remedial eating

any other way

It cannot be overstated just how excellent a January spiff-up can be.  

I know, I know, the month is half through.  All this deep cleaning nonsense should be done and gone.  Don't tell my cleaning gene.  It's a shy and fickle thing.  Might just flee, if we fuss about timing.  As it is, we're carrying on just fine, at our own steady, halting, haphazard pace.  

The spices, it seems, were just the beginning.  Going Through has become something of a pastime.  Zoë will ask what we'll do, today, and my answer invariably starts with "Oh, Going Through... (insert drawer/cupboard/closet/ contained chaos here)".  You could call it organizing, I guess, but that sounds a bit stern, a bit pursed in the lips.  This has been organizing of a different order, the what-do-we-want-of-our-days-anyway-and-how-can-where-we-bump-about-help-us-get-there? sort.  

The good sort.  The invigorating sort.  

We've emptied and assessed and culled the gadgets.  Re-arranged drawers. Gutted the chocolate cupboard.  Taken stock of the silverware.  (Goodbye *gulp* baby spoons.)  

Four years after moving in, the food processor discs finally found a home.  Also, the tangly meat thermometer, the wide kitchen scale, the potato masher, which is all pointy elbows and too-long legs, the gawky teen of the kitchen community.  

The pantry's been loved, beans here, grains there, long lost polenta at last found.  We held a much-needed cracker shelf day of reckoning.  Tossed three giant cello bags holding a combined total of six stale crumbs.  And wondered, for the umpteenth time, why there are always, always, two pretzels sacks open.  

We've hosted a jar and lid reunion.  Inventoried vinegars.  Tidied teas.  There weren't all that many of either, but we found a few slackers, gave them the boot.  Odd beverages and condiments, you're on notice: no loitering allowed, no prisoners taken.   

One weird tall skinny cupboard found its calling.  On a whim, I evicted the trays and racks and 18-pound iron griddle I never ever use.  In their place went our two trusty bread tins, our much-loved popover pans, and our pizza peel, the one that set me back a buck at the Ballard Goodwill, years ago.  The one I've long stored around the corner, and down the hall, and in a broom closet, under five cast iron skillets.  The one I groan about excavating every time we make pizza.  Which is, like, every week.

Never occurred to me it might fit in the kitchen.  

Broken dolls have been mended.  Closets, edited.  Games, organized. Basement storage, rationalized.  

Sort of.  A small area.  Okay, a box.  Not anything like all.  But a start. 

Kung Fu Sock Monkey Pajamas have been made!  

(Using up stash counts as cleaning, right?  Right!  Also, my middle name is Enable!)

Mostly, it's all still a mess.  My desk is a Class-A Disaster Zone.  The coat closet needs a liability waiver.  Garage: Gag-order.  No comment.  Partly, this is due to the upside-down, inside-out manner in which I clean.  Farthest reaches first, for better or worse.  This whole whirlwhind began after I wiped down the lone laundry room shelf, a few weeks back.  The ancient laundry room, in the deepest darkest corner, of the deep dark basement, that I affectionately think of as the dungeon.  I love the dungeon.  It's an honor to have one.  

Still, it's not as if the aforementioned shelf ever sees the light of day.  Or the eyes of company.  Or has any reason to be scoured when stacks, piles, and messes multiply everywhere.  Unchecked.  

But my eyes see it, all the time, and its grime had irked me for months.  We'll leave aside, for the moment, the becauses of why I didn't hop on it any sooner.  What matters, for our purposes today, is that I finally did wipe the darn thing down.  Tossed old junk.  Lined up good junk.  Generally gave it a good going over.  And every time I do a load of wash, and I do a lot of loads of wash, I startle just a little and thrill rather a lot over that tiny, hidden pocket of clean.  It's like one of those mousy brown Boden coats with the hip Brit electric dot lining, SURPRISE!

(To experience this level of satisfaction over a shelf is, I'm fairly certain, confirmation I'm old.)  

And partly, the enduring disarray is due to the natural order of things.  Cleaning with kids is shoveling snow in a blizzard.  That silverware purge led to a chopstick revival, with many sets tried out in turn.  Those PJ's made a nice dent in the stash, and a nice mess of the sewing corner.  Game tidying leads to game playing.  Crayon donating to crayon coloring. 

And if you set out to arrange art supplies, you might find sealing wax.  And chances are, you'll want to play with fire, and melt some.  And melting the wax will lead to discussions of letters and secret messages and middle ages.  And all that medieval talk might lead to this book, and a knight's helmet.  A dame's, also.  And those helmets will require glue, and scissors, and cardstock, and when you go to put those away, you might notice the art cupboard's a bit of a mess ... and is in need of a bit of arranging.

