remedial eating

the only headline

We made zucchini marmalade tea cake last week.  I just want to put that right out front, there.  

Zucchini marmalade tea cake is not the only headline, a week being what it is, variegated, capacious.  There were thunderstorms, three separate, significant ones, each intense enough to constitute a watering.  Not as newsworthy as it would be, in, say Kansas, whose shade on the drought map is downright fierce. Actually, the whole drought map is downright fierce.  Ohio's had an easy time of it.  Still, our lawn resembles fried chicken.  A little real rain was a pretty big thing.

First sleepovers were organized, anticipated and held.  Being new to such things, we were full of questions.  Would the usual good vibes hold, given the unusual timing and duration?  Would the play stall after a few hours?  Would they ever get to sleep?  Would we?  What time to wrap up?  What time to begin?  (Answers: yes, no, yes, yes, later, earlier.  Much much earlier.)    

Turns out the day leading up to a sleepover is The Longest Day Ever.  Longer than the wait for fireworks, which at least comes with parades, prior.  Longer than Christmas Eve, which is all abuzz, anyway.  There was much egg-separating and clock-watching to wile away the waiting hours.  There was mourning the day after, for its premature finish.  And a discussion of what a fine thing it is to have friends whose company you don't tire of, after some seventeen-plus hours.

Lemonade was made.  The first tiny green beans, picked.  And boiled and buttered and inhaled.  The Sweet 100's and Sungolds began truly producing. The skies went ridiculous with surgically-enhanced clouds.  I went ridiculous with a few days finally south of ninety.  (The storms freshen everything, skies, lawns, vegetables, spirits.)  

We set off on adventure!  A headline, for sure.  Albeit a headline for another day.

The cone flowers and lillies gave up the ghost.  Close inspection of trees revealed seed pods galore.  The grass grew fancy.  The hydrangea got a bronze. The hellenium and anemone veered toward bloom.  

I think of those last two as back-to-school flowers, so much so I immediately ran out and bought lunch boxes.  Not because I'm ready for them to return. Just because I'm ready for the weather that goes with it.  I'm too superstitious to drop the f-word just yet, but see for yourself:  

Anemone.

Hellenium!

HIP HIP HOORAY.

Actually, that's as apt an intro as any:

Zucchini.

Marmalade!

In an olive oil cake.  HIP HIP!  And holy cow.  

This particular cake hails from Tartine, which probably tells you everything you need to know.  Chad Robertson and Elisabeth Prueitt are, after all, the engineers behind our go-to lemon bars.  Indeed, it was while baking a batch for said sleepover that my eye corners caught the enigmatic pair.  Zucchini, Marmalade, page 106, wha ?!  I tucked in a marker, to investigate later.  

Now, two weeks ago, I would have told you that I'm no more a zucchini bread person than I am a weird chip one.  I adore zucchini.  I grow what I can.  I buy extras, just to fill in.  Unload zucchini on me any time; fleeing the scene, completely unnecessary.  I'll use it all, in savory preparations.  But zucchini in baked goods?  Meh.  I am a baker of some things, cookies, breads, sometimes cakes.  And not so much of others, muffins, cupcakes, quick breads.  I've just never felt the love, never seen the point.  Always preferred my butter on my bread, rather than in it.  

Note the past tense.  I am reformed.  

The zucchini had a hand in my new world view, to be sure, a few cups of grated, green-deckled shreds.  Threaded throughout the cake, they bring a fine damp, and a sweet more versatile than vegetal.  

The marmalade also shoulders partial blame, and by partial, I really mean ample.  Zucchini bread can be a plain, pallid thing.  Zucchini marmalade bread cannot.  The bits of peel add jolts of color, jollying up an otherwise green-leaning loaf.  But far better still is their signature bittersweet, intense nubbins of edgy, addictive orange.  Not enough to overwhelm.  Just enough to delight.  

And then there's the olive oil.  Let's talk about the olive oil.  I habitually alt+Tab when I see sweets baked with olive oil.  Somehow, they always seem overly earnest, bent on being Interesting or Healthy.  I like Interesting in books and friends and Healthy in walks and naps, but find little use for either in baked goods.  Besides, I prefer olives in salads, not cakes.  

That said, I've been making granola with olive oil exclusively, ever since that landmark July 2009 day when Melissa Clark wrote up Early Bird's recipe.  I adore the crisp loft it lends to the oats.  Also, I was completely out of canola.  In went olive.  I'm reformed there, also.  It was, how shall we say, exquisite.  I've long (and maybe heretically) preferred oil to butter in cakes and quick breads, for the way its 100% fat content guarantees a richness 84% butter sometimes can't. This held true, here, but better texture was only the beginning.  The olive oil brought flavor, not at all olive-like or savory, but warm, thrumming, sunny. Buttery.  This makes no sense at all, but I tested it repeatedly.  First heel to last?  Buttery it was.       

All told, you wind up with quite a crumb, rich and tender and rimmed with crisp sugar.  Did I mention the rim?  Paved with turbinado?  Which half-melts, half-caramelizes in the long slow oven?  It forms a brittle ridge, a bit like burnt cream, which winks and tugs as you debate bites.  Not that you can go wrong; you can't; you won't.  There are no dry corners, no bland deserts.  Each bite has it all, gentle squash and soft nutmeg, whispery with melted marmalade, punctuated by peel.  In a week abundant by all counts, this cake still headlines my memories.

