year. Not only does this baffle me (<i>this long</i>? <i>already</i>?), but I also realized lately that I've started to feel settled here, joyful even, like I captured a little bit of the Del-mar-va-lous spirit. It may be that it's just a byproduct of the season (who, after all, doesn't feel happy when the sun is shining?) or my discovery of a routine (not to mention the omnipresence of crab cakes), but I take a lot of pleasure in the sudden busy-ness of things, the proximity to family and friends and the many charms of the east coast spring and summer: tangy rhubarb, peaches--<a href="http://diningwithdusty.blogspot.com/2015/07/a-taste-of-east-coast-summer.html"><i>good, </i>juicy peaches</a> and lots of them--sweet Delaware-grown corn, Brandywine tomatoes...and my own little garden, humble though it is.</div>
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Although humble and largely in pots, this garden has taken an extraordinary amount of my time and energy, both mental and physical, since I first planted it back in April and May. I have worried over this garden and faced off with ants for it; I have been bitten by mosquitoes while watering my many pots; I have been stung by the prickles on radish greens and I have gotten more dirt under my fingernails in one summer than I have in my while life. But, no matter what, this little garden has made me ridiculously happy. Do I sound like a modern (pseudo-farmer/hipsterish) cliche? Maybe. Do I care? Not particularly. Why? Because there is such pleasure in working with your hands and leaving the intellectual/overthinking side of things behind. There is a ridiculous amount of excitement in seeing something flower when you have given up hope; every morning contains some new surprise: the appearance of a blossom, the reddening of a tomato, an unexpected insect hiding amongst the leaves. I have waited for at least 3-4 years to have something resembling a garden and I can't help but relish every moment, even if some of my experiments have been successful, while others have failed. Let me walk you through and impart some of my hard-earned wisdom, as well as mention my moments of sheer dumb luck. </div>
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<b>Alpine (aka Pineapple) Strawberries: </b>Though they flowered and I was oh so optimistic that they would bear fruit, we came back from Greece only to discover that the plant had withered. In hindsight, it was a mistake to wait to plant them until late April. Or maybe this year the weather patterns simply weren't right. In any case, I am more determined than ever to figure out a path to strawberry success. </div>
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<b>Carrots, Onions and Basil: </b>I will admit to being a somewhat whimsical gardener, rather than an entirely practical one. I was so excited about planting rainbow carrots that I really didn't consider that they would need to be planted in a very large pot (or, as my grandma keeps telling me, "in the yard.") to grow into large carrots; regardless, I got some <a href="https://www.instagram.com/p/BGwbGQHR27r/?taken-by=diningwithdusty">baby carrots</a>, enough to use in an Ottolenghi recipe last week. The same whimsical spirit can be said to apply to the tiny pot in which I grew my (baby) onions and in which I planted the basil I bought at the farmers' market when it seemed that mine would never grow. Even if small, the onions offer a steady supply of chives, and it turns out that my basil <i>did </i>grow (see photo below) and, as it was in a large pot, it came to dwarf the farmers' market basil. Now I am preparing to make and freeze all the pesto we could ever want in the dead of winter. </div>
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<b>French Breakfast Radishes</b>: After a failed spring/summer experiment with watermelon radishes (it was too early; clearly, I am also an impatient gardener), I decided to plant a few rows of French Breakfast radishes. Despite the advice on the back of the packet to place the seeds in the soil at a depth of 1", I followed the advice of an <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/1999/05/02/style/cuttings-radishes-easy-to-sprout-hard-to-grow-right.html?smid=tw-share">old article</a> in the <i>New York Times </i>that suggested planting the seeds deeply and to monitor the soil temperature; this led to a feast of radishes, both perfectly round and plenty peppery. In fact, I had never quite realized how the temperature could impact the taste of a radish and its greens*; the hot sun and steamy days have resulted in radishes that practically sizzle on the tongue. </div>
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*This knowledge also applies to arugula, which, though typically considered a fall/winter crop, ended up being in my spring/summer garden. Naturally piquant, arugula doesn't need the extra heat; summer growers of the green beware. </div>
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<b>Note to Owners of Rambunctious Beagles</b>: If you would like to garden in pots, remain sane and sleep later than 6:45/7 a.m. on weekdays <i>and </i>weekends, do not allow your beagle to see you emptying the excess water in your plant saucers, as the dog might get it into his/her head that this is a <a href="https://www.instagram.com/p/BFyzb2FR29U/?taken-by=diningwithdusty">great and wonderful game</a> that must be repeated every day of your lives.</div>
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<b>Spinach, Marjoram and Dill: </b>A new plant to me, my spinach initially flourished in late May; I was surprised to see how, although at first spindly, the spinach rounded out. Not understanding that it wouldn't grow (again in a pot on the smaller side) to a very tall height, I left it perfectly edible greens in the pot before we left on our trip. When I returned, it had reached the heights I had hoped for, but it had also bolted, leaving me with nothing to eat. I'm again experimenting with spinach, this time the baby variety, and in much larger pots, so, by early to mid-September, the spinach experiment should have succeeded. </div>