It's all very Mouse-and-Cookie-ish.  It makes me just a tiny bit batty.  

I wouldn't have it any other way.    

Probably because I'm just as prone as they are to a good bout of distraction.  If you give a Molly an empty jar, chances are she'll want some maple macadamia granola to fill it... 

Fact is, we keep granola on hand almost always, and had been out since Thanksgiving.  Somehow, December got away from me.  When we set the pantry to rights, we found we had everything for a fresh batch.  Which is good, since I've been meaning to bring you some granola for a while now.  I didn't realize what a long while, until I clicked on a file called "granola 2.0".  There, if the above and below bowl parade's any indication, is proof positive that I've meant several times to talk granola.  Also, that I am part Danish, part English, and part plain whole milk yogurt, sliced bananas, and oats.  

We spoke granola once, long ago, and that formula remains the foundation for what we do.  But shortly after I posted that recipe, I changed a few things. Critical, oat-altering, delectable things.  That very same week, Melissa Clark ran Nekisia Davis' now-famous olive oil granola recipe.  Comic timing, kitchen-style.  I didn't try it instantly, for four obvious reasons, namely four quarts of fresh homemade granola.  But I tore it out, for trying ASAP.

I've never looked back, since ASAP.

Now, olive oil granola is, by now, about as cutting edge as clay tablets and cuneiform.  Many pens have put into words far finer than mine the pure joy of this treatment.  I cannot describe better, toot louder, squeal higher, over why this variation trumps all.  I can only tell you, since fall of 2009, that I've personally set some fifty-plus pounds of oats aswim in olive oil.     

And that I finally tired of toggling between versions, mine and that bedraggled yellow Times tear sheet.   

So in the spirit of clean cupboards and full jars (and streamlining my future granola-making sessions), I'm setting down here our house granola 2.0.  What elevates it to second generation status is an extra hit of salt, a cut of maple syrup, pumpkin seeds, and that signature slug of olive oil.  The olive oil's the game-changer, somehow nailing an inimitable loft, a featherweight crisp, for which this recipe's rightly famous. 

It also works a second magic, less obvious, no less important, on the flavor of the stuff.  It does a little dance with the sugar, rounds it out, ripens it.  If ordinary granola is sweet like noon sun, bright, clear, unmodulated, olive-oiled granola is blue hour sweet, rich, inflected, eloquent.     

I owe Early Bird a letter of thanks, for forever changing our granola.  Someday, I may even try their recipe.  To date, I've merely plucked those four parts, and bolted them on to our old faithfuls.  Coconut chips galore, for their fantastic crisp crunch.  Wheat germ, which coats the oats like panko does tempura. Sesame seeds, tiny toasty nutty pings, like so many edible french knots.  Maple extract, the barrel-chested baritone to maple syrup's waifish soprano.  Salted macadamias.  Salted macadamias.  Just a few.  More than plenty.  Enough to make each bowl a treasure hunt.   

I leave off all spice, favoring instead the pure buttery crunch of the nuts and grains.  Similarly, I don't add dried fruit, even though I adore tart dried cherries and apricots elsewhere.  I prefer the flexibility of adding something fresh, bananas, berries.  Also, I find the lurking moisture in dried fruit over time compromises the oats' addictive shatter.  I get a little wild-eyed about that shatter.  Do not get between me and my shatter.

And that is the beauty of DIY granola: you can tweak and noodge to suit.  Don't eat wheat?  Leave out the germ, and use Bob's GF oats.  Macadamias not in the budget?  Pecans beguile.  Walnuts, also.  Maple extract not your thing?  Double up the syrup; I'll still be your friend.  Feel like granola's too much of a project, babysitting an oven for an hour?  Quadruple the recipe below, and bake up enough to last clear through Q1.  That's what I do.  Indeed, to write up what follows, I first had to put pencil to paper, to divide cups, pounds and tablespoons into some semblance of reasonable.

My own recipe begins with "16 cups old-fashioned oats".  I make six half-sheet pans, at one go.  Maybe someday I'll tire of this version.  But for now, I can't see making it any other way.