Zucchini Marmalade Olive Oil Cake
adapted from Tartine, by Elisabeth Prueitt and Chad Robertson

A few ingredient notes: This doesn't need a fancy marmalade, but it does need a serious one.  Something more about bitter peel than orange jam, a marmalade with a stiff upper lip.  I love Dundee, classic and reasonable.  As to the olive oil, I used our go-to, the 2 Liter Extra Virgin house brand from Costco.  If you use a particularly large zucchini, wring the grated shreds in a clean kitchen towel, or drain in a colander, half an hour before using.  The original called for toasted walnuts and cinnamon; I omitted the first and swapped in nutmeg for the second, and like it this way, very much.  Finally, I used all white flour, but imagine this would be a fine place for half and half, wheat and white.  Or all wheat.  Or a bit of buckwheat.  Be playful.

Also.  Thick slices, toasted golden and buttered.  Make a note.

1 3/4 cups + 2 Tbs unbleached all-purpose flour (or mix of white and wheat)
1/2 tsp baking soda
1/2 tsp baking powder
1 tsp nutmeg, freshly ground
2 large eggs
1/2 cup + 2 Tbs mild extra virgin olive oil
3/4 cup granulated sugar
1/2 cup orange marmalade
2 1/2 cups grated zucchini
1/2 tsp kosher salt
2-3 Tbs demerrera (raw) sugar, for topping

Place oven rack one rung down from middle position, and preheat oven to 350°.  Butter and flour (or oil) a 9 x 5" loaf pan, and line the wide side with a strip of parchment paper. 

In a small bowl, add flour, baking soda, baking powder and nutmeg, and whisk to combine.  Set aside. 

In a medium bowl, whisk together eggs, olive oil, sugar and marmalade until combined.  Add zucchini and salt, and stir well with a spatula or wooden spoon, until combined.  Add flour mixture and fold into egg mixture, until just combined. 

Pour batter into the prepared pan, smoothing surface with your spatula, and sprinkling top with demerrara sugar to cover.  Bake 60-70 minutes, or until a knife comes out clean.  This cake is difficult to over-bake, so moist it is; err on the long end of the recommended time.  Let cool in the pan on a rack for 20 minutes, then run knife along short sides to loosen and remove with the parchment "ears" to a rack.  Let cool completely, 1-2 hours, if you can manage.  Keeps beautifully, well-wrapped, at room temperature, several days.  

unmistakably

And just like that, the signs are everywhere.

 

The geese have been reverse-commuting for weeks, now.  I haven't spied frost on the grass since last Friday.  Zoë spotted (and squashed) her first ant, Thursday.  We've moved from ice skating to puddle-jumping, en route to school.  

With the time change, we've resumed our evening walks.  I had forgotten how much I loved last year's strolls, hunting bats, ogling blossoms, gulping sweet air.  Although this year, our walks look rather more like spring runs.     

The air is not warm, but it is less cold.  We've gone outside without coats, without shoes, even.  Though at not-quite-sixty, we maybe might've jumped the gun.  We've played at the park.  On the equipment.  One can go to a park in mid-winter, here, but the climbing structure is strictly off-limits, pre-thaw.  (You remember that old story: tongue, monkey bars, forever after... ) 

Rain coats are co-habiting with winter jackets in our closet.  I returned the snow boots to storage, this week.  The wellies have promised they'll pick up the slack.

I know spring's first blooms have come and gone in many parts; we've no such arc, so early, around these parts.  But what we lack in first dibs, we make up on momentum.  Every last growing thing's on the move, a mile a minute 

The snowdrops came up, and then were snowed under, and already, somehow, are on their way out.  The pear that looked so foreboding last month, is now decorated to the hilt in gray fuzzy buds.   

 

I spied a purple tip in the crocus on Monday; by Tuesday, it was smiling wide.  And by Friday?  Well, we might as well have had a tiny troop of Huskies, rooting madly in the lawn border bleachers.  

The honeysuckle's leafing out, the hellebore are opening, virginia bluebells are adding an inch a day.  Dozens of plump, closed-up daffodil buds are taunting us, daily, mercilessly. There are even, already, small green clusters of lush.  Tulips, I think.  Time will tell.

Chives are leading the herbal brigade, with oregano, tarragon and parsley pulling up the rear.  I was ready to report we'd no rhubarb yet, having checked nearly daily these past two weeks.  But lo and behold, Thursday afternoon, five tiny red tips were found poking through.  We've been talking up rhubarb soda all winter.  I am very much looking forward to that.

The garden gloves are out, and the small rakes, and there are little middens left from outdoor play.  We've been re-acquainting ourselves with soft dirt (and with black half-moons beneath fingernails).  My front porch has been re-decorated for spring, my front entry's now smudged not with salt but sidewalk chalk.  We were even able to dig in our teaspoon of a sandbox while the corned beef burbled on St. Patrick's Day. 

The books coming home from kindergarten have more syllables, longer sentences.  I catch him reading all the time, now, signs, newspapers, book spines ("H-om-e Ch-ee-se M-a-k-ing ??")  He just can't help himself. 

Watching plants grow is neat.  Watching readers grow is crazy-fantastic.

We hung a mesh bag of yarn scraps from the crabapple.  We're hoping the birds will partake, for their nests.  The bag appears to be emptying, though we're not sure if it's the wind, or regular visits from discreet customers.  We'll be scanning the trees for fancy nests, now through June.     

Indoors, we are back to soft, lemony light.  When we're there, anyway.  We came home from school before noon, last week.  We forgot to go in until nearly three.  I'm glad I said my farewells when I did, since it's all of a sudden unmistakably spring.

