shortbread: theme and variation

Tis the season to bake cookies, and December was a cookie-full month. Sugar and butter entered into the kitchen and left at a rapid rate, whisked and beaten and frothed and suspended into crumbly-soft morsels. They were duly dispatched to friends by good old fashioned post, delivered to family throughout the holidays, and devoured at the office by sugar-happy coworkers. I added a recipe to the Great Food Blogger Cookie Swap of 2012, and on the way, experimented with several gazillion cookie recipes, finally settling on Almond Butter Cookies.  One evening, though, I had a crisis when I discovered I'd used up the last of the eggs: what's a girl to do with no eggs, no egg-substitute, no open grocery store, and a desire to bake something? Shortbread, of course. Few ingredients, flexible additions, and satisfyingly rich, the high butter-to-flour ratio provides a crumbly, lush cookie best savored in small, slow nibbles.  Shortbread is a rare creation, shining both in its simplest and more elaborate forms. Try plain shortbread, and let the richness of the flavor melt over your tongue, add chocolate chips and nuts for some spice, melt chocolate and dip shortbread in it, or experiment with your own wild flavors.

Shortbread, theme and variation

Theme:
2 sticks (8 oz or 1 cup) unsalted butter, softened
3/4 cup of granulated sugar
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
2 cups of white whole wheat flour
1/2 teaspoon salt

Variation:
1/4 teaspoon almond extract
2/3 chocolate chunks
2/3 chopped pecans or walnuts


1. Sift the salt and four together and set aside. Cream the butter and sugar in a separate bowl, then add vanilla (and almond extract, if using). Mix in the flour about 1/2 a cup at a time, until the dough is lightly mixed together. It will be crumbly and may not hold together very well.  If you are using the variation, add the nuts and chocolate now.

2. Form the dough into a ball, then flatten and shape into two loaves about half to three-quarters of an inch thick. Refrigerate for at least two hours and up to overnight.

3. Preheat the oven to 325 degrees. Take the molded dough and either put it on top of wax paper in a small loaf pan or on top of wax paper on a cookie sheet. Bake for 16-18 minutes, until the edges look barely browned. Let the dough cool and then slice up the cookies into large bite-sized pieces.

blissful mistakes: inventing almond butter cookies

When a hurricane threatened the east coast last summer, I ran to the store to get staple food items, anticipating days of no electricity, but looking forward to lots of peanut butter.  Unfortunately, everyone in Philadelphia was on the same wavelength, and the peanut butter shelf blinked at me, spare and lonely.  But necessity emboldens palate adventures, and so I picked up one jar of almond butter and one of cashew. The cashew butter got eaten within a week, but the almond butter relaxed on my counter, daring me to get creative. And when I got a craving for sweets a week or two later, as I was making cookies inspired by Smitten Kitchen's lovely peanut butter cookies, I accidentally grabbed the jar of almond butter. A delectable accident, the cookies were a sweet-salty, crunchy-smooth mouthful of deliciousness. I played around with ingredients and measurements, taste tested them on family and friends, added some candied pecans for festive zing, and then sent them off for the Great Food Blogger Cookie Swap of 2012.

What is this cookie swap? It is a food/writer/new friend connection tool where virtual people become "real" - each blogger sends off a dozen cookies to three recipients, and receives three dozen cookies in return. As we're sending each other cookies, we're also raising money for Cookies for Kids' Cancer, cooking for a cause.  I sent cookies to the cool women at Hearts in my Oven, Shuffling Freckles, and Life Undeveloped, and received a mouth-watering variety of goodies from the lovely ladies at Sister's Snacktime Munchies, The Way to my Family's Heart, and Meal Planning Magic.  Thanks also to Love and Olive Oil and The Little Kitchen for hosting the swap and for fostering a sense of community and realness in the virtual food world.