Maple Macadamia Granola with Coconut, Olive Oil, and Salt
adapted from Nekisia Davis, Early Bird Granola, as reported by Melissa Clark in The New York Times 

Sources: I buy whole salted macadamia nuts and slivered almonds from Costco; and the sesame seeds, pumpkin seeds and coconut chips from the bulk section of a well-stocked grocery store.  Trader Joe's can also be a great source for nuts and seeds.  For maple extract, try here, or the baking aisle, near the almond and vanilla extracts.  For oats, we use good old Quaker.  

Variations: I use the 1/2 cup of brown sugar, as we usually eat this over plain, unsweetened yogurt.  If you like a less sweet granola, or a sweeter yogurt, decrease the sugar to 1/3 cup.  As to the salt, I adore two teaspoons, which is not salty so much as bright.  For invisible, stealthy salt, decrease to 1 1/2 teaspoons.

4 cups old-fashioned rolled oats
2 1/2 cups unsweetened coconut chips
1 1/2 cups slivered almonds
8 ounces salted macadamia nuts, roughly chopped
1/2 cup raw pumpkin seeds, hulled
1/2 cup raw sesame seeds
1/2 cup raw wheat germ
1 1/2-2 teaspoons kosher salt
1/3-1/2 cup light brown sugar
2/3 cup extra virgin olive oil
1 cup real maple syrup (ideally grade b), or 1/2 cup syrup + 1/2 cup honey 
2 teaspoons maple extract

Preheat oven to 275°, and place two racks in middle positions.  Line 2 rimmed baking trays (half sheet pans) with parchment, such that paper extends an inch or so beyond all edges.  This will prevent granola from direct contact with your tray, and make clean up effortless.

In a large bowl, combine oats, coconut, almonds, macadamias, pumpkin seeds, sesame seeds, wheat germ, salt, and brown sugar.  Toss well with clean hands to combine, then pour over olive oil, syrup, and honey and/or maple extract, if using.  Stir well to distribute liquids and combine, using hands if needed to coat dry ingredients with wet.

Tip mixture onto parchment-lined sheets, spreading to the corners in a roughly even layer.  Place in preheated oven, and set timer for 25 minutes.  When timer beeps, give both trays a stir, paying special attention to the corners, which will toast and brown first.  Bake another 20-40 minutes, stirring every 10 minutes, until granola is golden brown in color, and your kitchen is overcome with its scent.  Granola will still be a bit shiny, but no longer wet.  Remove granola, leave on trays, and let cool completely to room temperature, 3-4 hours.  Alternatively, turn oven off, and leave granola in the dark oven to cool. Either way, granola will crisp as it cools, taking on its characteristic shatter only after several hours.  When completely cool, transfer to an airtight container.

Granola keeps, beautifully, airtight, for months.  As long as there are no humans around.   

disproportionate joy

[Cold pillows.  Striped socks.  Fog.]

We passed through a murmuration of starlings, yesterday.

We were shuttling from house to car, quickly, late, and I wanted badly to ignore the weird hum in my eardrums.  The air was heavy, with chatter, vibration, quiet, pervasive, very Dolby surround-sound.  I glanced up, scanned the street, saw nothing out of place, same old cars, thresholds, houses.  Almost. 

[People who explain sock puppets in 3:28 minutes.  In language a kid can understand.  Even grown ones.]    

I turned to get into the driver's seat, stole a second glance, saw an altered reality.  There, on my neighbor's same old lawn, sat a carpet of birds.  Hundreds.  Thousands.  Absolutely still, every last one.  I stopped in my tracks, eyes wide, not breathing—waiting, I think, to see who would blink first.  Like I was in some MMOSC (Massive Multiplayer Offline Staring Contest).  Which seemed preferable, on balance, to some old Hitchcock film. 

[Ghouls who do math.  Bark love notes.]   

As I stood there, amazed, at attention, I noticed their numbers were the least of it.  I noticed that if I zoomed in on one bird, there stood an identical model, exactly four inches to his left.  And another, four inches to his right.  And to the North and South, two others, four inches from tail and beak, respectively.  That this pattern repeated itself endlessly, like plastic pegs on a Perler bead board.  Perfectly spaced.  Perfectly matched.  Perfectly still.  So still, I had all but not noticed a thousand birds, twenty yards over, upholstering the lawn.

Whereupon, it dawned on me...

Across the street?  Same story. 

Kitty-Corner?  Yup.

One house down?  Ditto. 

I scanned the neighborhood.  I realized every lawn, tree, porch and house for half a long block had sprouted wings.  Starlings, like stubble, stippled every last inch.  Legion doesn't even begin to describe it. 

