her hungry heart

A pie unlike any other

2011-09-10T20:34:00.000-07:00

This is a peanut butter cream pie, and it's a damn good peanut butter cream pie at that, but that's not why I made it. In fact, when I pulled the pie out of the refrigerator and carefully peeled back the aluminum foil to cut a slice for my best friend, she remarked, This doesn't seem like something you would normally make. She's right. I'm much more of a cake- and cookie-minded gal, preferring my desserts with a moist and densely woven crumb. When I make pie, I go for something else entirely, relying on the old trope that if something has at least as much fruit in it as it does butter and sugar, it has to be good for you. On my own, I probably would have never made this pie.

A little over a month ago, on August 7, I was absent-mindedly scrolling through my Twitter feed when I saw something written by Shauna Ahern, also known as The Gluten-Free Girl. It said, "Sending every hug and ounce of love we have to our dear friend Jennifer Perillo tonight. Darling friend, there are no words." Something inside my heart dropped, and I went to Jennifer's page, hoping not to find what I already knew I would. There, the words no one, not even a stranger half a world away, wants to see: "He's gone. And my heart is shattered in a million pieces." Over the next few days, I learned that Jennifer's husband Mikey died suddenly of a heart attack. I felt what many across the blogging community must have, a sense of deep sympathy for a person I do not know and will never meet, but whose loss reverberates inside of me with a haunting and painful echo. What unfolded in the course of that week was an outpouring of love and support from bloggers and restaurateurs all across the country, as Shauna asked us all to do what we know best--take to our kitchens, against whatever odds, and share with those that we hold dear. So just like so many others, I made a pie for Mikey, for Jennifer, and for all of the people who have passed and will pass through my kitchen.

I meant to write about this a month ago, amidst all of the momentum that arose when a group of passionate cooks and bakers came together to care for someone they love (no matter how many steps removed from that person they might actually be). A lot of people wrote about their own experiences making the pie (I loved my friend Lindsay's post, as well as Shauna's), and I felt blessed to be able to share in their processes of mourning and outreach. I found myself stalling on writing something of my own, though, perhaps because I couldn't really pin down what it was I was feeling. I don't know Jennifer, but her story made a deep cut inside of me. Before I knew it, a month had passed, and while I had been mulling over the whole experience every day, I hadn't written a word. The more time that slipped past, the more I felt that I had somehow missed the window to talk about the pie, about the meaning of community, and about loss.

And then, quite simply, I remembered Jennifer. I am still young, and I have never experienced the loss of a partner like Mikey, with whom Jennifer shared so very much. But I thought of my friend Travis, who passed away when I was seventeen, and whose death I carried (and carry) with me in the months and years that unfolded since. It wasn't just those first few days that were hard, and grief manages to sneak up on you in the most unanticipated of moments as you begin to build a new life from the pieces you can salvage from before. A month passes, and all you can think is, No, I don't want to stop talking about this. In some ways, it gets harder with the more time that goes on, because your loss doesn't go away even if the outreach becomes less immediate, less concentrated. You want to scream, and to demand that everyone stay focused and remember. The words so rarely get easier to find, and what starts as a scream in your head emerges as a sigh, or as tears, if it manages to emerge at all. These are the moments when I want to send all of my love to Jennifer and to everyone like her who has experienced such a shattering loss. I want her to know that I still think of her, still think of the soft sweetness of her peanut butter pie and the beautiful smiles it brought to the faces of my friends who tasted it. And I want to thank her, for all her candor and courage in the weeks since Mikey passed away. I hope the love and support from those first few days continue to find her and her daughters in the long road to come.

For a recipe for this peanut butter cream pie, I'll send you straight to the source: Jennifer Perillo's blog. Her writing is beautiful, and anyone who has loved someone who was taken too soon will find comfort and resonance in her words.

Checking off the list

2011-07-28T13:37:00.000-07:00

I have a running list in my head of "Things That Adults Do," which comprises a rough sketch of activities and responsibilities that push folks past the realm of teenagedom once and for all. Most are pretty boring and mundane, like owning an ironing board or going to the movies alone, but some carry a little bit of excitement. One of the more recent decisions I've made has allowed me to check off yet another item to move me up on the ol' adulthood barometer--I bought a magazine subscription!

After what seemed like an interminable waiting period between purchasing my subscription and getting one of these glossy treasures in my mailbox, I hungrily pored through my first issue with delight. I love Mexican food, and I could not have anticipated a more welcome set of recipes to help temper the cravings I have for things like corn cakes or red chile sauce. Best grown-up decision ever.