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For the most part, I have had a lot of luck with herbs this summer; the garden teems with flavors that make most meals just a little bit better, both by adding flavor and color to the plate. My marjoram, a real treat since it is a good substitute for Greek oregano and a constant in Italian cooking, is still going strong, while my dill, probably because of the heat (there is a reason that dill is Russia's favorite herb), bolted. The good news is that, like chive blossoms and the flowers on basil, <a href="https://www.instagram.com/p/BH4mYT-AozC/?taken-by=diningwithdusty">dill flowers</a> <i>are </i>edible; they also, surprisingly or unsurprisingly, taste just like dill. </div>
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<b>Rosemary and Cilantro</b>: Though it feels a little bit like cheating, I will confess to having bought a small rosemary plant at the <a href="http://www.highlandorchardsfarmmarket.com/">farm</a> we get our CSA box from at the beginning of spring. But, as I have a soft spot for rosemary, I couldn't resist; sometimes the path of least resistance (and effort) is simply the way to go. The cilantro, however, I planted from seed and, much to my amazement--mainly because I never had luck with cilantro in the sunny windows in my apartment in Berkeley--grew both quickly and thickly. While I know that one is supposed to thin out plants to make them healthy, I was so impressed and excited by the volume of cilantro that I couldn't bring myself to do it. When we returned from Greece, the cilantro, like the spinach and the dill, had bolted, but unlike these plants, I was able to salvage the seeds as they dried out: firstly, by burying a few of them in the dirt and essentially replanting cilantro and, secondly, by removing each and every seed and continuing to dry them out in the oven. The majority of these seeds made it into the <a href="http://www.lottieanddoof.com/2016/05/rose-petal-harissa/">rose petal harissa</a> a few weeks ago. As I told the Greek, he may say I'm a bit of a spendthrift, but the truth is I'm also the most thrifty of wives. In the great scheme of things, everything, from cilantro to the way a lady runs her household, balances itself. </div>
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<b>Green Beans: </b>One of the biggest disappointments that followed my discovery of purple green beans was that, once cooked, they would be transformed into your average, run-of-the-mill--that is <i>green</i>--green beans. That said, I still can't resist growing them, if only for the color it brings to the otherwise overwhelmingly green landscape. Despite the sunshine Delaware bestows on them, my beans, barely a foot tall, have shown themselves <i>not</i> to be the stuff of fairy tales, even if they have borne fruit. Yes, fruit. It continues to astound me, but green beans, as they grow from flowers (and quite pretty ones, too), are <a href="http://www.livescience.com/5014-surprising-truths-fruits-vegetables.html">technically a fruit</a>, even if they most often make it onto our plates as a vegetable side.</div>
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<b>Swiss Chard and <a href="https://bonnieplants.com/product/sun-sugar-tomato/">Sun Sugar</a> Tomatoes: </b>I have <a href="http://www.naturallivingideas.com/incompatible-plants/">read</a> that tomatoes and brassicas are not supposed to be planted next to each other, but I haven't personally experienced their incompatibility. In fact, though my chard and my golden sun sugar tomatoes live in the same pot, both have done tremendously well. The chard is tall and leafy, with stalks that are fairly thin; if I had to classify what I have grown, I would probably call it "baby" chard, rather than the bona fide and thick-stemmed Swiss variety, especially since it is tender enough to make an appearance in the salad bowl. As for my tomatoes, they were slow to start, but are now abundant and fragrant; their skin, however, is a little on the tough side, which my grandfather says is because their soil is too dry. I will admit that it can be hard to keep up with the demands of these plants, particularly during a heatwave. Lately, almost everything, from the people to the plants, but never the endlessly energetic beagle, have been looking more than a little droopy. </div>
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<b>Peppers: </b>When I was in New Mexico last summer (a post that still deserves to be and will be written), I bought a tiny package of pepper seeds, fantasizing about having the flavors of New Mexico right in my backyard. When I first planted these seeds in late May, I kept going outside each morning looking for tiny green shoots to be pushing through the dirt, but each morning there was nothing. As with most of our plants (and perhaps the result of a particularly chilly and dark spring), it wasn't until we came back from Greece in early July that the peppers actually looked promising. If you've never seen them before, they have the loveliest white flowers, which sadly shrivel up as the peppers (again, fruit!) start to grow. </div>
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It was in the peppers that I one day saw a little praying mantis, who appeared to have taken refuge there. While my first instinct was to jump back in horror (they can, to my credit, look a little creepy) and maybe to flick it away, the Greek said no, to leave it alone (our constant debate when it comes when it comes to human-insect relations). I almost didn't listen, but I'm glad I did. I researched the <a href="http://www.rodalesorganiclife.com/garden/praying-mantis">role praying mantises play in gardens</a> and, apparently, they will save your plants from leaf-munching beetles and aphids (my sworn enemy!), but sadly won't discriminate when a honeybee or butterfly makes its way into your garden. </div>