[Flowers over the kitchen sink.  November Sundays that reach into the fifties.  Encouraging me finally to break down bean poles.  And us to rake leaves.  And them to play Ten Things, one last round before winter hits.]

It was, as they say, something.  And it seemed a fitting end paren to Thanksgiving.  I'm only okay at Thanksgiving, at properly appreciating The Big Blessings.  I've never been good at performing on demand—most shed pounds pre-wedding; I gained 15—and our national gratitude fest is no different.  It's a good exercise.  I'm down with it.  And I'm deeply, wildly grateful for the nowhere-close-to Givens.  Clean water.  Good air.  Sound roof and walls.  Health, family, friends, food, indoor plumbing.  And, to quote my kids at dinner last Monday, for "gravity, the Big Bang, and Mamo, because without them we wouldn't be here."  Absolutely.  In theory.

[Vocabulary lessons taught by friends.  Butter faces, sculpted by the same.  Friends who fly thirteen hours, each way.  And kindly bring along a Zoë-age niece.]

In daily practice?  Oof.  Tricky.  I get distracted.  The nitty-gritty elbows in.  Traffic jams.  Drains jam.  Jam doesn't set.  Plans upend.  Sleep plays hard to get.  Cars, furnaces, spirits, bones break.  Health is most easily admired in absentia.  Spam galore necessitates comment authentication.  (Ugh.  Sorry.)  Twelve gorgeous gallons of turkey stock are lost.  After chilling on the deck.  With a loose lid.  (Double ugh.)  And these are only iceberg tips.     

[Flowers as grand in their dotage as glory.  Soft gray days.  Libraries.]   

Appropriate awe overwhelms.  Gratitude, writ large, falls by the wayside.  I postpone proper appreciation for later, which is about as useful as pocketing snowballs for summer.  Much as I mean to, I forget to give thanks for staying put on this planet without tent stakes or tethers.  I'm gravity complacent.  There, I've said it.  You?   

[The indulgence and spectacle of forty candles on a cake.  Kids who still ask to help with the holiday brussels.  Even if they politely decline the eating of them.]

In practice, I'm better at small gratitudes, miniscule instances of actual thanks-giving.  The weird wonderfulness of one 1:3:15 pine block, en masse.  The intricacies of spent bean vines.  Particularly excellent first cups of coffee.  Those elfin moments, quick, quiet, both, whose rewards bear no relationship to their effort.  [Crumbs.  Crusts.  Scraps, buried in the brackets of a day.]  Apples, very much like these, these, and these, tweaked to become something else entirely.

I realize they look like simple sautéed apples.  Actually, they are simple sautéed apples.  Tart peeled apples, cooked fast and hot in a knob of butter, with a flick of sugar to catch and caramelize at the edges.  But this particular iteration involves an accretion of details that delights me no end.  They're cut small, into rough 1/2" cubes, which means more caramelized edge per square inch.  Small also equals several bits per bite, which means spoon instead of fork food, which means bowl instead of plate food, which if you answer to Molly, means a wide grin. 

What's more?  Their small size means they cook in ten minutes, quick enough for a Tuesday morning.  And—and I can't yet get over this part—in exactly the same time as old-fashioned oats.  Call it coincidence.  Feels to me like fate.  Especially after dipping into a bowl of both. 

[Mary Pope Osborne.  Series get no respect, and Jack and Annie follow a formula, yes, but hello?  Siblings?  Adventure?  History?  Mystery?  40+ titles to tease a young reader along?  Awesome.] 

They look a bit jewelled, ambered, transparent, with flavor that puts their looks to shame.  Toothsome in places, tender all around, with a complex sweetness, fruit-simple and sugar-burnt, they turn three ingredients into extravagance.  Henry likes them piled atop oatmeal.  Smart boy.  I like a mountain heaped high in a bowl, capped with Megan's buttermilk or whole greek yogurt, muscovado, toasted walnuts.  They're right at home tucked in a waffle's plaid, or anchoring a crêpe, or solo on a spoon.  They would likely make styrofoam go down easy.  They are like that.  Like Kaplas.  Versatile, wonderful. 

[Pear trees, the last of the last leaves to go.  The word murmuration.  The mystery of it.]

Oh, and those starlings?  We startled them.  Slowly, carefully, to majestic end.  The road we drove ran right through their ranks, and as we inched along, they astounded.  Scattered, swooped, dove, pirouetted, landed.  Over and over and over again.  It felt like we'd walked onto a Sophie Windsor Clive set.  A small-scale version.  With fewer picturesque waves.  And no canoe.  And more asphalt.  But magic enough for an ordinary Monday.  Joy disproportionate to the work of walking out the door.   

