remedial eating

there when you need them

 

Note to self: This week, it happened.

 

 

Just when you thought Spring was set in its ways, all bright skies and temps stuck in onward and upward, it interrupted itself.  Paused.  Retrenched.  Brought spluttery days of gorgeous gray.  Dove-soft skies and drippy windows.  Bought time.  Reprieve.  Calm before the summer storm.

Remember that. 

 

 

Think back to when May marched on, right on track, fruit trees trading their pink, and pomp, for purposeful workhorse green.  Predictably.  Systematically.  Conspiratorially.  (We're always sorry to see them go, the bees and me.)  

But then?  The rains came, and chilly ones, too.  And with them, excuses to stay indoors.  

 

 

Play cards. 

Build stories.  

 

 

And cubes.

And shuffling muscles.  

 

 

Shake butter.   

Make buttter.  

Eat butter.  

Repeat.  

 

 

Light candles.   

In May.  

Imagine.

 

 

Play moved outside, and with it, toys, as play and toys do, when daylight attenuates.  (There's an 18" triceratops stuck in the crabapple, as I type.)  And it was not a forced march, but a pleasure.  Simple, unnoticed, invisible; unmodified by bugs, steam, blistering scorch.   Remarkable for being unremarked upon.  

I thought we were past that.  We weren't.  (Don't forget.)

 

 

Tiny ordinaries—book-reading, snack-eating, book-writing, mindless-weeding, lollygagging, nothing-doing—migrated easily, seamlessly outdoors.  Eclipsed the membrane between indoors and out.  Because out was as lovely (nay, more) than in.  

 Before the hot hullabaloo of summer?  There was this.  

 

 

Shorts traveled up from the basement; mittens, down.  Flip-flops were installed.  Snow boots, archived.  Tank tops, worn, washed, worn again.  And then, we were reaching again for coats.  Long sleeves.  Pants.  Pants?  Whence the pants?  

Three months from now, mind:  Shorts come and go.  Pants happen. Hallelujah.  

 

 

Tomatoes took hold, and pride, alongside.  Me, smug for having gotten around to getting them in.  May, turning coat, flirting with freezing.  Me, recalling what pride goeth before.

Oops.  And oh well.  Runt tomatoes later are a small price to pay for gunmetal, sponge-minded skies, today.   

 

 

And for all that?  It was an ordinary week, with ups and downs abundant as any. Washing machines on strike.  Sick tummies, fevered heads.  Apocolyptic homework.  The usual.  

When early August arrives, ghastly, icky-sticky?  Recall: Weather's but one factor.  Diaphonous skies are no silver bullet.  Pussywillow light, no cure-all. Also?  Recall you can pull a grizzly, hibernate in the basement, eat ice cream for dinner.  And pull up these picutres, these days, this reality.  They'll be there when you need them.  Like slam-dunk chocolate cupcakes. 

 

 

Look, I know we just spoke chocolate last week, and Nigella, also, and both, again, a few months prior.  But, you know how I am.  Besides, everyone, or everyone with kids, anyway, or cupcake needs, or chocolate hankerings, or tastebuds, needs a fine, fast, foolproof chocolate cupcake.  

Here you go.

 

 

I'm a faithless and fickle chocolate cake baker, eye always roaming, oven always auditioning.  Last week alone, I baked two different chocolate cakes. Four, if you count the doubling of batches.  The first one had merit, was rich, dense, intense, the way I always think I take my chocolate cake.  It made up for a Monday, and was shared with friends, but had I it to do over, I'd have shared these, instead.  The other had lumps, and odd pockets, and difficulties.  This had none.  It never does.  It always works.  And delights.  And supports epic quantities of buttercream.  

Win-win-win.  

 

 

Which is why, when our weekend occassioned cupcakes, I returned to this decade-old favorite.  It's nothing more than a basic sour cream chocolate cake, and though I've baked it a hundred times, I can't explain it.  The technique is weird.  The chocolate footprint, minimal.  The effort, even less.  The end result, exquisite.  Every.  Single.  Time.

You might argue I'm biased toward any recipe that allows me, the earth's most inept cupcake baker, to turn out something edible.  Fair enough.  But I'd argue back that foolproof has it's merits.  As does an impeccably tender crumb.  And the lilt that cultured dairy lends to cocoa.  And the way these bear regal beehives of salty-sweet buttercream. 