Our school is on spring holiday these next ten days, and I intend to spend the time with my kiddos.  But before I go, I wanted to leave you with a little something, our beloved rich skillet corn bread.

In the interest of full disclosure, I feel I must mention I'm no more qualified to talk about true cornbread than to speak of real biscuits.  I was born about as far from the South as a person can be and still call oneself a citizen.  I do know enough to know that this loaf is nowhere near authentic.  I also know it is unmistakably delicious.

Cornbread, as a genre, has a lot going for it.  It belongs to that lovely 'quick breads' category, meaning baking soda and/or powder, not yeast, do all the heavy lifting. If that bread was all about long, lazy waiting, this one is pure instant gratification.  Thirty minutes, start to finish, sudden whim to dripping honey.  Though speed is really the least of its virtues. 

The thing that separates this cornbread from tradition is a nice hefty throw of sour cream in the batter.  Add to this a slug of melted butter, and you'll see why it's prefaced 'Rich'.  The original recipe hails from A Year in a Vegetarian Kitchen, a fantastic book that proves again that vegetarians eat better.  (You know this, right?)  It is humbly tucked away at the very back, and were it not for my chronic flipping (and cooking) through the Bishop's excellent recipes, I might never have found it at all.  Shudder.

But find it I did, some six years ago, and it's been a mainstay at our table, ever since. 

Where ingredients are concerned, I barely sway from Bishop's original, though I'd note that if you have access to local cornmeal, oh please do use it.  Fresh cornmeal is bright, sweet, alive, with a spunk that somehow survives the heat.  That said, I've often made it with good grocery store cornmeal (I love Bob's Red Mill Coarse Ground), and it's still fantastic; don't be held back

My main departure—and to my mind, a landmark one—involves one simple technique and one whopper of a pan.  Bishop calls for a standard-issue square glass pan, and having used one myself, I can tell you it's fine.  I call for a standard-issue cast iron skillet, preheated with the oven, generously buttered just before the batter goes in.  Having compared the two, I can tell you the cast iron version is outrageous.

Can you see, on that first picture, there, the deep golden edges, that slightly sunken interior rim?  See, what happens is this: when you heat cast iron to 400°, then slip in a knob of butter just before you pour, the batter begins to cook instantly when it hits.  You hear it.  You see it.  It sizzles, climbs the side, seals on impact, forms a gangbuster crisp golden crunchity crust.  Oh, and that valley, an inch in from the edge?  A bit of melted butter spills over the instant-crust, leaving a faint, extra-rich circumference behind.  I kid you not.

If you are used to a light, cakey cornbread (think boxed mix), know that this hails from different stock.  There is a toothsomeness from the coarse grind of the cornmeal, and a grand tenderness from the generosity of fat.  It has personality and substance and heft and yet is still totally ethereal, somehow.  It is light in that unlikely way that croissants and whipped cream and pie crusts are light.  And, at the risk of stating the obvious, it tastes profoundly of corn.  Not all cornbreads do.  I appreciate this simple truth about it.  Also that it tastes like sunshine, buttered up and baked.  Which, as we stand with our feet between seasons, is exactly what I want to be eating right now.  

Happy March to you, friends.  I'll return to this space in two weeks' time.  Until then, enjoy your spring, however it's sproinging.   

Sunshine in a Skillet (i.e. Rich Corn Bread)
adapted from Jack Bishop, A Year in a Vegetarian Kitchen

I've adjusted Bishop's excellent original only slightly, using salted butter and a range of sugar, in case you like an extra touch of sweet.  Also, I have been known to substitute Greek Yogurt when I've come up short on sour cream (2% or higher only; non-fat greek or ordinary yogurt don't work).  Sour cream is better, but desperation happens.

Preheating the skillet with the oven is fine, though if you happen to think of it twenty minutes early, by all means, get it smoking; your crust will thank you for it.  My skillet is 10" across at the flared top.  If yours is larger or smaller, simply adjust baking time accordingly.  Leftovers remain excellent three days out: slice wedges in two, and heat in a 350° oven for 10 minutes, until edges crisp and center is warm. 

1 1/3 cups unbleached, all-purpose flour
2/3 cup coarsely ground, whole-grain cornmeal (anything local, or Bob's Red Mill, are great)
2-3 tablespoons sugar, to taste
1 teaspoon baking powder
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 stick butter, divided (6 melted tablespoons for the batter, 2 solid tablespoons for the pan)
1 large egg
2/3 cup sour cream
1 cup milk

Place rack in middle of oven, place cast iron skillet on rack, and set oven to 400°, to preheat.  (Alternatively, butter an 8-inch square glass pan, and set aside until batter and oven are ready.)

In a medium bowl, combine flour, cornmeal, sugar, baking powder, baking soda, and salt.  In a 4-cup liquid measure, add milk and sour cream (measuring directly into the cup), then eggs, then whisk with a fork to combine.  Add 6 tablespoons melted butter (reserving remaining 2 for skillet), and stir briefly to combine.  Add liquids to dry ingredients, and with a rubber spatula, stir just to combine, until no lumps remain.

Prepare skillet: add remaining two tablespoons' butter to hot skillet, and return to oven for 1 minute, to melt and heat.  Pour batter into hot, buttered skillet, and return to oven.  (If using glass pan, pour batter into cold, greased pan, place in oven, then proceed as follows.)  Bake until edges are golden and pulling away, and center is domed slightly and just cooked through, about 25 minutes.  Cornbread is finished when a knife inserted at the center returns moist crumbs. 