Caramelized Apples for Oats, Waffles, Yogurt, Spoons

2 large, tart apples (Pink Ladies are lovely)
1 tablespoon salted butter
1-2 teaspoons sugar

Peel apples, then slice the four "cheeks" from the core.  Flat side down, cut each "cheek" into several 1/2" slices, then turn crosswise, and make perpindicular slices, to yield 1/2" bites.  Repeat with second apple.

Heat butter in a large skillet, preferably non-stick, over medium-high heat.  Add chopped apples and sugar to melted butter, toss briefly to coat apples, then let sit undisturbed, 3-5 minutes, until undersides look like fall leaves, gold to bronze.  Toss gently (I use a silicone spatula for this), aiming to flip most over, and let cook for another undisturbed 3-4 minutes.  If at any point apples threaten to scorch, turn heat down slightly.  On my stove, I find a fairly hottish medium yields the best results, with insides just tender with a memory of toothsome, and outsides gorgeously caramelized.  Adjust your stove to suit.  Total cooking time will be 8-10 minutes. 

Remove from pan, and eat immediately, atop oatmeal, under yogurt, over waffles, as is. 

 

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.  

ten things

Several weeks ago, on a Tuesday, or maybe a Thursday, but definitely a weekday, and most definitely between 3:37 and 4:25, things were going sideways.

Seriously sideways.

We were milling about, at loose ends.  For the first time in a long time, no one had a playdate.  It was after school, after apples, after cursory accounts of the ways of our different days.  Before homework, before refreshed, before restored.  Before the pursuit of life, liberty and happiness, or legos, drawing, and the day's funnies, a fair proxy.  Before we'd successfully negotiated what is commonly called the witching hour, but which I always think of as re-entry: that intense, vivid period when we all re-group, re-braid our lives, re-join each other's atmospheres. 

Before flow.

I was doing my best to bring harmony to the situation, which is to say dropping unwanted suggestions like lead bricks.  "It's a beautiful early Spring day."  [THUD]  "Go outside!"  [THUNK]  "Have fun."  [KLUNK]  "NOW."  [THUD CLATTER THUNK].

This is not a direct quote.  But it might as well be.  I've developed a few parenting skills over the years, but getting three wildly different personalities on the same page is not among them.  I tend to go about it with the grace of a Walrus, the diplomacy of Nero.  And on the afternoon in question, I was in top [ungainly mammalian dictatorial] form.

Thankfully, my children have more sense than I.   

There we were outside, together, separate, harrumphing around until I let us all back in, when my eldest let drop this lovely line:  "I wish I could just have some things.  To do whatever I want with.  Build, invent, experiment, ruin, whatever.  Ten things, maybe.  Maybe someday."

***fwoooopkk!!***  (Or whatever sound movie soundtracks make when the whole moving picture thing stops.  When time stops, when action stops, when inaction speaks volumes.  When a moment's total pause causes you to re-consider the outrageous import of What Just Happened.  Yeah, that.)

This surprised me on so many levels, I had insufficient fingers and toes to tally.  But suffice it to say, I responded with:  "!!!!!!!!"  Then: "Right back."  Then: "!!!!!!!!"  Then I high-tailed it to the garage, before the mood passed.

What followed next was a most extraordinary afternoon.

Well, what actually followed next was that I assembled, crish-crash, a small parcel of stuff in the space of three minutes.  A strip of cheesecloth.  A roll of masking tape.  An empty water bottle.  A sheet of dot stickers, a pencil, a plastic spoon.  Some wooden clothespins.  The requested whatever, within easy reach.  Then I gave them over.  "There you go." 

Him: "Mine?"  Me: "Yup."  Him: "Really?  Whatever I want?"  Me: "Go to town."  Him: "Like, you don't need this back?  Or this?  Any of this?"  Me: "Nope.  Yours now."  Him: "??!?!?!!!!" and "O....kay."

Then, the extraordinary afternoon.

Robots were built.  Rockets, too.  Flags, slings, boats, whales and drums, also.  These were the things that could be named.  Most of the most important things, couldn't.  Most of the most important things weren't things. 

There was cooperation and brainstorming and bickering and resolving.  Concentrating, problem-solving, laughter, tears, laughter.  Finger nails and knees, deeply dirtied.  Hours unnoticed.  Homework forgotten.  Sun sinking.  Serious flow.