 

 

A word about that buttercream.  Rough instructions are below; wild enthusiasms, right here.  After years of tweaking and tinkering with buttercream—the fast and dirty sort, powdered sugar plus butter, which I far prefer to the oil-slicky, egg-enriched version—I finally asked my friend Allison to show me the light.  She makes what I modestly think of as The World's Hands-Down Absolute Best Buttercream.  Mine always wilted, or wept, or bored, or more often, all of the above.  Hers is ethereal, and lofty, and lovely, and left me speechless and crumb-covered more than once.  She shared.  And she said I could, too.  

Hallelujah, Round Two.

 

 

The secret, turns out, is to add a lot of powdered sugar.  A lot a lot.  Like, to two cubes of butter, 2 1/2 pounds of powdered sugar.  Maybe three.  (She doesn't measure.  Me, neither.  She's a keeper.)  Also, buttermilk, instead of sweet, to loosen it slightly and lend a faint tang.  Me, being me, add two teaspoons of salt.  Yes, salt.  Yes, two teaspoons.  It is riveting.  The end result is a sweet creamy pouf, but with edge, sass, a salty sly wink.  Hepburn, with a twinge of Winehouse.  I'd hand you one through the screen, if I could.  

Maybe you also have end-of-year celebrations coming soon.  Maybe you don't. Never mind.  These hold well.  These cupcakes, this buttercream, this week, they're going on file.  They'll be there when you need them.  You and me, both.

 

Sour Cream Chocolate Cupcakes (with Salty-Sweet Buttercream)*
adapted from Nigella Lawson, How to Be a Domestic Goddess
yield: 24-28 cupcakes, or 2-8" or 9" layer cakes 

Set the butter out two hours before mixing, as it goes directly into the flour, and should be squishy-soft.  I've used both Dutch and natural cocoa here, to good effect, but the quality of the cocoa shines, so choose well (Valrhona, Penzey's, and Ghiradelli offer lovely ones).  Cupcake yield is based on low- or high-rise cupcakes.  I tend to go low, as they travel better, and allow for more buttercream.  Your choice.  In addition to extra cocoa, coffee, and salt, this reflects a doubling of Nigella's original, as I see no point in twelve cupcakes. That said, it halves easily, if you've the need.  It also makes a stellar double layer cake.

for the cupcakes/cakes:
2 2/3 cups all-purpose, unbleached flour
1 1/2 cups granulated sugar
1 1/2 teaspoons baking powder
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
1 1/2 teaspoons kosher salt
1 3/4 cups salted, very soft butter
1 1/4 cup sour cream, at room temp
1/2 cup best cocoa
4 large eggs, at room temp
1 tablespoon granulated instant espresso or coffee
1 tablespoon pure vanilla extract

Preheat oven to 350°.  If making cupcakes, line 24 tins with liners.  If cakes, butter bottoms and sides, and line bottoms with parchment circles; set aside.

Combine flour, sugar, baking powder, baking soda, and salt in the bowl of a standing mixer, fitted with the paddle attachment.  Add softened butter, and beat on low for 1-2 minutes, until generally combined. In a wide-mouth measuring cup, whisk sour cream, cocoa, eggs, vanilla, and instant espresso, until thoroughly combined.  Slowly add cocoa mixture to the flour mixture, beating on low, until thoroughly combined.  

Scoop batter into prepared muffin tins, just below level for a low-rise cupcake (yield: 28), to the tin level for a fuller, rounder cupcake (yield: 24). Alternatively, divide batter evenly between prepared cake tins, and smooth surfaces.  Bake cupcakes for 20-22 minutes, or until a knife inserted in the center yields damp crumbs.  Let sit in tins 10 minutes to cool, then invert onto a cooling rack to cool completely.  (Cakes take around 30 minutes.  Remove papers from cake bottoms, after removing from tins).  Once cupcakes/cakes are completely cool, 2-3 hours, pile high with your favorite buttercream.

*Sweet and Salty Vanilla Buttercream
Yields enough to frost 24-28 cupcakes, or 1 double-layer cake

When I asked after sharing this recipe, my friend Allison not only agreed, but replied: " I think of my buttercream like the polio vaccine... It's for the people. It is my gift to man kind."  I could not agree more.  This is a loose, rough way with buttercream, depending on taste, touch and sight.  Do not be shy with the beating.  Taste often, and mindfully.  Be fearless with sugar, and a lush with the buttermilk.  Any shortcomings in end results are mine, entirely.  Any successes, all Allison.  (Thanks, friend!)