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<b>Squash (Zucchini and Delicata)</b>: The hardest lesson I've learned this year--and this is probably the mistake of many novice gardeners--is not to underestimate the growing power of squash. What initially seemed a reasonable decision (planting 6 Delicata squash seeds) has turned into a miniature jungle in the front yard. This small patch was once the home of a flowering rosebush, purple pansies and lilacs, but, in the new world of my small garden, squash was more than happy to play the part of Manifest-Destiny spouting Americans. It is <i>everywhere</i>, and, by everywhere, I mean creeping up the house and following the path of the driveway. I must confess that, as a lover of Delicata squash, I am not overly disappointed, though I suspect I will soon be gifting my neighbors and friends with all the squash they may ever want to eat. I can no longer even imagine what the front yard will look like in the post-squash phase. </div>
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Another lesson I learned, and also the hard way, was that you just don't reach into the leaves of a squash plant to pluck away its fruit; it may not happen to everybody, but both the Greek and I both get mild cases of garden rash (aka <a href="http://www.popsugar.com/fitness/Garden-Rash-3617526">contact dermatitis</a>) when we attempt this. It's much safer to protect yourself from the mildly prickly leaves. Who knew that gardening could be somewhat hazardous? </div>
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The few hazards aside, I think this is honestly one of the best ways to spend the summer: in anticipation of all that could be; in awe as things spring up and transform before your eyes. Maybe it <i>is</i> work, but work of the most pleasurable kind. </div>
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Katyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04290135991797809997noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4031121890854604877.post-84896628440250335712016-05-25T20:15:00.000-07:002016-05-25T20:22:20.875-07:00Thirty-three <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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And for a moment I lose myself</div>
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Wrapped up in the pleasures of the world</div>
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I've journeyed here and there and back again... -Smashing Pumpkins ("<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AYSbztCCTlA">Thirty-three"</a>)</div>
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For exactly one week and two days, I have been 33 years old. Despite being a palindrome, I'm not quite sure there's anything all that special about this age, although a <a href="https://www.yahoo.com/news/blogs/sideshow/thirty-three-happiest-age-says-study-193446415.html">study</a> released a few years ago tells me that "33 is the happiest age." Only nine days in, I can't really confirm this claim (nor, I should mention, do I find the article's reference to Jesus being crucified at 33 proof that this age brings happy and hopeful things), but perhaps as the year progresses I will discover 33's magic? </div>
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Thus far, I've got to admit that my thirty-third year has been a bit of a mixed bag. While it started off promising enough with ravioli, pavlova and a coffee break at <a href="https://www.instagram.com/p/BFfJiDER235/?taken-by=diningwithdusty">this gorgeous place</a> on our drive back to Delaware from Pennsylvania, the next few days proved somewhat trying. The Greek fell and is now on crutches; then, the following day, we had to go to Philadelphia to meet with immigration--a process that appears to be rife with bureaucratic horrors, not the least of which is the office's <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0oMbwWqceNw">sloth-like pace</a> when the clock is ticking...As of tomorrow, I will not only be the only truly mobile member of our household, but also its only valid Delaware driver and, if we don't get the paperwork before we head to Greece on the eighteenth for the wedding, I may be crossing the Atlantic alone come July. And let's not kid ourselves: as exciting as birthdays can be, there is an undercurrent of sadness to them, especially as you get older and start to realize that everybody around you is turning a little more grey, becoming a little more hard of hearing or a little more set in his or her stubborn ways. </div>
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<i>But</i>--and it seems there is always a but--there is still hope. In my first week of being 33, I was called "mega efficient," managed to talk my student loan company into giving me a 1% interest rate reduction (this was largely achieved by my asking for one, although the man on the phone first tried to tell me that I could only get a .25% reduction <i>only if </i>I signed up for one of the company's additional services. When I questioned him about the offer he was making, he told me to hold and then reported that his manager said I could have the 1% discount. Don't be fooled by corporate posturing. <span style="font-family: "apple color emoji"; font-size: 13px; text-align: left;">💪🏻</span>), finished planning our honeymoon to Portugal <i>and</i> held the first meeting of the <a href="http://www.meetup.com/Newark-Cookbook-and-Supper-Club/">cookbook and supper club</a> that I just started on Meetup. So maybe it's true that 33 does have its charms. </div>
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I will say that, even when confronted by moments of uncertainty in all shapes and sizes, life can't help but feel rosy when there is a pavlova on the table. It is nothing if not majestic--whimsically and joyfully so, with its swirls and ridges waiting to be covered by whipped cream. Given my relative newcomer status to the pavlova fan club (I made my <a href="http://diningwithdusty.blogspot.com/2014/01/out-of-rabbit-hole.html">first one</a>, flavored with chocolate, for Thanksgiving only a few years ago, and then promptly repeated it for Christmas), it's funny that it has now become my birthday dessert of choice, but there is something endless satisfying about it, from the way the hard exterior gives way to marshmallowy softness to its sheer versatility. It can be topped with <a href="https://www.instagram.com/p/2umVAYR27A/?taken-by=diningwithdusty">fruit</a> or curd, made <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2016/05/11/dining/aquafaba-vegan-egg-substitute.html">vegan with aquafaba</a>, flavored with different powders. And it is always, <i>always</i>, as pretty as can be. </div>