Much tape was ripped.  Heads put together.  Messes made.  Economies created.  Those who had tape bartered with those who had none.  The worth of clothespins, hotly debated.  The value of S-hooks skyrocketed, then plummeted, as fascination with hanging stuff from trees waxed and waned.  It was very Pets.com, circa summer of 2000, a good reminder we're all bubble-prone, regardless of age. 

But that water bottle, man.  It was the gold standard.  Vessel, vehicle, container, weight.  Waterfall, wave-maker, centrifugal-force enabler, cap-chaser.  It came with a cap!  Two things in one.  Priceless.

We laid some ground rules as questions came up.  Yes, you can do/make/build/try/un-do pretty much anything, so long people and property are respected.  Yes, you can use the hose.  No, not on your siblings.  Yes, you can use any bits of nature.  And just like that, our backyard became a treasure chest.  Y-sticks, bird baths, tree branches, oh my!  Funny what new eyes, new perspective can do.

We learned that sticker dots provide quick color, but that their adhesive is water-soluble.  That the pulling of thread can turn cheesecloth into strings, and singular into plural, and that strings can then become fasteners.  That tape for some fingers can be tricky.  That for others, it's easy.  That we need one another. 

That the balancing of things, a bottle, a silver and blue bubble-bot, is as much art as science, and irrationally satisfying.  And that the satisfaction upon success seems to come in direct proportion to the time invested.  I'm not sure whether that makes it a physics problem or a math one.  Only that it makes it a very good problem.

That when I equip one kid with ten things, the other two will quickly come running.  That scarcity fuels demand, that they'll each want their own ten.  That this is a "Me, Too!" I can totally get behind.  That tin foil is an awesome addition: waterproof, malleable, shiny.  That rubber bands are, also, and L-brackets and screws.  Paper plates and sardine labels, not so much.  Duds happen.  I learned that there is unbearable luxury in giving a child an entire roll of masking tape.

I learned that there is great value in limits, that parameters and creativity go hand in hand.  The simple fact of ten things (so brilliant, so not my idea) was the spark they—we—needed to fire up eyes, minds and fingers.  Knowing there would be no more, no less, we could focus.  For three hours.  All together.  [!!!]  I consider myself a fairly focused person.  I'm not sure I've focused like this, before or since.   

I know this, studied this, considered a Ph.D. in this.  This way constraints have of marshalling attention, the apparent paradox of rules igniting imaginations.  Odes, sonnets, claymation, the evidence is of course everywhere.  But I'm forgetful.  And human.  The same old lessons keep sneaking up on me.  It's like breathing, I guess.  Inhale, exhale.  Learn, re-learn. 

And then, there were the things themselves, bits and bobs, the lot of them, mostly culled from the recycle and tool bin marked "Misc."  Background stuff, there everyday.  All of it, always there for the using, for anyone, no permission necessary.  (They never get used, never get asked after.)  I didn't buy them, make them, prepare them, pre-meditate them.  But something about assembling and presenting these cast-offs made them thrilling, desireable, beyond any toy.

Learn, re-learn.  Round two.

I am not suggesting you try ten things (mind you, you may; just credit Max, not me).  I'm not even suggesting I try ten things, again.  Extraordinary is, by definition, difficult to repeat.  (Though of course I'm ready, if they ask.  I'm particularly excited about the twisty ties.  And the shoe box.  And the laundry detergent cap.) 

I simply set it down here, because I'll forget.  Because simplicity's not my strong suit.  But I'm not done, yet. 

Which brings me to scones.  Plain, simple scones.  White flour, white sugar, buttermilk, butter scones.  These scones have no whole grains, no ground oats or spelt.  No zaps of candied ginger, no chew of dried cherry.  No tip of chocolate, no glug of crème fraîche.  No spice, no fruit, no nut, no health check.  (I love complicated.  But not always.)  No redeeming value, save delicious.  I could tell you ten things about these scones, that they are tender, flaky, buttery, Monday-Morning-simple scones.  Porcelain-crusted, melting-crumbed, Platonic scones.  Unassuming, excellent, crisp-where-it-counts scones.  But really, they are just simple scones.  And sometimes, simple is very, very good.

Buttermilk Scones
adapted ever so slightly from Molly Watson

Molly's original recipe is four-star;  my tweaks have mostly to do with details and technique.  I like salted butter here, and also, full-fat buttermilk, which has less water and therefore less likelihood of toughening.  Also, on top, I love turbinado (raw) sugar, for its crunch.