1 cup (8 oz.) salted butter, 30 minutes from the fridge
2 1/2 - 3 pounds powdered sugar
2 teaspoons kosher salt (or 1 1/2 teaspoons, table salt)
2-3 teaspoons pure vanilla extract, to taste
1/2 cup buttermilk, well-shaken, preferably full-fat, plus more as needed

In the bowl of a stand mixer, fitted with a paddle attachment, beat the 2 cubes of softened butter until creamy, 1 minute.  Gradually, add powdered sugar, 1/2# at a time, alternating with splashes of buttermilk.  Add, also, the salt and vanilla.  Beat a minute or so between each addition, scraping down sides occasionally, continuing until you've added two pounds of sugar, adding buttermilk as necessary to thin.  Switch to the whisk attachment, and whip several mi

Publish

nutes, to work in air and loft.  Taste as you go, for vanilla, sugar, and texture, continuing to add sugar by the spill and buttermilk by the splash, until frosting is lofty, airy, and holds a respectable peak.  Lick beater.  Rejoice.

 

in Just-

 

in Just-

spring          when the world is mud-

luscious the little

lame balloonman

whistles          far          and wee

and eddieandbill come

running from marbles and

piracies and it's

spring

when the world is puddle-wonderful

 

 

the queer

old balloonman whistles

far          and             wee

and bettyandisbel come dancing

from hop-scotch and jump-rope and

it's

spring

and

         the

                  goat-footed

balloonMan          whistles

far

and

wee

 

—e.e. cummings

 

 

plant Magic dust

 expect hope doubt
    (wonder mistrust)
       despair

                   and right 
        where soulless our
   (with all their minds)
 eyes blindly stare

life herSelf stands

— e.e. cummings

 

 

Sarah threw Spring is like a perhaps hand up, a few weeks back, and I was stunned.  How had I missed an e.e. Cummings?  I pretty much marinated in his words, his playful grammar, his soaring syntax, his jesting and jousting and exquisite off-kilter, for the better part of college.  Which, in my case, was the better part of six years.  I thought I knew them all.  I was wrong.  I am thrilled.

 

(I also thought, for the first time, and pitiably, of the anonymous someone whose job it was to copy-edit his poems.  Do they award post-humous Pulitzers to copy editors?  I've a nomination.  It's a slam-dunk.) 

 

 

Tripping over it like that got me thinking about chance encounters, about the way they shape our days, outlooks, lives.  About the abundant unwelcome ones, errant cars and anonymous dents and mis-behaving body parts.  About all the others, the small serendipities, casual conversations, stories, words, friends, faces, that winkle their way into a day and twist the lens, let in light.  I had a hundred examples in mind.  Which is precisely where they'll stay.  Spring's no time for screen-staring.  

Today, I'll just perpetuate the goodness that is Cummings, and bittersweet, slightly salty, chocolate peanut butter bars.  

 

 

These bars are like buckeyes, only better.  By like buckeyes, I mean both are confections, pure, unencumbered by flour or distraction.  That both involve chocolate and that blissful situation known as fortified peanut butter. (Fortified, here, meaning not twelve vitamins and minerals, but emboldened by butter, salt and vanilla, and ample sugar, both brown and powdered.) 

By better, I mean vastly simpler, and quick enough to pose a near-danger. Simpler because this is a bar, built in a pan, in one fell bulk swoop.  No scooping, no rolling, no dipping, no drying.  Just dump, noodge, drizzle, impatiently waaaaaaaiiit.  The chilling hour is interminable.  But it does save a person from total ruin.   

 

 

Better also because said format allows for ratios ever-so-slightly more majestic.  A peanut butter ball can only hold so much chocolate, before the excess runs right of.  Veneer's the best one can hope for.  A 9x9" pan, on the other hand, understands the existential nature and moral imperative of proper peanut butter:chocolate proportions.  Also, it contains wretched excess nicely.

Which may sound untoward for a season when we're to live, I think, on asparagus and air.  But have you looked up lately?  Excess, excess, everywhere. Besides, mud-luscious makes quite the mess.  And messes demand something stronger than salad.   