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My pavlova of choice is one that combines two of the great loves of my culinary life: matcha (green tea) powder and <i>kinako</i> (roasted soybean) flour, both of which I discovered while living in Japan at age 22 (maybe it is palindrome years that make for one's happiest ones?). During this time, though I sampled many different sweets, my absolute favorite was the freshly pounded green tea <i>mochi</i> (rice) you could buy off the street in Nara, which was filled with <i>anko</i> (sweet red, or adzuki, beans) and rolled in a thick layer of <i>kinako</i>. Whenever I would bite into this sweet, the smell and taste of the <i>kinako</i> would remind me of the nutty sweetness ( (and <a href="http://www.japan-talk.com/jt/new/kinako"><i>kinako</i> is sweet</a>) of peanut butter. Given this association in my mind, it's no wonder this ingredient made a lasting impression on me and is now a staple in my pantry. </div>
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For my birthday pavlova (for now <a href="https://www.instagram.com/p/3AhKjQR29l/?taken-by=diningwithdusty">two years running</a>!), I decided to stick with the flavors I had first come to love in Nara (that is, minus the adzuki beans, although a thin, mashed layer of them could easily go under the whipped cream if you are so inclined), flavoring the pavlova with matcha powder and sprinkling <i>kinako</i> all over the top. The flavor is exactly as I want it to be--sweet, nutty and a little grassy--but my one disappointment with this dessert is that, no matter what I do, I can't manage to get the exterior to have that tell-tale shade of matcha green. This is perhaps because the matcha is folded into the already glossy and stiff egg whites, rather than whisked into a liquid (aquafaba might work better; when I experiment, I'll report back). Though the outside doesn't give the secret ingredient away, when you cut into it, the inside is a bright and dark matcha green. Also, as I strongly adhere to the saying "waste not, want not" in the kitchen, if pieces of my pavlova should splinter or crack as I am moving it to a serving dish or decorating it with whipped cream, I usually collect these pieces in a small bowl and then sprinkle them on top right before serving. Aside from not wasting a thing, I'm also of the mind that a little extra decoration never hurt, especially on a birthday. </div>
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<b>Matcha Pavlova with <i>Kinako</i> Whipped Cream</b><br />
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Serves 8-10<br />
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Because a pavlova can seem intimidating (eggs, I think, can be fussy: frying, whipping, boiling, poaching, deviling), it's best to keep a few simple things in mind:<br />
1) It's always a good idea to separate egg whites from the yolks while they are still cold, but since you want your eggs to be at room temperature when you begin whipping them, it's best first to separate them and then to place the bowl of egg whites in a larger bowl filled with warm/lukewarm water;<br />
2) If you get any yolk in your bowl of egg whites, either remove it carefully or start over; the contaminated whites could always be used in another baking project;<br />
3) It is best to use caster (or superfine) sugar when making a pavlova, but, if you don't have this, granulated will also do; if you want to use something like turbinado or natural cane sugar in your pavlova, please remember first that it has more of a flavor than white sugar and also that it will need to be processed in a food processor until it is finely ground; otherwise, your pavlova will weep and/or be too sticky. One more note on sugar: you should use 1/4 cup for every egg white and always add it slowly;<br />
4) Before you begin beating the egg whites, make sure that your equipment--preferably a metal bowl-- is dry; moisture will prevent the egg whites from aerating;<br />
5) Because it is best to let a just baked pavlova sit in the oven with the door partially opened so that it can properly dry out, I recommend making your pavlova in the evening; this way, it can dry out overnight.<br />
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While these instructions may seem like a lot, they are really just tips! Making a pavlova is doable and well worth the minimal effort.<br />
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<b>For the matcha pavlova</b>: <br />
4 large egg whites, at room temperature<br />
1 cup granulated sugar<br />
2 tablespoons good-quality matcha powder, sifted<br />
1 teaspoon cornstarch<br />
1 teaspoon rice (in keeping with the Japanese theme, I used rice vinegar) or distilled white vinegar<br />
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<b>For the <i>kinako</i> whipped cream</b>: <br />
2 cups heavy whipping cream<br />
2 teaspoons confectioners' sugar<br />
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1 teaspoon <i>kinako</i> flour, plus more for sprinkling<br />
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Preheat oven to 350 F and line a rectangular baking sheet with parchment paper or a silpat mat. </div>
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Using the whisk attachment, beat egg whites in the bowl of a stand mixer on medium speed, until they form stiff peaks (about 4-6 minutes). </div>
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With the mixer still running, add the sugar to the egg whites in small increments (a few tablespoons at a time), until it is all incorporated. Then, beat the meringue for another 4-6 minutes, or until it is thick and glossy. </div>
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Remove the bowl from the mixer and add the sifted matcha powder and cornstarch on top. Then, add the rice vinegar and gently fold until the matcha powder is completely incorporated. There will be streaks of dark green in the meringue. </div>