As to technique, two notes:  I prepped my dough, up through cutting the butter, the night before, then refrigerated it and finished it off in the morning.  Quick enough for a weekday breakfast.  I'm tempted to prep them completely and refrigerate, but wonder whether the buttermilk/soda reaction will wear off.  Let me know if you try it.

Finally, after the original 12 minutes' baking time called for, my scones still had dough for centers.  They took 16 minutes, likely because the dough was cold (see above).  Bear in mind that this will affect baking time, and as always, bake by cue over clock: toasty smell, golden edges, and flaky centers (snap one in half to confirm). 

3 cups all-purpose, unbleached flour
1/3 cup granulated sugar, plus more for sprinkling (or use turbinado, on top)
2 1/2 tsp. baking powder
1/2 tsp. baking soda
1/2 tsp. salt
12 Tbs. salted butter, well chilled
1 cup full-fat buttermilk, well shaken

Preheat oven to 425°.  In a large bowl, whisk together flour, sugar, baking powder, baking soda, and salt.  Over bowl, cut butter into small bits, dropping them into the flour mixture as you go.  With clean hands, work butter and flour together, sliding and noodging with your fingers, until you have a heap of flaky butter-flour.  You want bits of butter still visible, and a smidge of loose flour, but mostly, a pile of cornmeal and shaggy flakes.  (You can refrigerate the dough at this point, and complete the making in the morning.)

Give buttermilk a good shake, then pour into the flour-butter mixture, using a rubber spatula to fold together (or a fork to stir loosely).  Stop stirring while it's still inelegant; you don't want homogenous yet.  Dust a clean surface with flour (or, if you don't want to muss up a surface, lay a piece of parchment down), and tip the still-shaggy dough and bits onto the surface/paper.  Gently, quickly, pull the dough into a rough ball, with a few confident kneads, until it mostly holds together. 

At this point, I divide the dough in half, and pat each half into a rough circle, about 1/2" thick.  Cut each circle into six or eight triangles, and place on a parchment-lined baking sheet.  Alternatively, you can roll out the dough, and cut into circles, hearts, stars, whatever suits, keeping in mind only that different sizes will affect baking time.  Sprinkle generously with sugar, and bake until golden on the bottom and all around the top edges, 12-16 minutes. 

Serve warm, with butter, and/or raspberry jam, and/or clotted cream.  Even simple takes well to jam and cream.

it was nice

Superlatives are so completely overrated. I mean when, exactly, are exceptional, outstanding, superior, extraordinary, actually warranted? I'm the first to admit I fall victim, now and again, but I'm going to get off on the right foot this time. No puffery, I promise, when describing this past weekend.

 

This past weekend in New York City.

Alone, together. Just for fun. For the first time in eleven years.

It was nice.

 

There's a biggish park there, maybe you know it?, with some trees and pretty paths and stones for climbing. Good place for a stroll. Especially if the weather's decent, say sunny, breezy, 82° with an edge. Ordinary October stuff.

 

 

If you stroll far enough, you might notice a little museum up ahead. Worth a visit, if you're so inclined. I spent a week there once, in my twenties, open to close (no exaggeration). But feel free to just pop in, if only to sit a minute.  Some of the benches have good views.

The paintings aren't bad, either.

 

 

 

Watching Spiderman duke it out with Green Goblin was nifty. Stumbling onto the impromptu post-it note memorial to Steve Jobs was memorable.  Lady Liberty, Brooklyn Bridge, still there. I checked.

 

 

Walking Manhattan up and down, east '50's to west '20's, Battery Park to Chinatown, City Bakery to Le Pain Quotidien, without a single small whine, was sort of novel.

(Big whines don't count. But it bears mention: flip-flops top out around mile fifteen.)

 

 

Stepping into PurlSoho, after pixel-shopping for years, was what I think is called an experience. Like entering a warm-fuzzy kaleidescope, the 4-D model. Or a pop-up Met, accordion-folded into a shoebox. Neat.

 

 

Flying in a plane like a grown-up was a touch weird. My bags and I both felt sort of odd, empty. I am apparently unaccustomed to travelling without snacks, and sippy cups, and seventeen activities and forty-two distractions.

I'm a quick learner. I got over it.

 

 

(Sometimes, travelling light on the street is also peachy. Thank you, Hipstamatic.  You're pretty keen.)

 

 

Selecting meals based on hunger instead of, say, blood-sugar-levels-are-crashing-QUICK!-where's-the-nearest-bad-pizza-joint?, is fun. And tasty. Particularly when said meal includes words like 'moules' et 'frites', and reservations that begin when bedtime stories ordinarily end.

