I might actually have the worst time-management skills in the world. At 1:00 am last night, I was in my kitchen preheating my oven and seasoning my brand new cast-iron skillet. In my mind, the 1:00 am-to-2:00 am seasoning adventure was a time-saving initiative for today, when I would christen my beautiful new piece of cookery with this gorgeous, fluffy, delicious apple buckle. In reality, it happened because I baked up a dud in the test kitchen last night; spent a good deal of time wondering if this 12-inch skillet, which I bought at a discount home goods store thinking it was 10-inch, would serve my purposes long-term (I decided yes — worth the $15); thinking about whether I should season it tonight or in the morning; and researching, for maybe the third time this week, how one actually seasons cast-iron. Where in the baking gods’ name does the time go?? Continue reading →
The last time I made pizza dough, on a whim, I decided to weigh my liquid ingredients like I do with my flours when I’m baking anything bread-like. My doughs have been incredibly wet as of late — so much so that they’ve been frustratingly difficult to work with. I set my 4-cup liquid measuring cup atop my scale, zeroed it so that the cup would now essentially be part of the scale and thus not weighed, and poured water until the number reached 625 grams, as per the metric weight listed in the recipe. Lo and behold, the water, which should have measured 2 ¾ cups if I had measured by volume, only reached the 2 ⅔ line, and just barely. I measured my olive oil in the same way, using my one-cup liquid measuring cup, and the results were different: that mark was spot on. It was my 4-cup measuring cup that was giving me problems. Continue reading →
I’ve been feeling pretty under the weather the past few days. Could be from the subzero wind chills. Could be from running in the cold (but not in the subzero wind chills — come on, I’m not that crazy). Could be from too many super fudgy brownies and homemade In-N-Out burgers and fries. But from forehead to belly, I’m beat. I want to throw in the towel. I just want to curl up and knit while I watch a day’s worth of Daria. And detox, in my own way, by starting off the day with yogurt and tea. Continue reading →
Simplicity. It’s something I fear losing as I delve deeper and deeper into this food blogging thing, deeper and deeper into the world of the locavore. The other week I melted some chocolate and swirled in some peanut butter. Tried to let it set, become a creamy candy bar, but my impulse control left me and I ate it straight from the bowl, warm and melty and messy. It was heaven. And I didn’t tell you about it. It’s a relic from my teenage years, but just doesn’t seem sophisticated enough, mature enough, detailed enough, for a culinary blog. What is happening to us?
Yet besides experimenting with marshmallows and croissants, simple is oftentimes all I do. Simple is what I turn to when I need to whip up a batch of something for a dinner party or a whiskey party or a barbeque and I don’t have the time or attention span to devote to a tart or a cake. Simple is usually cookies these days, but simple used to always be brownies. These magical brownies, to be precise (not to be confused with “magic” brownies). This is a two-bowl, once in the oven recipe, which tickles me. Chocolate and butter. Salt and sugar. Vanilla and eggs. And flour — but just a little bit. No leaveners, no hand mixers or stand mixers, no food processors required. Just a couple of bowls and measuring spoons and cups, and a bit of love and magic. Continue reading →
A Jewish girl from the suburbs of New York grows up on, among other delicious things, three basic staples: bagels, pickles, and chicken soup. Saturday bagels for energy to run and jump and play; sour pickles for, uh, probiotics and a strong stomach; and chicken soup, for everything. At holidays, the soup, served with matzoh balls or Grandma’s Passover noodles, is always simmered for a long time, tenderizing the chicken that would be plucked out and used as an hors d’oeuvre in chicken salad (with challah or matzoh, depending on the holiday). The halved or quartered veggies are separated from the broth and passed around the table, so family can pick and choose whether they want carrot, or parsnip, or celery, or nothing at all. During the winter, my mom makes it exactly the same, but keeps everything in the pot, pulling out one chicken breast at a time to shred directly into bowls filled with extra thin egg noodles and topped with broth and whatever vegetables we’re craving that night, and we would cut into the veggies ourselves, with a spoon, and heal our winter blues. Mom’s soup is delicate but hearty, uncluttered, uncomplicated, and, in a word, home.
There’s a sweet tooth gene that runs in my family, and the farthest I can trace it with any first-hand knowledge is my grandma — my mother’s mother, born and raised in the Bronx by immigrant parents, first-generation American. Incredibly smart, she was stunning in her youth, reserved, kind, funny, and sophisticated until the end, and always had a candy jar full of chocolates on the coffee table and a drawer full of marshmallows in the kitchen. And in the winter, Mallomars. Always Mallomars. She pretty much had it all figured out. Now, I’m not one to go out and buy a bag of marshmallows on a whim, but when I do, for s’mores or hot chocolate, that poor bag is in for a ravaging. And Mallomars? Forget it. I’m on the hunt for those always, and here in Astoria, for some strange reason, I can never seem to find them. Solution: homemade vanilla bean marshmallows with dark chocolate and sea salt. The hunger in my genes must be sated.