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Using a spatula, carefully scrape the meringue onto the parchment-covered baking sheet, spreading it into an 8- to 9-inch circle (you can draw the outline of a circle onto the back of your sheet of parchment beforehand; I usually just wing it, though). Smooth the top, creating furrows. You can also, run a knife around the edges to help ensure the pavlova won't collapse. </div>
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Place in the oven and immediately lower the temperature to 300 F. Bake for 1 hour and 15 minutes, then turn off the oven and, with the oven door cracked open, leave the meringue to cool completely (about 2-3 hours, or, preferably, overnight).</div>
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While the meringue is in the oven, whip the cream to soft peaks, then add the confectioners' sugar and <i>kinako </i>whip until combined. Sprinkle some additional <i>kinako </i>on the whipped cream and set aside until ready to decorate the pavlova.</div>
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Just before serving, spread the whipped cream over the surface of the pavlova. Add a few shakes of <i>kinako</i> and, if you should have any bits of pavlova that have crumbled off, use them to decorate the top of your pavlova. Should you have any leftovers, make sure to refrigerate them; the pavlova won't be as crisp on its second day, but it is still a delight to have around. </div>
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Katyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04290135991797809997noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4031121890854604877.post-5677880136738130672016-05-09T21:40:00.000-07:002016-05-10T07:40:21.590-07:00Food for Thought and Seasonal Musings (recipe included)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Time is slipping away from me, running through my fingers like sand while I...do what? Clean floors, wash clothes, make dinner, wash up, go shopping, play with the children in the play areas, bring them home, undress them, bathe them, look after them until it is bedtime, tuck them in, hang some clothes to dry, fold others, and put them away, tidy up, wipe tables, chairs, and cupboards. It is a struggle, and even though it is not heroic, I am up against a superior force, for no matter how much housework I do at home the rooms are littered with mess and junk... -Karl Ove Knausgaard (<i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/My-Struggle-Karl-Ove-Knausgaard/dp/0374534144">My Struggle</a>) </i><br />
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It somehow seems criminal that here we are in early May, the time for celebrating rhubarb, strawberries and asparagus, and I am writing to tell you about a cake that gets both its flavor and dewy (never the <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2016/05/07/science/moist-word-aversion.html">dreaded "m" word</a>!) texture from kabocha squash. But the truth, though one often ignored in the initial rapture of discovering the bright and colorful world of spring produce, is that the seasons aren't always as clear-cut as they might appear, particularly if you base your knowledge of them on the covers, websites and Instagram feeds of food blogs and magazines. Plus, we must recognize that sometimes late season squash is simply better than early season strawberries; trust me, I know: the Greek and I eagerly bought three baskets of strawberries this weekend at the Newark farmers' market and, while several tasted as sweet as I had hoped, the rest were clearly picked too soon, tinged with white and slightly sour. The sun clearly needs to have a chance to work its magic--except for a few days that seem nothing but flukes, Delaware has been deluged with clouds and spring showers--and, until then, I'm sticking with squash and ramps (Delaware/the east coast for the win!) and asparagus and relishing that my plate can accommodate all of them in the strange middle ground, geographically and seasonally, in which I find myself.<br />
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The other reason I am taking about squash flavored cake in early May is twofold. The first is that, back in late February, there was a heatwave in Delaware: it was 80 degrees and sunny, the air full of sneeze-inducing pollen and the promise of spring. I turned off the heat, opened the windows and foolishly believed that, the still short days aside, spring had arrived. This coincided with the height of my obsession with the <i>Gjelina </i>cookbook, a book that is utterly preachy about following the seasons to the absolute Letter (it serves no BLTs in winter because tomatoes are not in season. To me, this seems a little too extreme. While I find hothouse tomatoes to be sad little affairs and often not worth the price, I think there is still something to be said for them, as <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2016/02/10/dining/winter-tomato-recipes.html">Amanda Cohen argued</a> in the <i>New York Times</i> in the dead of winter), occasionally sloppy with its recipe writing (in a recipe for farro with pureed roasted beets, it tells you to puree the beets and to season them, but never to add them back in, leaving you with a beet-less farro...These kinds of mistakes, so easily avoidable, drive me crazy; let me add here that, if Chronicle Books would like a cookbook editor who notices these kinds of details, I am looking for a new job and would be thrilled to join the team) and simply fantastic when it comes to standout vegetable recipes (the recipe for glazed carrots alone offers a new horizon for a staple root) that, though a little labor intensive, are worth every bit of work you will put into executing them. Compared to some of the side and main dishes, the recipe for Kabocha, Olive Oil and Bittersweet Chocolate Cake looked positively easy. To me, it also seemed, with its glossy olive oil glaze and the toasted pepitas that go on top, like a harbinger of spring.<br />