Serve wedges directly from the skillet (handle covered, trivet under), with butter, honey, and napkins aplenty. 

 

a walk in the park

Mistakes, in my experience, can be handled one of two ways: as opportunities to whip oneself with a wet noodle, or as moments to take stock and do differently, next time.  Being me, I usually pick the first route a few (dozen) times, until at some point I remember the second.  At least I remember, eventually.  Fool me thrice, or however it goes.

But every now and again, I wise up a little ahead of schedule.  Take this winter.  We left the house.   And not just to make the school bell. 

See, last winter, once the thermometer settled into the teens—which is to say, December to March—we followed the lead of the bears and the bunnies and hibernated, until the spring thaw.  It wasn't so bad—I'm a card-carrying inside dog—but I did begin to wonder what we were missing. 

So this winter, our second year here, we made an effort to go outside.  It helps that we now know we will not die upon leaving the doorstep.  It also helps that we now own snow boots, snow pants, serious coats, balaklavas, big scarves, thick mittens, and warm woolly hats in triplicate.  I'd never heard the word 'balaklava', before we moved.  The boys now consider them mandatory, like socks.  You could argue last year's burrowing was no mistake at all, but a sheltering of the innocents. 

Given these advancements, we realized this winter that an outdoor adventure was not beyond our purview.  Even in deep, dark February.  So a few weeks back, we packed snacks, bundled up, and hit the road to one of our favorite parks.  I'd always considered it a three-season park.  I'd always been wrong.  It was majestic in winter. 

The trails were hushed, save the crunch-crunch of our boots.  The spare architecture of the forest was stark, and stunning.  Seed pods, orphan leaves, plant particulars that would be lost entirely in spring's greening, were botanic pop art in this monochrome month.  There were snow clods for kicking, sticks for excavating, lingering beech leaves to stand-in for hidden gold.  Everything we needed, in short, to break up the indoor monotony we've logged by late winter. 

And I learned something.  Accustomed as I've become to the snow, here, I realized I've known only its urban side: slushy, salted streets; dirty, plowed drifts; row upon row of snowman-dotted lawns.  Man vs. nature, game point to the former.  Here, in the woods, was white everywhere, unmanicured and exquisite.  It falls, and rests, for weeks on end, waiting patiently, silently, for anyone or no one.  We were missing something, extraordinary. 

We're still only skimming the veneer of Ohio's cold outdoors; we've yet to go skiing, snow-shoeing, serial hiking.  But to get out a bit, around the block, to the park, is a start, and a fine one, for me, anyway.  And all it took was the doing. 

I mention all this because I've been reflecting on bread-baking, on the fierce mystique and funny beliefs that cloud our thinking on (deep breath) yeast.  I've always felt a little lucky that my initiation into the subject came at the gentle hands of Laurie Colwin.  When pregnant with my first, I inhaled Home Cooking, which now has a much saucier cover than it did then.  What hasn't changed is the truth and solace in her essay, Bread Baking Without Agony. 

In a half-dozen pages, Colwin takes up bread's demanding reputation, and sweetly pokes a hole in it, a mile wide.  Better, she offers this brilliant, liberating path: make bread around your schedule, not the other way round.  For years, off and on, I've baked bread on this premise, lazily turning out loaves whenever the spirit moved me.

And then, I learned of an easier way, the now-famous, much-lauded, hands-off loaf.  I wanted to talk revolution, today.  I spent all of fall, trying to fall in love with no-knead bread.  I read rave reviews, brought home books, baked loaf after 5-minute artisan loaf.  My mistake was not in the trying, but in ignoring all the signs that we were not meant to be.  I realized this one December dinner, when we sat down to soup and hockey pucks.  Inedible would be a euphemism, here. 

I am certain the fault sits squarely in my lap.  No-knead bread is becoming the loaf loved 'round the world, and I know all those fans cannot be wrong.  I loved my first loaves, also.  But all my recipes yielded four loaves, since the dough can be stored for two weeks, and baked off whenever the warm bread whim strikes.  I loved this premise.  Just not my results.  I tweaked and re-read and minded all sorts of details, but those second through fourth loaves were uniformly dreadful, heavy and leaden and just plain sad. 

I do not want to put you off of no-knead bread; I am certain I flubbed some obvious essential.  I have never been good with the obvious.  Add simple to the equation—stitch a button? bake a cupcake?—and I'm pretty much guaranteed to fail.  And fail I did, over and over, finally so frustrated I abandoned bread-baking.  Until I remembered how easy it once was.

I remembered Colwin, and years of good loaves, and throwing them together without even thinking.  I never knew to mind the kneading, until I learned I ought to avoid it like a scourge.  (True, my old KitchenAid makes it effortless, though I still sometimes knead by hand, for the pleasure.)  There was no overnight chilling for 'easy' handling, no commitment to four loaves with every batch, no permanent partitioning of my fridge for ongoing dough storage.  I could do that again, I realized.  

And so I did.  Again and again.  And fell in love all over with easygoing, old-fashioned bread.

What I want, I guess, is to re-state for the record how accessible and adaptable ordinary bread-baking is.  And always has been.  The basic routine is mix, knead, and rise twice, first for two hours, then for one.  The extraordinary bit is that this is just a blueprint, that it's a few minutes' work, woven into one's day, whenever.  I've let the first rise run all morning, and cut the second to half an hour.  I've mixed dough in the evening, refrigerated it until morning, and felt wildly smug for making bread in my sleep.  