Here, I've sort of simplified an already easy recipe for gorditas de huevos, which are thick, hand-pressed corn cakes stuffed with chile-spiced scrambled eggs. I've written before about how much I love cornmeal pancakes, but these cakes have a whole different feel to them. Made with masa harina, a fine-ground corn flour used to make tortillas, these cakes are more dense and have a finer crumb than their cornmeal-based brethren. Little flecks of crushed red pepper and sautéed garlic run throughout the eggs, giving them just enough heat to perk up your tastebuds in the morning.

GORDITAS DE HUEVOS
Adapted from SAVEUR, May 2011

These are the measurements from the original recipe, which serves six. If you're not looking to feed that many people at once, go ahead and make all of the dough--it'll keep for a day or two in the refrigerator. Then, just prepare enough scrambled eggs for however many folks get to partake in this breakfast.

2 cups masa harina (you can find masa harina at most health food stores, often in the bulk sections)
1 tsp kosher salt, plus more to taste
1 tbsp olive oil
1/4 tsp crushed red pepper flake
2 cloves garlic, minced
6 eggs

1. In a medium bowl, stir together masa harina, salt, and 1 1/4 cups water with a wooden spoon until a thick dough forms, then let sit for 5 minutes. Divide the dough into six 2-inch balls, then flatten with your hands into 1/4-inch thick disks. Don't worry if the cakes crack a little bit around the edges--they're still good that way.

2. Lightly beat the eggs with 1/4 cup of water in a medium bowl. Season with salt and pepper and set aside.

3. In a 10-inch skillet, heat the red pepper flake in the olive oil over medium-high heat for 2-3 minutes. Reduce the heat to medium, then add the garlic. Cook until the garlic softens, about 1 minute. Slowly stir in the egg mixture using a wooden spoon or rubber spatula. Cook about 8 minutes or until cooked through, stirring often. Set aside.

4. Heat a 12-inch cast-iron skillet over medium-high heat. Working in batches, add the corn cake disks and season with salt. Cook, turning once, until golden brown on both sides, about 4 minutes. Transfer to a work surface, cut disks in half horizontally and stuff with the scrambled egg mixture. Serve immediately, topped with salsa, cheese, or cilantro to taste.

A milestone and a whirlwind

2011-07-18T15:14:00.000-07:00

Something monumental has happened. Not too long after laying my sleepy head down to rest after a bustling and energetic Friday, a quiet transformation took place. It was one of those almost-imperceptible metamorphoses that required next to no effort on my part, save for a little bit of patience. When I awakened on Saturday morning, everything was already in place. I rolled out of bed smiling at my accomplishment--I had turned twenty-one, and I had done it with my eyes closed.

In a bout of gluttony that only a twenty-first birthday can justify, I made not one, not even two, but three birthday cakes. I couldn't help myself. I'd like to think that the first two were more like pre-birthday cakes, since they were practically reduced to crumbs by the time my actual day rolled around. My day-of birthday cake was consumed in such a whirlwind at my party that I was unable to snap any shots of it, but I take that as a rousing sign of success. All that remained on Sunday was a small hunk of whiskey-soaked dark chocolate cake that Sara and I split as we lazily settled onto my couch to watch Across the Universe.

I leave you with recipes for my two pre-birthday cakes. One in particular deserves special attention in these days of bountiful gardens overflowing with zucchini. Just remember that since each will end up brushed with a tangy lemon glaze, it only makes sense to whip them both up at the same time. You can tell everyone you're revisiting your twenty-first birthday.

Drinking Fernet-Blanca like the best of 'em.

ZUCCHINI OLIVE OIL CAKE WITH CRUNCHY LEMON GLAZE

From Gina DePalma, pastry chef at Babbo

This cake is best suited for a sweet, early morning breakfast alongside a nice cup of hot coffee. Be sure to use good quality olive oil, since the rich olive flavor is really the focal point here. The original recipe calls for toasted walnuts, which I would have included if I had had any on hand. It's good without them, too.