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While I had planned on writing about this cake sooner--it is, quite simply, not a cake to be missed, the best dessert--complex, comforting and perfectly sweet--I have made all year, and I say that having adored the <a href="http://diningwithdusty.blogspot.com/2016/03/a-true-turkish-delight.html?view=magazine">Istanbul baklava</a>--there is the small fact that, despite my best intentions, I was swept away by life in mid-March. I was in Berkeley for a conference, then back in Delaware for ten days, with a side trip to Annapolis, before heading to Hong Kong to visit my college roommate for a week; upon arriving back in the U.S., though I had an acute upper respiratory infection, the Greek and I drove straight to Pennsylvania to see my grandmother, who had recently had surgery, and to help my grandfather around the house and with the cooking. Once I recovered, it was time to head <i>back </i>to California for a weekend whirlwind, complete with a wedding in Marin County, breakfast in Sonoma and several (quick!) meetings with friends in Berkeley. In short, it has been hard to feel centered, let alone to have time to write and reflect. But with this post, I am hopefully returning to some kind of normalcy or, at the very least, movement forward.<br />
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Because I have been away for so long, I wanted this post to include both the links that I like to share in my first post of the month <i>and</i> a recipe, which represents a deviation from tradition. But the good news about running a blog that answers to no corporate sponsors, etc. is that you can recreate the rules at any moment. I plan on doing just that in the weeks to come; there will be one more post that features squash (bear with me! I promise it is worth it), a celebration of spring, a trip to a Greek island, a recipe for a Japanese-inspired birthday dessert (one week to 33!) and notes about Hong Kong. I don't know where all of this time and energy are coming from (or will come from), but I'm going to ride this wave of spring fever while it lasts. And with that, this month's food for thought (the cake recipe will be at the very end):<br />
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A cocktail fit for a <a href="http://www.hummingbirdhigh.com/2016/04/red-wine-gin-sour.html">Roman</a><br />
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The very best s<a href="http://www.theguardian.com/lifeandstyle/2016/apr/26/spring-minestrone-basil-pesto-recipe-rachel-roddy-kitchen-in-rome">pring minestrone</a><br />
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Another ghost of seasons past (save this one for next winter): <a href="http://www.apt2bbakingco.com/home/2016/1/30/blood-orange-chia-pudding">Blood orange chia pudding</a>.<br />
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The Greek and I have decided to go to Portugal (port, egg custard tarts, all the pottery!) on our honeymoon, but Sri Lanka was a contender. This is why, when I saw a recipe for <a href="http://www.mynewroots.org/site/2016/02/beetroot-curry-and-kale-mallung/">beetroot curry and kale mallung </a>(kale steamed with onion, spices, coconut flakes and a little water; no oil is used), I had to try it. After eating this meal, I will confess to having had second thoughts about Portugal.<br />
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How to <a href="https://www.washingtonpost.com/news/wonk/wp/2016/04/27/why-you-cant-help-read-this-article-about-procrastination-instead-of-doing-your-job/">fight procrastination</a> and ward off the "panic monster."<br />
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<a href="http://www.tastingtable.com/drinks/national/coffee-naps-why-they-work-caffeine-sleep-tips?utm_medium=email&utm_source=TT&utm_campaign=Weekend&utm_content=Editorial">Coffee naps</a>!<br />
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The (false) enigma of Donald and <a href="http://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2016/05/09/who-is-melania-trump">Melania Trump</a><br />
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Until recently, when I picked up Karl Ove Knausgaard's <i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/My-Struggle-Karl-Ove-Knausgaard/dp/0374534144">My Struggle</a></i>, I had been reading only female authors--Lily King (<i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Euphoria-Lily-King/dp/0802123708/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1462852290&sr=1-1&keywords=euphoria">Euphoria</a></i>), Kate Atkinson (<i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/God-Ruins-Novel-Kate-Atkinson/dp/0316176508/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1462852309&sr=1-1&keywords=a+god+in+ruins">A God in Ruins</a></i>), Rachel Cusk (<i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Outline-Novel-Rachel-Cusk/dp/1250081548/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1462852273&sr=1-1&keywords=outline">Outline</a></i>)--and relishing every minute of it. Of these three authors, I can't say which one I enjoyed the most, but if you are looking for anything to read, I would recommend them all.<br />
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Despite my inability to choose, <i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/God-Ruins-Novel-Kate-Atkinson/dp/0316176508/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1462852309&sr=1-1&keywords=a+god+in+ruins">A God in Ruins</a> </i>may just be special. In his <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2015/05/10/books/review/kate-atkinsons-a-god-in-ruins.html">review of this novel</a>, Tom Perrotta made a fine case for embracing sprawling fictional worlds that employ "the whole realist bag of tricks." Tolstoy, wherever he is, is most definitely celebrating this pronouncement.<br />
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When you read articles online these days and then click over to the comments, most of them are angry and, in a lot of cases, downright rude. This is why it was nothing short of heartening to read <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2016/05/01/opinion/better-aging-through-practice-practice-practice.html">this article</a>--about learning new skills as you age--and then find that the comments, rather than embrace vitriolic troll-manship, were a celebration of achievement later in life: playing the mandolin, taking ballet at 60, becoming a lawyer at 61, learning to juggle. Three cheers for aging gracefully!<br />