 

Chocolate Peanut Butter Bars, Bittersweet + Salty
adapted from Nigella Lawson, How to Be a Domestic Goddess

I've tweaked the proportions and technique, converted the original milk chocolate to bittersweet, and added salt (naturally) to ping-pong with the sugar.  That said, the transformation of classic peanut butter cup to bar is pure genius, and pure Nigella.  Do mind the chilling/cutting notes, below.  Shattered bars (see above) are delicious as anything, but pure heartbreak if you plan to give or share.

for the base:
1/4 cup dark brown sugar
1 1/3 cups confectioners' sugar
1 1/2 teaspoons kosher salt
1 teaspoon pure vanilla
1/4 cup salted butter, melted
1 scant cup salted, creamy peanut butter

for the topping:
11 oz. dark chocolate (72% or bittersweet), chopped
1 tablespoon salted butter

Line a 9x9" pan with parchment paper or foil, both directions, leaving "tabs" as handles on all four sides. 

Melt butter in a one-cup glass measure, and pour into the bowl of a stand mixer.  Measure peanut butter into the same cup, and add to bowl.  (This saves dirtying a second measuring cup and, better, ensures the sticky peanut butter releases easily).  Add remaining base ingredeints to the bowl, fit mixer with the paddle attachment, and mix on low-medium until fully combined, 30 seconds.  (Alternatively, mix by hand, with wooden spoon or strong spatula.) Scrape mixture into lined pan, and pat into a roughly even layer.  If you'd like a more polished look, fold the extra lining over the peanut butter, and press the back of a clean measuring cup onto the surface, to even it.

Melt chocolate and butter in the microwave, in 30-second increments, stirring well after each session, for a total of 60-75 seconds, depending on your microwave's strength.  Alternatively, melt in a double-boiler.  

Pour chocolate-butter mixture over the pressed peanut butter, and spread with a silicone spatula, to smooth.  Chill in the refrigerator until the chocolate sets, around one hour (or, wrapped, overnight).  When ready to slice, remove pan from fridge, and let sit 10-15 minutes at room temperature, before cutting. Attempting to slice directly from the fridge will result in cracked bars.  (I've learned the hard way.  Repeatedly.)  After the chill is off, use paper "ears" to remove entire bar from pan, peel paper from sides, and slice into 1 x 2" squares.  

Store in the refrigerator for up to 7 hours days. 

on a roll

Some people fall into a groove.  I fling.  

Then I reach for a spade, really put my back into it, and digdigdig until I can't quite see the light.  I love it there, in the deep underneath, earth dark and cool and fantastically dank.  But it has been pointed out to me, once or twice, that I might maybe sometimes overdo.  

Take Poppy.  In January, I concluded the Poppy (pattern here) I made for Zoë's 3rd birthday was overdue a new wardrobe.  She had just the two dresses she arrived with, and Zoë was coming up on another birthday herself, and, well. Two dresses.  Two years.  Surely you see it, too?

I set to work.   

I cut out one smock, and another, and then another.  Because making things in multiples is so simple, you know?  Same pattern, same seams, autopilot territory.  

And then I cut out some pants, one-two-three.  Because smocks without pants are like chocolate without peanut butter.  

And then, I made the happy discovery that pants cut for five-year-olds from one-yard lengths yield scraps perfectly sized for Poppy pants.  Sweet!

More pants.

And more tunics to go with. 

(To give you a sense of where we're at, were I a mouse, I'd be asking for a straw about now, but would not yet have trimmed my hair, or swept, or fetched crayons, or napped.  Or, asked after another cookie.)

Let's just say Poppy scored.  

She wound up with pants which matched most of Zoë's, pears and polka-dots and paisleys.  She has smocks cut from pajama scraps, and old quilting cottons from my childhood, and tiny 2T dresses once worn by my girl, re-purposed to rag doll proportions.    

There were white pants of thick Irish linen, cut from an old hole-riddled $1 runner.  A Downtown Abbey-era bit of lace I've had since high school, and adored, and admired, and wondered what on earth to do with, raised its hand and suggested itself for a little blue, brass-buttoned smock.  I accepted.  The antique pink tea towel with extraordinary appliqué—and the pox of indelible spots—finally found its purpose in life.  Cut carefully, add buttons strategically, and voilà!  Wee sailboat smock.  

And so it went.  The final count was, well, unknown, as I don't prefer to quantify my excesses.  I do know the new duds handily filled an old Samsonite overnight case.  And that putting scraps to such small, delicious uses evokes a certain thrifty indulgence.  

And that although no stuffing-headed little girl (or for that matter, red-haired real girl) actually needs a suitcase thick with doll clothes, it was great fun for me.  And if we're honest, such projects are really more for the makers than those they're made for.  And if I'm going to get on a roll, fast and furious, with no exits in sight, it had better be an innocent, upstanding roll.  You know where I'm headed with this.  