Almond Butter Cookies

1/2 cup or one stick of unsalted butter
1 cup of crunchy, unsalted almond butter
1/4 cup light brown sugar
1/2 cup white sugar
1 egg
1 tablespoon half-and-half

1 1/4 cup of white whole wheat flour
1/4 teaspoon baking soda
1/4 teaspoon baking powder
1/4 teaspoon salt

1 generous cup of chocolate chips
1 1/2 cups of candied pecans

for the candied pecans:
1 1/2 cups shelled pecans
1/2 cup white sugar

Start by making the candied pecans.  Pour the 1/2 cup of sugar into a cold frying pan.  Turn the heat on, and after a few minutes, the sugar will turn brown and bubbly around the edges. Start mixing the sugar into a syrup, careful to get out all of the lumps. Once it's all mixed, turn off the heat and put the pecans in, stirring to coat the nuts completely. Let them cool on a plate for at least 30 minutes (they will coalesce into a candied-mass), and then cut them up into bite-sized pieces.  This step can be done several hours in advance.

Note: If you choose to use regular pecans, you must add extra white sugar to the dough, or the cookies will not be sweet enough.

For the cookies:

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees. Sift the dry ingredients together in a bowl and set aside.  In a separate bowl, mix the butter and almond butter into a smooth paste. Add the sugars and keep mixing.  Add the eggs and half-and-half and mix until smooth.  Combine the wet and dry ingredients, stirring until completely incorporated.  Add the chocolate chips and pecans, and try really hard not to eat all the dough right then and there.  Roll the cookie dough into balls and place on the cookie sheet.  Put cookies in the oven for 9-10 minutes (my oven takes exactly 9 minutes and 45 seconds), and let cool.  Scarf them up!

for love of the latkes

There's no such thing as a "Chanukah bush." And yet, one is sitting in my window sill, known by it's other name as a "Christmas tree." Being the liberal Jewish girl that I am, every time I catch a glimpse of that Christmas tree in my window, I get a frisson of bemusement.  My A values verdancy and crispness come the cold snap, and so, there's a decorated European cyprus (threatening on its cute packaging to grow to 15 feet if lovingly cared for) lolling in the window. And right next to that tree are blue and gold stars, shimmering in the light of several candles, illuminating the darkness of the cold, short days.

That's how many of our holidays are, a jumble of traditions and ideas, a loose interpretation of the religious underpinnings to arrive at a moral, ethical, peaceful co-existence, with an examination of the cultural implications thrown in for good measure.  And that's how I arrived at Fried Food Night.

Fried Food Night is exactly what it sounds like - an evening of fried, crispy, bad-for-you-but-oh-so-good delicacies.  This year, the menu includes my world famous latkes (which are heavily modeled/stolen from my dad's out-of-this-world latke special), fried dumplings and egg rolls, fried donuts, fried cookies, and then wine to offset the oil and crispiness.

It started as a way to honor Chanukah, and then, in the way of the best celebrations, transformed itself into a multicultural hodgepodge of holidays and friends and tradition. We gather together to eat fried food in a semblance of remembrance of eight days of oil, but also to renew friendships, and unify our disparate tribe around the table.

a new tradition: sweet potato-apple latkes

the one: reliable and ever-changing

My first time making risotto was years ago in a sweltering Italian kitchen.  Not with an Italian grandmother passing down the tradition, mind you, but two American girls cooking from a recipe in Oprah's magazine, in a very un-airconditioned apartment, noses over a hot, gas-lit stove and steamy pans.  So many things could have gone wrong: Oprah had measurements in the English system, our equipment measured in metric, the pots and pans were low quality, we had been warned that the gas stove (bombola, what a scrumptiously descriptive word) was finicky and we couldn't adjust the temperature. But, miracle, the risotto was delicious, and two homesick American girls fell under the spell of risotto, and started smiling.

I went back to America and made risotto, thinking of my summer. I picked different vegetables as the seasons changed, and tried different seasonings, tweaking the proportion of rice to liquid, adding more parmesan and less butter.

The next time I was in Italy, I had a cohort of helper-cooks: some who knew how to make things, some who didn't. We cooked together, and as major-general of my tiny army, risotto was a staple: someone grated the cheese, another cut onions, someone else sauteed the vegetables, and yet another set the table and did dishes. Communal cooking gave us structure and family far from home, an instant happiness.  Risotto was the reliable, requested, beloved dish, morphing through each dinner depending upon what was in the fridge, but eternally satisfying in its infinite variation.