Last week, I had ten minutes to get myself and two sick kids to a meeting.  I chucked the flour et al. into the mixer to knead, worked four warm hands and feet into mittens and shoes, tucked the then-supple wad into a buttered bowl, and scooted out the door to do our thing.  We came home to a gorgeous pillow of dough, which was split into tins and promptly forgotten while we busied each other with noses and fevers.  At five o'clock, I found my lost loaves, tucked them into the oven, and called it supper.  Bread-baking is no ball-and-chain, but the best sort of tuck-and-go friend in need.   

 

Indeed, the main reason I bake bread at all is because it's frequently faster and simpler than buying.  We still buy it often—I'm no homemade bread loyalist—and in the summer, we change that 'often' to 'always'.  But my bread of choice here is fifteen minutes away, half an hour, coming and going.  In the careful calculus that is errand-running with young kids, the path of least resistance often leads straight to the mixer.  (Better and cheaper also figure in, but only in that order.  Priorities.)  

If you are not inclined toward bread baking, I don't intend to convert you.  And if you've already got a favorite loaf, you are well underway, and I've nothing newsworthy to offer.  The sandwich loaf of which I'm speaking today is nothing special, and absolutely ordinary.  I mention it only because ordinary's been inordinately hard for me to find—another one of those devilishly elusive "simple" standards—and having finally found it, it seemed suitable to share. 

Here are our criteria for a fine everyday loaf:  The crust must be golden, light and sweet.  (I adore the looks of this oatmeal loaf, but my kids would spy that mahogany rim, and reject it on sight.  Sillies.)  The crumb must be tender and toothsome, not just fresh from the oven but also four days out.  Too many homemade loaves go from ravishing to doorstop, and doorstops do not a nice PB&J make.  And yet, the crumb must have integrity, also, firm enough to allow a clean, quarter-inch slice.  Too many homemade loaves must be sliced in slabs to hold up, and no one wants a two-inch sandwich.  This one checks all three boxes.  I love it for that. 

And then there's the color, oh, the color.  For my part, I love a rich multi-grain loaf, preferably inlaid with all manner of mixed seeds.  My kids would prefer bright, blinding white.  Such are the wages of public school lunchrooms: the opportunity to inspect the meals of one's peers.  I've refused to give ground for years, now, insisting on 100% whole wheat.  Until last fall, when my ten-year-old came home, and announced for the first time that he wanted to buy lunch.  Why?  "So I can buy chips and juice and fruit chews and cookies and a bag of M&M's.  Lunch!"  Seriously?  It happens.  Just not in my house.  Compromise time, on the whole color thing.

So we tried out several combinations and arrived at this loaf, which I informally call "blond".  It is half white flour and half white whole wheat, with a heap of wheat germ to amp up the good.  The slices you see here were from one of our test loaves, baked entirely of white whole wheat flour.  It was alright, but we all voted for milder; the recipe below yields a loaf several shades lighter.  It stands up swimmingly to peanut butter and honey, and cozies up to sharp cheddar, grainy mustard and aged ham.  Toasted, it's lovely, crisp-edged and soft-middled.  And sliced thick (since you can), it makes magnificent french toast. 

And while we're talking "since you can", it is worth noting that when you do your own, you can do it up all kinds of jolly.  We often split the dough—one plain, one fancy—and line a rectangle with cinnamon sugar or chocolate chips.  The possibilities are endless, here:  cheese and herbs, nuts and dried fruit, fresh berries and white chocolate, you get the picture.  And we always snitch a piece for small fingers, to roll and poke and twist and and and...  We've had bread bunnies and bread letters and bread Bowsers and bread snowmen; just bake with the big bread, but for less time.  

Play with it, or don't, or fiddle next round but not now, whatever suits your time and temperment.  As for me, I'll play with no-knead's crusty incarnation again, eventually; Julie's riff on Jim's loaf is calling my name.  But until then—and I guess this is what I came here to say, today—old-fashioned bread-baking's such a sweet, simple grace, relaxed, wonder-filled, a walk in the park.   

 

Our Everyday Half & Half Loaf
adapted from The River Cottage Family Cookbook, by Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall and Fizz Carr
Makes 2 Loaves

We always make two loaves, often two different loaves (see above) from the same batch; just as often, two plain.  We go through a lot of bread.  Cooled and well-wrapped, bread freezes beautifully.  

I buy yeast by the two-pound bag at Costco, because (1) it is always impeccably fresh, and (2) it costs half as much as a (tiny) grocery store box.  Store it in the fridge, and you can use it all year.   As to water temperature, simply run the tap until it is very, very warm — a few degrees shy of too hot to touch.     

3 1/3 cups white whole wheat flour
3 1/3 cups unbleached white flour
heaping 1/2 cup wheat germ (optional)
4 teaspoons salt (1 Tbs + 1 tsp)
4 teaspoons active dry yeast
4 tablespoons olive oil
2 tablespoons honey or sugar
2 1/3 cups very warm water (approximately, see below)

In a 4-cup capacity measure, add olive oil and honey, then fill with very warm water to bring up to the 2 1/2 cup mark. 

In the bowl of a stand mixer fitted with the dough hook attachment, combine flours, wheat germ (if using), salt and yeast.  Turn to low and stir briefly, to combine.  With mixer still on low, slowly pour in oil-honey-water mixture.  Increase speed to medium (KitchenAid: 4).  If dough is sticky (clings to the side of the bowl), add a Tablespoon of flour.  If dough appears crumbly and dry (won't come together), add another Tablespoon of warm water.  Knead on medium 6-8 minutes.  Dough will be a cohesive ball, and will have developed a slight sheen.   