What's that?

Who was reading said stories?  And where exactly were the six little ears?

 

 

Back in Ohio, of course, playing with my friend Annette, not much noticing we were gone. She stayed over with the kiddos for three days. Had to fly out from Seattle first to do so, seeing as that's where she calls home.

No biggie.

Typical 'that's what friends are for' material. 

 

 

Being a good friend myself, I intend to pay her back, naturally. I did pick up a leash, a dashing orange, monkey-dotted leash at that. But it's for her beagle Charlie, which might technically mean it doesn't count.

 

 

So I thought a plate of pancakes might settle the score. Procrastinated pancakes, promised back in May, but hey. Five months isn't so long. Between friends.

We made some of these the last time Annette came, because, I think, I hadn't set any oats to soak. These being ricotta pancakes, a longstanding favorite in our pancake rotation.

(Oh dear. You do have a pancake rotation, don't you? I may have entered awkward territory, here. I am deeply loyal to friends and family, but am no pancake monogamist. These oatmeal lovelies are our go-to's, but I believe a person needs at least as many pancakes as shoes. [Maybe more.] Pancake as genre contains so many possibilities, so many personalities, it seems a shame to never look up. Especially when there are ethereal ricotta hotcakes to be had.)

I'm never quite sure how to describe these, as nothing quite gets at their inner soul. I usually fumble through some bad cheesecake-pancake comparison, because they contain twice as much ricotta as flour. There's some truth to this, too, a custard quality, a dairy sweetness. But unlike those dense wedges, there's a lightness, here, a loft, that is unlike any other pancake I know. There's a small, always-packed set of cafés here in town, that serve these under the alias Cloud Nine Pancakes.  This seems as good a description as any.  And any heavenly hyperbole, well, their words, not mine. 

 

 

As for me, I love them best under a veil of melted butter, and a restrained drip-drop of maple syrup. I would, however, be remiss if I didn't mention that my children love them most with tiny chocolate chips stirred in. I tried this this morning, just to double-check, and it led to some interesting pre-eight-a.m. declarations. I was pleased, but not surprised, to hear Henry exclaim, "Mom, you are THE. MOST. AMAZING. COOK." He's my passionate child, inclined to ALL CAPS, equally enamored of a drive-through cheeseburger. But when Max (whose highest praise, rarely issued, is "...fine...") said, "These are the best pancakes ever!", I took note.

I will not go nearly so far as that, because they are just pancakes, after all, not world peace. But I did then have a small stack myself, and I must say, it was nice.

 

Cloud Cakes
adapted from Nigella Lawson, Forever Summer

I love the fresh, hand-dipped ricotta that is increasingly popping up in stores, but the standard red-and-green variety will work swimmingly, also—just make sure it is whole milk. Because eggs vary in size and ricotta varies in water content, the milk quantity varies; see recipe for end texture. And a final, heartfelt plug for the cooking of them: a gloss of melted butter and splash of oil (to prevent burning) are nine-tenths of great-pancakery. No spritz of cooking spray can touch the crisp whisper crust of a proper, butter-burnished disc. A bit slower, this three-at-a-time system, but so worth it.

And a note to the gluten-free: given the high ricotta:flour ratio, I've long suspected these would make fine gluten-free candidates: substitute oat flour for wheat, and you may just have a winner. Do let me know, if you do.

2 eggs
9 ounces (1 cup + 2 tablespoons) whole milk ricotta
3/4 cup flour
1/2-3/4 cup milk
1 teaspoon baking powder
1 tablespoon sugar
pinch salt

Crack eggs into medium bowl, and stir briefly with a fork. Add ricotta and flour, and stir again, until ricotta clumps are broken down and flour is combined, 30 seconds. Add baking powder, salt, and sugar, and stir briefly to combine. Add milk, beginning with 1/2 cup, adding up to an additional 1/4 cup, to reach the consistency of very light, creamy mashed potatoes.

In a well-seasoned or non-stick skillet, over medium-low heat, melt a knob of butter and a dribble of canola oil until foam recedes. Drop small dollops of batter (I use my 2 tablespoon ice cream scoop)—these are a bit fragile, and benefit from a smaller, dollar-pancake size. Cook low and slow, over medium-low heat, until cloud cakes bubble around edges and toward the centers, also, and are golden on the bottom, 3-5 minutes. Gently flip, and cook reverse until golden, 1-2 minutes. Eat hot, preferably in the company of friends.