And I came home in the fall, and missed my friends and cooking-army: risotto is so plentiful, expanding as it cooks, it's a dish that begs for multiple eaters. And then, a man I knew and had met for coffee came for dinner. And I made him risotto too. He's stayed for two years and a day, and dices the onions and zucchini just as I like them.

While the ingredients change, and new ones jump in to liven an old recipe, the essence of the dish remains an ever present reminder of friendship, community, and the sort of happiness that quietly settles over well-fed souls.

My recipe feeds four hungry people. Keep adding more rice and more chicken stock when more people come to visit, and keep the leftovers for lunch tomorrow.

Ingredients:

1 onion, diced
1 1/2 cups arborio rice
1/2 cup dry white wine, or juice of 1/2 a lemon
4-6 cups chicken stock
2 zucchini, diced
4 oz prosciutto, sliced
1 teaspoon and 2-3 tablespoons of butter
1 teaspoon olive oil
1/3 cup parmesan cheese, and more to sprinkle on top
salt

1. Heat up the chicken stock gently, not letting the liquid ever quite reach a boil

2. In a separate wide, flat pan, melt 1 teaspoon of butter and olive oil over medium-low heat. Once the butter bubbles lightly, add the onions, and cook for 8-10 minutes, until the onions are translucent.

3. Add the risotto and toast lightly for 1-2 minutes.

4. The first drink the thirsty rice gets is the white wine (or lemon juice, if you have no wine at hand). Pour it in and let the rice soak it up.

5. Next comes the heated chicken stock. Add about 1/2 a cup at a time, and watch the liquid slowly inflate the grains of rice. Stir occasionally so that the rice doesn't stick or scorch.

6. As the stock is being absorbed, cut up the zucchini and lightly saute in another pan with a little butter and salt. This is also the optimal time to cut up the prosciutto in to thin ribbons. Dare you not to sample as you slice.

7. After about 25-30 minutes of the adding-waiting-stirring, the consistency of the rice softens, and the liquid becomes thicker, binding the grains of rice together. Test a grain of rice with your fingernail: if it gives way easily, the rice is done, but if not, add more stock and keep cooking.

8. Once the rice achieves the right consistency, turn off the heat. Add butter and parmesan, stirring it in well. Add the zucchini and prosciutto, and salt to taste.

9. Eat with friends. You'll all be happy.

chocolate as protection

Some people remember what they wore or what was said. I remember what I ate.

This was perfectly illustrated in an exchange with my dear A:

Me: I remember Hurricane Floyd vividly. My dad was at work, and came home with these chocolate chip muffins that I used to love because they were never too dry and always had a high chocolate to muffin batter ratio. It was so cool that regular work was suspended and we ate those muffins.

A: Wasn't that the hurricane when you broke your wrist?

Oh yes. That's right. I broke my wrist during that hurricane. I remember that too, very clearly, but it was the muffins that popped in to my mind first.

Storms have a way of focusing on the essentials: the isolation of a hurricane or blizzard sends everyone panicked and running for the store, preparing with favorite foods to hunker down and stay strong. Maybe the excitement of the out-of-the-ordinary event provokes a strong sensory and taste memory as well.

Huddled against the wind and the rain, the primal storm evokes a primal desire for warmth and comfort, and what better way to provide that comfort then filling the house with the scent of cooking? Comfort comes in different flavors, dependent, I think on both your upbringing and your own food cravings, but  as all comfort food cooks, the smell wafts and weaves a snug and warm protection against the cold rain.

My comfort food over these past days involved potatoes, roast chicken, goat cheese, kale, purple cauliflower, and lots of bread.  But the best addition to shopping list and my strongest protection against Sandy? Chocolate. Hurricanes may come and go, but chocolate is still a powerful way to weather the storm.