(Alternatively, in a large bowl, combine dry ingredients, then add wet, stirring with a wooden spoon to combine.  When mixture is mostly homogenous, turn out onto a clean, floured board, and knead by hand until dough turns silky and supple, about 10 minutes.)

Turn dough out into a well-buttered bowl, cover with a clean tea towel, and set in a warm spot to rise.  I simply set it on an interior counter, away from drafty windows.  (Alternatively, you can refrigerate your dough overnight for a long, slow first rise.)  After 1 1/2 - 2 hours, your dough will have doubled in size and become billowing and elastic.  Poke it with a finger; if the hole remains, you are ready for rise 2.  (If not, allow it another half hour).

Butter two bread pans lavishly.  Punch down your dough (this is the second best part, right after eating your bread, hot and buttered), turn it out onto a clean surface, and knead briefly, 30 seconds or so.  Divide in two portions, and form each into two 'sausages', and place into bread pans, seam-side down. 

(Alternatively, for chocolate or cinnamon bread, flatten one portion into a rough 9" x 12" triangle, and sprinkle surface with a heaping half-cup of chocolate chips, or butter and cinnamon-sugar.  Roll from short to short side, tuck in ends, and place, seam-side down, in pan.)

Cover dough-filled pans with the clean towel, return to warm spot, and rise a second and final time, 1 hour.  Loaves will puff up proudly under their towels, looking ridiculously cheery.  You may puff up proudly, also.   

Preheat oven to 350°.  Place tins in oven, and bake about 30 minutes, until your house smells exquisite and the loaf tops are golden.  To check for doneness, tip a loaf into your (oven-mitted) hand, and thump the bottom.  If it squashes and thuds, return to the oven for five minutes more.  If it sounds hollow, it is done. 

Authorities say to let a loaf rest an hour out of the oven before slicing.  I consider ten minutes a show of tremendous restraint. 

 

 

there will be biscuits

 

I know, I know.  It's Thanksgiving Eve.  Night before's no time to foist off new recipes.  Don't worry.  I don't want you to run around, adding or editing.  That would be silly.  Not to mention thankless.

No, what I want you to do is tuck this one away.  This is not really a Thanksgiving dish, anyhow.  In fact, I've never baked these for the holidays, before.  I've made them for Tuesday before-school breakfasts and lazy p.j. Saturdays.  I've slipped them under sliced and sugared high-July strawberries, and dashed them to the dinner table to accompany last night's leftover soup.  They are that kind of thing, everyday eating, four ingredients, fifteen oven minutes, quick and dirty, food of angels.   

But I guess I'm getting ahead of myself.  Back to the feast, and the wherefore of biscuits.  Vegetarians are often cornered at Thanksgiving, asked how they find any food to eat, what with the big beast of a centerpiece and all.  I, however, believe they've got it made, at least based on my own meatless years.  I like turkey just fine now, but it's the sides that make my knees weak, the mushroom-studded stuffing and tarragon leeks and hit parade of fall vegetables.  No turkey?  Whoot!  More room for brussels sprouts, I say!  My son, however, does not say this so much. 

See, I sort of suspect kids have it hardest, come Thanksgiving.  Not all of them, certainly.  Some—and I'm not going to name names, here—burst into the kitchen around November 21st, announcing "I've got great news.  I've invented a new holiday!  It's called MEAT day, and on it we'll have chicken and turkey and beef for dinner.  As much as we want.  'Kay?  How 'bout tonight?"  Some kids call dibs on the drumstick.  In September.

Others, not so much.  Nor do they prefer potatoes.  White or Sweet.  Any which way.  Nor green beans.  Nor, for that matter, anything else on the traditional groaning board.  Really, nothing.  Nada, zip, zilch.  Now, I'm not even going near that gaping "how to feed kids" can of worms, except to say I've read the book and followed it to the letter and it works brilliantly and not at all.  Depends on the kid.  Enough about that. 

What doesn't depend on the kid, I've decided, is a standing invitation to the table, as you are.  This time last year, I decided I'd had it, watching one child sit out Thanksgiving, once again.  So I scoured my brain for everything he liked that might possibly be remotely vaguely Thanksgiving-like.  (Not being Italian, noodles seemed like a stretch).  

Bread.  Of course!  Should've thought of it sooner.  I'd always dodged dinner rolls at Thanksgiving, because there is soooo much other starch on the table.  Mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, those rafts of stuffing.  Really, who needs bread on top of all of that?  My boy.  That's who.  (I am a walking, talking four watt night light, sometimes.  Not the brightest bulb in the box.)  So last year, I whipped up some Parker House rolls.  And he ate them!  Four or five.  And called it dinner.  I called it a foot-stomping victory, and resolved to repeat it again this year.  

Well, repeat something like it, anyway.  The problem with Parker House rolls is that there's really no whipping up to be had.  They are risen and doubled and punched down and hand-folded, a little like yeasted, edible origami.  I'm okay with all that.  Except on Thanksgiving.

So this year, we talked and decided there will be biscuits.  (There will not, however, be beech, oak or pear leaves on the trees.  The because is fairly self-explanatory.)  Cream biscuits, in particular.  You proper Southern belles may find these a shocker; there's not a whiff of buttermilk, or even butter, involved.  They are nothing more than 2 cups of flour, plus 2 teaspoons each sugar and baking powder.  And—and it's a big and—a cup of heavy cream.  Actually, a cup and a quarter.  And another tablespoon (or two).  I know.  They are a scandal.  And worth every bite.   