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I am not militant feminist, but it might just be time for an honest conversation about what it means to carry the "<a href="https://www.washingtonpost.com/blogs/compost/wp/2016/04/27/how-to-play-the-woman-card/?tid=sm_fb">woman card</a>."<br />
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<a href="http://www.newyorker.com/news/daily-comment/the-dangerous-conspiracy-theories-about-the-zika-virus">Lies, hysteria and the Zika virus</a>: a reason to embrace the genetically modified mosquito (I, personally, am all for it).</div>
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I have often been perplexed by <i>Girls </i>even as I avidly watch it. The episodes in Japan this past season were not only stunning, but they also perfectly capture the strangeness of what it means to be a foreigner living in Japan. But as much as I loved these, I found myself wanting to turn away every time Hannah Horvath came on the screen and exhibited her inherent selfishness. There is something about this character that, for better or for worse, <a href="http://www.vulture.com/2016/04/hannah-horvath-why-do-we-still-hate-thee-so.html#">presses the buttons of most viewers</a>. </div>
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I covet lots of silly things (<a href="http://www.williams-sonoma.com/products/vitamix-pro-750-heritage-blender-copper/">newly released copper </a><span style="color: #0000ee;"><u>Vitamixes</u></span>, <a href="http://tastingromecookbook.com/">cookbooks devoted to Roman cuisine</a>, <a href="http://suiteonestudio.com/">beautiful pottery</a> that is made by hands more skilled than my own), but when I realized that Moleskine came out with a <a href="http://www.theverge.com/2016/4/6/11375136/moleskine-smart-writing-set-digital-pen-notebook">pen and notebook that magically transforms your scribbles</a> into digital text, I literally squealed with joy. For anybody who has ever painstakingly transcribed notes, isn't this the most amazing invention ever? Most definitely better than a Vitamix. </div>
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While I appreciate new technology a la Moleskine's new notebook, I find other new forms of technology, like <a href="https://www.theguardian.com/technology/2016/mar/23/fitbit-for-your-period-the-rise-of-fertility-tracking">fertility trackers</a>, to be taking it all one step too far. Knowledge may be power, but don't they also say ignorance is bliss? Plus, do women really want this information falling into the wrong hands (and digital information always falls into the wrong hands...eventually)? </div>
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<a href="http://www.seriouseats.com/2016/05/why-no-unbleached-cake-flour.html">Reasons to reconsider <i>bleached</i> cake flour</a> (complete with scientific explanations; this link is courtesy of the Greek).</div>
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We live in a strange world, one so strange that a small internet sensation might involve <a href="http://www.boredpanda.com/naked-guinea-pig-food-photoshoot-ludwig/">a naked guinea pig (possibly one of the cutest things ever) posing with his favorite foods</a>. Just think of this as the obvious next step for lovers of cute cat videos. </div>
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The appeal of <i><a href="http://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2016/04/18/the-raw-appeal-of-game-of-thrones">Game of Thrones</a></i>.<br />
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<a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2016/05/06/arts/television/mothers-day-jane-the-virgin-crazy-exgirlfriend-what-to-watch.html">This article</a>, in a nutshell, discussed many of my current favorite TV shows: <i>The Good Wife, Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries, Jane the Virgin, </i>even <i>Madam Secretary</i> (the least clever and most mainstream of them all, but still a solid network drama in the age of disappearing network dramas).<br />
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On this blog, I have preached for many years about the glories of two female-driven shows, <i>Borgen </i>and <i>The Good Wife. </i>The latter<i> </i>came to an end this past Sunday and, quite frankly, I am torn about the final episode. On the one hand, I found myself captivated by its final moments; on the other, I couldn't believe that this was deemed an acceptable end and mainly because it appeared to be a whole new beginning (as somebody who didn't even write a conclusion to her dissertation, I understand the inherent difficulty of crafting an ending after years of investment and know that I should not judge). These two reviews (<i>do not click on them if you are invested in the show and have not seen the final episode</i>), the <a href="http://www.theatlantic.com/entertainment/archive/2016/05/the-good-wife-florrick-v-the-sisterhood/481803/">first wholly negative</a> and the <a href="http://www.newyorker.com/culture/cultural-comment/goodbye-to-the-good-wife">second more forgiving, yet disappointed</a>, capture my two states of mind on the episode. And, with that, a cultural phenomenon comes to a close.<br />
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<b>Kabocha, Olive Oil and Bittersweet Chocolate Cake </b></div>
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serves 6-8 generously</div>
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adapted from the <i>Gjelina </i></div>
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One of the things I most loved most about baking this cake was its reinforcement of my understanding that, just like the bag of all-purpose King Arthur flour tells me, 1/4 cup of flour equals approximately 30 grams, not 25, which tends to be the standard in most baking books. This conversion allows me to easily substitute flours like spelt or buckwheat, which, at least in the world of Bob's Red Mill, also weigh 30 g per 1/4 cup. For this cake, I swapped out one half cup (60 grams) of all-purpose for spelt and mainly because I find that it's nice to vary things up a little; it also adds a little more fiber and nutrients to my baking, meaning that, when I inevitably eat a slice of cake for breakfast, I can comfort myself with the thought of "whole grains." </div>