What foods protected you through Hurricane Sandy? Leave me a note below!

you can't make omelets without cracking eggs

I love eggs. Scrambled, sunny-side-up, omelet, frittata, you name it, I can cook it and eat it with grace and aplomb. My cooking technique, however, is not so much technique as lots of experimentation in an all-embracing conglomeration of styles and cuisines. Which makes it a funny melange of delight and frustration when I try a new-to-me but old-to-seasoned-cooks method of making an omelet - the "rolling omelet" technique as described by Julia Child - and find out that yes, there IS a better way to make an omelet, and it kicks butt. When I read about the style, I started laughing - a vigorous north-south shaking of ones omelet pan until the omelet is evenly and mostly cooked, shut off the heat, and the omelet is done.  Farcical, really. Until I tried it. And got the most beautiful looking omelet I have ever created. Taste was excellent too; a uniform, fluffy layer of eggs without any sticky bits on the pan or my spatula.

Look at the edge and flip of the omelet... oh YUM.

And so, I share my new-old technique with you: my words, but Julia's presence and expertise in every action.

Ingredients:
Eggs
Cream or Milk
Butter
Salt
Herbs (optional: for garnish)
Cheese (optional)

Instructions:

1. Beat the eggs in a bowl. Once they're mixed, add a dollop of cream, pinch of salt, and swirl them in.

2. Heat butter over medium-high heat in a saute pan. When the butter is melted and starts bubbling at the edges, roll the butter around the bottom of the pan to coat it completely.

3. Pour in the egg mixture. Now, let's make Julia's omelet-perfect hand gesture: give me the "thumbs-up" sign, then lay your thumb flat over the handle of your pan - your fist should be below the handle, thumb above.  Start moving the omelet pan in a "north-south" direction over the heat.  The egg mixture is going to roll laughably along, until all of the sudden, the eggs start to coalesce from liquid to solid form.  ** If you're going to add cheese or other filling, now is the time!

4. When there is still a little bit of eggy jiggle, shut off the heat, hold your omelet pan at a 45 degree angle, and let the omelet come together for two to three seconds in the low section of the pan.

5. Slide your eggs on to a plate, garnish, and serve.

an apple a day

Apples are not just fruit.  A predominant literary and cultural symbol, apples span the distance from science to the bible, Newton to Eve, both times a conduit for human knowledge. Greek myths of Paris and Atalanta feature tempting apples, as American myths of Johnny Appleseed abound. They are also a symbol of the harvest, a late summer taste of sweetness to hold you close for the coming winter, and of health, keeping the doctors at bay when consumed daily.  The apple is on a pedestal across genres.

And picking the all-mighty apple becomes the quintessential autumn escape to paradise: fresh air, open spaces, green things, idyllic pastures, even a gentle doe at the farm, not to mention the green and red fruit itself.

Walking back to the rows and rows of apple trees, pulling a red wagon and wrapping myself against the cold, damp day, I started smiling. It's just so cool, picking an apple off a tree. And in that very "coolness" comes an essential element of eating: the aspect of seeing the origins of our food. There is nothing quite so visceral as reaching into the leaves, emerging with an apple, and taking a giant, tart bite. It feels primitive, good, and for some of us urbanites, is the closest we get to nature for a while.

Nature is not necessarily present in the grocery store, the most common purveyor of our foodstuffs. Grocery stores are awesome, bountiful places. Meat, cheese, produce, eggs, dairy, baked goods, canned goods, dry goods - the plethora of choices and food stuffs is overwhelming and delighting. It is, however, hard to distinguish where an apple comes from if it is shrink wrapped in a bag next to 5 or 6 other apples. It's hard to smell an apple's scent after it's been refrigerated and transported over a few days, hard to see the leaves and branches that produced the fruit. And the connection to the food itself is diminished by the ready availability of whatever we want, whenever we want, regardless of seasonality. The very specialness of understanding the origins of our food doesn't exist when the path is hidden from view.

So maybe this explains the ever expanding zeal for farming. A quest to reconnect to what we eat, and what our senses require for sustenance. It's empowering and awe-inspiring to see a tree at work, even though it's been doing the same exact thing for thousands of years, germinating, blossoming, and being fruitful.