Now, I'm not going to go and say something silly, like these are better than buttermilk.  We make those, too, and they're their own kind of lovely.  I'll only state that these are the lightest, fairest crumb that ever leaves my oven, tender to the point of melting, like a gold-coated cloud.  Eaten hot, with a slip of butter and a knob of raspberry jam, they remind me of Fisher Fair Scones, and then some, and minus the crowds.  (Fisher Fair Scones either mean the world to you, or nothing at all.)  Leftovers are pretty much made for good ham, the dry, aged, rich salty stuff, best sliced whisper-thin. 

Of course, you may need to make a fresh batch for ham biscuits.  Because, in our house anyway, when there are hot biscuits, there are soon only crumbs.  
      
 

Cream Biscuits
adapted from Baking Illustrated, by the editors of Cook's Illustrated Magazine
Yields 8-12 (see variations, below)

The kneading step is a little unusual, typically avoided in butter-based biscuits as it makes them tough.  The cream, however, interacts differently with the gluten, and actually delivers better texture and rise with the aid of a little hand-work.  Sometimes, as above, I press my dough particularly thin, when I'm in the mood for a higher crust:interior ratio.  See variations below for a taller, loftier biscuit.

My main adjustments have to do with technique.  Cook's Illustrated is known for their painstaking precision.  I am so not.  

2 cups unbleached, all-purpose flour
2 teaspoons sugar
2 teaspoons baking powder
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 1/4 - 1 1/2 cups heavy cream

Place oven rack in the upper middle position, and preheat oven to 425°.  Line a rimmed baking sheet with parchment.

In a medium, wide bowl, whisk flour, sugar, baking powder and salt.  Add 1 1/4 cups of the cream and stir with a wooden spoon or spatula, until dough pulls together into craggy, mostly-together bumps, about 30 seconds.  If there is still a good hit of loose, dry flour, dribble in a bit more cream, 1 Tablespoon at a time.  I usually wind up using 1 1/4 cups plus another Tablespoon or two. 

Dust a clean surface with flour, and tip mixture out.  Lightly flour hands, and knead until dough is just smooth and fairly cohesive, about 30 seconds.  Gently, firmly, nudge dough into a round.  For a short biscuit with an equal proportion of crust:interior, make your circle roughly 10-12" in diameter, 1/2" or so thick, which yields 12.  For a loftier biscuit, more traditional biscuit, simply make a smaller, taller circle (8" in diameter, 1" thick), plan on only 8, and bake a few minutes longer.

At this point, biscuits can be cut into triangles, which are more efficient (no scraps), or circles, my standby.  If cutting circles, cut as close together as possible, and gather scraps for re-cutting.  After two cutting sessions, I simply pat the remaining scraps into a final biscuit or two.

Bake until golden brown, 15-18 minutes.  Serve immediately.

crucial announcements

 
Hello, friends.

I'm just popping in, today, with a bit of this and that.  We've got one recovering from a nasty sore throat, and are still a little flighty from our holiday sugar high.  But I couldn't let the week go by without passing along a few crucial announcements. 

:: A breakfast table still uncleared mid-morning looks immeasurably better if you blur your vision.  Try it.  Now, if only I could cross my eyes and call up Snow White's Birds & Bunnies, Inc. to finish the job.  

:: Toad lilies and white anemones are total troopers.  The yard is rapidly lurching toward wasteland, but these two haven't noticed we're now flirting with freezing.  I'm beginning to question that whole lily-livered nonsense.  And I'm blessing their sturdy, naiive little hearts. 

:: 2,404 miles away is approximately 2,397 miles too many.  Boxes chock-a-block with wax lips and card games and finger puppets and pez dispensers go a magnificently long way toward narrowing the divide.  So does a round-trip ticket for December.  Ready or not, Mamo, here you come!   

:: Field trips are fun.  I forget just how much.  I always coffee up, a little anxious about goodness knows what, that I'll forget the *all quiet* clap, or misplace a few (dozen) children.  But inevitably I end up having a ball, learning a few things, laughing a lot.  And remembering all over why teacher pay caps are essential.  Twice the average neurosurgeons' going rate.  Something like that.  I don't know how y'all do it. 

 

:: If you are ever given the choice between dipping beeswax leaves with your boy or finally fulfilling your 3-day-old promise to get groceries, by all means pick the first.  Seriously addictive, so easy, and smells like, well, the you-know-who's knees.  Anyway, they'll still have bananas tomorrow.

(Thanks to my pal, Carmen, for mentioning this project last year.  And to the lovely Ginny, for her fine step-by-step.  We are hoping this dunking will let us hold on to a little bit of fall, right on through winter.) 

:: And a question, for you tornado-belt types:  Is it just me, or does foul weather come with some sort of magnificent sunset addendum?  

The days this week have been mostly bluster, big winds and tornado-scares, but the evening's last rally has been straight out of Photoshop.  Except I don't have Photoshop.  And furthermore, these shots aren't the half of it.  These are step out on the porch, point-and-shoot, finish dinner.  These are scrapings off heaven's factory floor.  Spectacular was what came before, and after.  One part Turner, one part Parrish, and one part good-luck-with-that, Michaelangelo.   

::  Cloud Marshmallows*.  Hot cocoa.  'Nuff Said.  *(I bought mine in-store, here.)     

::  OUR DRAWING TABLE, OH - 5:49 p.m., late October - Experts report late fall light is waning.  But my, oh my, it's pretty swell while it lasts. 