Salad.  More salad.  Every day a salad.  We went through six bags of greens, last week, and had to buy more, to patch us through.  Half of them went to this salad, here.

This here salad is a relatively new addiction for me, which is why I've only made ten (twelve?) times, over these past three weeks.  It began when the library notified me that I could pick up Lucinda Scala Quinn's new book.  When it will end is anyone's guess.  Although, knowing my track record...

Enough about me.  You.  You'll want some fresh spunky greens on hand, something with crunch and character.  Mizuna's been in regular rotation in our CSA, and I've loved its juicy crisp, here.  Quinn suggests mostly escarole, with a half head of raddichio.  Sounds good, too.  To this, and to Quinn's original, you'll add slivered celery and smashed hazelnuts.  (Yes, that's me, digging deeper, deeper, into the excellent crunchy groove.)

You'll also want some parmigiano reggiano, or pecorino romano, either/or.  I've tried both.  Declared both best.  Then re-negged.  You decide.  Either way, get your hands on a wedge, because you'll want slivers, substantial, toothsome, salty alter-egos to those crisp leaves.  

And, you'll want dates.  Yes, dates.  I know.  I never wanted dates, either.  In all my life, I've never understood the appeal of this sticky cloying gacky brown lump.  I finally understand.  (And by finally, let's be clear: we're talking forty-years of date confusion, people.)  Dates exist for this salad.  

Toss sliced dates with smart greens and toasty filberts and a serious hit of gritty-creamy parmesan schrapnel and oh. my. stars.  They make sense. Against all these other tastes, bitter/salty/umami/sharp, they come to life with all kinds of complexity.  Like bits of brown sugar, the dark stuff, muscovado, maybe, but also caramel's kissing cousin, and a mysterious swarthy something that try as I might, I can't put my finger on.  I sliced some kumquats over this last go around, which added another, wonderful sweet-tart dimension. But don't let lack of kumquats stand in your way.  This salad is stand-alone wonderful, as is.  The dates make it so.  Which is why I, lifelong loather of dates, recently bought a pound of Medjools at Costco.  I'm down to eight ounces, maybe six.  I'm on a roll.  Best step aside.

An Anytime Salad of Greens, Dates, Pecorino + Hazelnuts
inspired by Lucinda Scala Quinn, Mad Hungry Cravings
Costco's Medjool dates are phenomenal, plump, rich, profoundly fresh (yes, there is fresh and stale dried fruit).  Wherever you buy them, make sure they are rich shiny brown and soft, not white or wizened.  Great dates are impossibly sticky to slice.  Work with it.  Their flavor overcomes all.  On hazelnuts, I'm ever and always a Holmquist girl.  

for the salad:
6 ounces (8 cups) mizuna, or one head of escarole + half a head of raddichio
2 ounces pecorino or parmigiana reggiano (from a wedge)
8-10 dried medjool dates, pitted and sliced
generous 1/3 cup toasted* hazelnuts, roughly chopped
3 stalks celery, thinly sliced
15 kumquats (optional), sliced and seeded

for the dressing:
1/4 cup freshly squeezed lemon juice (from 1-2 lemons)
1 tablespoon maple syrup or honey
1/2 teaspoon kosher salt
3 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil

Prepare Salad:  Roughly tear or slice greens into generous bite-sized pieces. Place in a large, shallow salad bowl.  With a paring knife, shave cheese into thin tiles, slightly thicker than what a peeler would yield.  You want toothsome bites of cheese, thick enough to have presence, thin enough to go around.  An inch across, say, and thick as a dime.  Add to greens, along with sliced dates, chopped hazelnuts, sliced celery, and kumquats, if using. 

Make dressing:  In a jar with a tight-fitting lid, combine lemon juice, syrup and salt.  Swirl to dissolve salt.  Add olive oil, attach lid, and shake vigorously to emulsify.  

Drizzle 3-4 tablespoons dressing over salad, and toss gently and vigorously to combine.  Munch a handful, and add more salt and/or dressing to taste.  (You will have leftover dressing.  You will be happy about this.)  Try to share.

*To Toast Hazelnuts:  Preheat oven to 350°.  Lay hazelnuts on a rimmed baking sheets, and toast 10-12 minutes, until the white nuts turn ivory, the skins begin to curl, and deeply fragrant.  There's much fuss about peeling hazelnuts. Buy good ones (order from Holmquist; you'll never look back), and the skin is as sweet as the meat.