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I also, because I knew that this might make an appearance at breakfast, decided to use only two tablespoons of olive oil in the glaze, which didn't affect the texture at all. It was still smooth and glossy, with what the cookbook calls "the viscosity of honey." </div>
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To make this cake, it isn't necessary to roast a kabocha squash, puree it and then let the pureed squash drain overnight (or for up to 4 hours)--plain old canned pumpkin puree will suffice--but it certainly adds a unique flavor and an added sense of accomplishment. </div>
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A final note: while the baking time for this cake is a suggested 75-90 minutes, my cake took only an hour to bake. That said, my oven here in Delaware tends to run hot. But I would still suggest that you start checking the cake at 60 minutes; you don't want to over bake this one. </div>
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<b>For the cake: </b></div>
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One 1-pound (455 grams) kabocha squash, seeded</div>
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1 cup plus 1 tablespoon extra-virgin olive oil (255 ml), plus more for drizzling </div>
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1 cup (120 grams) all-purpose flour + 1/2 cup (60 grams) spelt flour OR 1 1/2 cups (180 grams) all-purpose flour</div>
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1 1/2 tsp baking powder</div>
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1/2 tsp baking soda</div>
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1 tablespoon ground cinnamon</div>
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2 tsp freshly grated nutmeg</div>
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3/4 tsp kosher salt</div>
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1 1/3 cups (265 grams) granulated sugar</div>
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3 large eggs </div>
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8 ounces (230 grams) bittersweet (60% and up) chocolate, finely chopped</div>
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3 tablespoons pepitas, toasted</div>
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<b>For the olive oil glaze: </b></div>
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1 1/4 cups (150 g) confectioners' sugar, sifted, plus more if needed</div>
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2 tablespoons hot water, plus more as needed (the texture may need to be adjusted)</div>
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2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil </div>
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2 tablespoons crushed cacao nibs (optional), or finely grated dark chocolate (also optional)</div>
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Preheat the oven to 425 F. Place the squash halves on a baking sheet, drizzle them with olive oil and turn them cut-size down. Roast until very soft and beginning to caramelize around the edges, 30-45 minutes. Remove from the oven and let cool, then spoon out the squash flesh and place it in a food processor. Pulse until smooth. </div>
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Place the pureed squash in a large piece of cheesecloth and wrap it into a tight bundle. Place the bundle in a fine-mesh strainer over a bowl and let drain overnight or for up to 4 hours. Squeeze and twist the cheesecloth to remove any extra water (I had about 1/2-2/3 cups of liquid from the pureed squash). Measure out 1 cup (225 grams) of the pureed squash. If there is not enough, feel free to augment the pureed kabocha squash with canned pumpkin puree; if there is extra, store it in the fridge for up to 5 days. </div>
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Preheat the oven to 325 F and butter a 9x5-inch loaf pan. </div>
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Sift the flour, baking powder, cinnamon, nutmeg and salt into a large bowl. In a smaller bowl, whisk together the sugar, olive oil, squash puree and eggs. After making a well in the center of the flour mixture, pour in the wet ingredients and whisk until just combined. Then, stir the chopped chocolate into the batter. </div>
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Pour the batter into the prepared ban and bake until browned on top and a cake tester or toothpick inserted into the center of the cake comes out clean, about 60 to 75 minutes (depending on your oven, the cake might need to bake for as long as 90 minutes; as per the instructions in the headnote, start checking your cake at 60 minutes). </div>
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Let the cake cool for 20 minutes in the pan on a rack, then run a knife around the edges and invert the cake onto the rack. Let cool for another 20 minutes. Transfer to a serving plate. </div>
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While the cake is cooling, toast the pepitas in a small pan for 3-5 over medium heat. Set aside and let cool. </div>
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Using a small bowl, sift the confectioners' sugar with 2 tablespoons of hot water until a smooth and thick glaze forms. Add more sugar or hot water as needed; the viscosity should resemble honey. Whisking constantly, drizzle in the olive oil. </div>
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Once the cake has completely cooled, pour the glaze over it, allowing it to drip over the sides. Decorate with the pepitas and cacao nibs (or finely grated dark chocolate, which is what I had on hand), if using. Let the glaze settle before serving. </div>
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Katyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04290135991797809997noreply@blogger.com0