:: The final picks for this week's 4th grade Halloween Party menu?  Pizza, blood punch, cookies and caramel apples.  I kid you not.  I didn't even bribe the voters, didn't even plant the seed.  I am never this prepared.  The caramel dipped and coated beautifully, and the first twenty were fantastic.  Next time, though, I might add an extra Tablespoon or two of cream, to prevent the last few from becoming a danger to dental work.  (Water continues to evaporate over time on the hob, so the final few are significantly harder than the first.)  

Also, two dozen apples took a triple(!) batch.  I may have been (grossly) mistaken about that inadequate caramel:fruit ratio.      

:: My ghost and bat cutters have been washed, dried and put away.  No, I'm not that prepared.  It's just that it's all over, here.  Parties, parades, trick-or-treating, everything.  I'm not sure I'll ever get used to this Thursday-before Beggar's Night business.  But if you've nothing to do on Halloween proper?  Call us up.  We'll be busy, winding back clocks and washing our hair and such.  But we'll make time.   

:: Popovers.  We haven't talked popovers.  How can we not have talked popovers? 

Popovers are one of our staple foods.  I began making them years ago, when one of my kiddos parted ways with protein.  He was never much one for milk, even less one for meat, and then he sort of dropped beans, yogurt and cheese.  This left us with starch, noodles, carbohydrates, and bread, which are a tad lacking in long-term energy.  So I started making popovers to plug the gap.  I kept making them because I couldn't get enough.

Made from equal parts' milk and flour, plus several eggs for tender height, popovers make a sly protein delivery system.  I don't make beet-brownies, or macaroni with puréed anything (my hound dogs would sniff these out in a heartbeat), but popovers are, by necessity, honest protein heavyweights.  At least as heavyweight as something cloud-light can be.  We ate them at least monthly.  We still do.  

 

We still do because they're like bread's better half, golden crisp at the edges, custard-soft in the center, and piping hot as they're always baked to order.  Is it that last bit that makes people wary?  I don't know.  All I know is that popovers are E.A.S.Y.  I cannot make a muffin to save my life (none of my kids will touch them; they know better), and you know my cupcake track record.  But popovers, man, they have never failed me. 

There's no careful folding in of ingredients, just blitz, pour and tap feet, most impatiently.  Because it's the oven, see, that's doing all the work here, first at 425° to force steam up and out, then at 375° to finish the baking.  The only hard part is the absolutely no peeking, which would fatally compromise their pouf.  (I'm paraphrasing McGee.)  No worries, though; this recipe's foolproof.  You need only turn down the heat, halfway through.  Other than that, they need no minding, thirty minutes, start to perfect.

They are lovely with butter, or butter and jam, or any manner of fall soups and stews.  Come to think of it, I should've added a splodge, there.  The inky blackberries would've made a nice contrast.  But the one rule with popovers is that when they're announced, you must must must come running, spit-spot.  Do not dawdle, don't pass go, and definitely don't fuss with photos.  Just pull up a chair, pull apart and devour.  This shouldn't pose a problem.  But it is crucial.   

 

Popovers
adapted from Mark Bittman, How to Cook Everything
yield: 12

My main adjustments to Bittman's recipe have to do with technique and quantity.  I'm a big fan of preheating the tins with the oven.  You'll get extra height and a far better crust if your batter hits a hot pan.  I preheat mine at least 5 minutes (while I blitz the batter), 10 minutes if I can.  Also, we only ever make 12 at a time, as any fewer would result in fisticuffs.  The recipe is easily halved.

Batters heavy on milk and flour can be hard to incorporate by hand, as the flour likes to clump.  A stick blender is ideal, and makes quick work of it, with a standard jar blender a close runner-up.  A whisk and two hands will certainly do the job, also; see the recipe notes below for tips.  Batter can be made and refrigerated up to 24 hours in advance. 

Equipment Note: I'm not big on specialized kitchen widgits, but popover tins are a notable exception.  The results are truly, dramatically better (taller, lighter, and more even).  Muffin tins will work in a pinch, particularly for a first go, to see if you are a popover person.  If you like what a muffin tin yields, know that you will adore what a popover tin delivers.  Mine are this $9 World Market model, 6 or 7 years old and still going strong.    

2 Tbs. melted butter + 1-2 add'l Tbs. for greasing pans
4 eggs
2 cups milk
2 cups flour
2 tsp. sugar
1/2 tsp. salt

Place oven rack in the lower of the two middle positions, and place ungreased popover tins in cold oven.  Preheat pans and oven to 425°, 5-10 minutes 

While oven is preheating, blend ingredients: Dump all ingredients (save the additional butter for greasing) into a large bowl (if using an immersion blender) or the blender jar (if using a standard jar blender).  Blitz for 30-60 seconds, stopping to scrape sides and bottom several times, until the mixture is homogenous and lump free.  

If mixing by hand, add eggs into bowl, then whisk in flour gradually.  Once flour has been added, gradually whisk in milk, 1/2 cup at a time, taking care to incorporate fully before adding more.  Add sugar, salt and melted butter, and whisk again to combine.  Proceed. 

Remove pans from oven, and grease with the additional melted butter.  Pour batter into popover tins, roughly half full.  Butter and batter will sizzle on impact.  Return tins to oven, set timer for 15 minutes, and read the paper.  When the time's up, turn oven down to 375°, and set the timer for another 15 minutes.  When timer beeps, after 30 minutes' total cooking time, remove popovers from the oven and eat, immediately.