FOR THE CAKE:

2 1/2 cups grated zucchini (I used one large zucchini, but you can also shoot for 2 small ones)

2 cups unbleached all-purpose flour

1 tsp baking powder

1/2 tsp baking soda

1 tsp salt

2 tsps ground cinnamon

1 tsp ground ginger

1/2 tsp ground nutmeg

1 3/4 cups granulated sugar

3 large eggs

1 cup extra-virgin olive oil

2 tsps pure vanilla extract

FOR THE LEMON GLAZE:

1/4 cup fresh lemon juice

1/3 cup granulated sugar

1 cup confectioners' sugar

1. Preheat the oven to 350ºF and position a rack in the middle of the oven. Grease and flour a 10-cup Bundt pan, then tap out the excess flour.

2. Using an electric mixer on medium speed, beat the eggs, sugar, and olive oil together until light and fluffy. Beat in the vanilla. Scrape down the sides of the bowl with a rubber spatula after each addition. Add the dry ingredients all together and beat at low speed until thoroughly combined. Turn the mixer to medium speed and mix for 30 seconds. Fold in zucchini with a rubber spatula until completely incorporated, scraping down the sides of the bowl as you go.

3. Pour the batter into the prepared pan and smooth out the top with a spatula. Bake for 45-50 minutes, rotating the pan halfway through the baking time to ensure even browning. I sometimes have to leave it in for an hour, but check it after 45 minutes or so to see how it's coming along, then check every 5 minutes after that. The cake is done when a toothpick inserted into the center comes out clean.

4. When the cake is baking, prepare the lemon glaze. In a medium bowl, whisk together the lemon juice and granulated sugar, then whisk in the confectioners' sugar until the glaze is completely smooth.

5. Allow the cake to cool in the pan for 10 minutes, then carefully invert it onto a wire rack. Using a silicone pastry brush, spread the glaze evenly over the still-warm cake and let cool completely before serving.

LEMON-YOGURT CAKE WITH LEMON GLAZE

The storied cake from Orangette

I was able to muster up enough glaze from the zucchini olive oil cake to top this one, but should you feel the need to make this cake without its companion, just use the measurements for the lemon glaze from the previous recipe.

FOR THE CAKE:

1/2 cup plain, whole-milk yogurt

1 cup granulate sugar

3 large eggs

1 1/2 cups unbleached, all-purpose flour

2 tsp baking powder

2 tsp grated lemon zest

1/2 cup canola oil

1. Preheat the oven to 350ºF. Butter a 9-inch round cake pan and line with parchment paper.

2. In a large bowl, combine the yogurt, sugar, and eggs, stirring until fluffy and well-blended. Add the flour, baking powder, and zest, mixing until just combined. Add the oil and stir to incorporate--be persistent here, because all the oil will mix in eventually. Pour and scrape the batter into the prepared pan.

3. Bake for 30-35 minutes, until the cake feels springy to the touch and a toothpick inserted into the center comes out clean. Be sure not to overbake.

4. Cool in the pan on a wire rack for about 20 minutes, then carefully turn it out of the pan and return to rack. When the cake is still slightly warm, brush the top with the lemon glaze. The glaze will melt slightly and should spread in a thin layer across the top. Allow glaze to set and cake to cool completely before serving.

It's here...

2011-07-01T18:56:00.000-07:00

Like clockwork, summer made its official appearance today, with crystal clear blue skies and enough sunshine to make my skin ever-so-slightly pink despite having slathered myself in sunscreen. I even wore a bathing suit today, people. You can't argue with that. Summer, too long pined for, has finally arrived. Goodbye June-uary, hello July.

Summer in Stumptown, when it decides to show up, is irrefutably gorgeous. I've never seen a city pull itself out its wintertime, seasonal affective disorder slump to greet the sunshine quite like Portland does. Last weekend, I worked at my neighborhood's brand new farmers market (!) and easily saw more people in the span of four hours than I ever realized lived in this neighborhood. People clambered over one another (politely, of course) to snatch up a pint or twelve of Hood and Shuksan strawberries, clearing us out of ninety-five flats of berries during a rush that made the previous day at Portland State look like child's play. Folks are for eager for summer to get going, and the excitement is rather contagious. Since the sun started to peek its head out of the clouds a little more reliably each day, I've hardly been able to keep still. And I like it that way. From hopping on my bike to make the fourteen-mile round trip to Last Thursday on Alberta, to back-to-back farmers markets on the weekend, all this cheerfulness and agreeable weather has got me itching for activity.

But sometimes a girl needs a break from all the bicycle-riding and market-working that comes along with summertime. Sometimes I just want to kick my feet up, settle into a dreamy, sun-induced bliss, and eat as much ice cream as I can possibly muster. It's times like these I want to go back and shower my grumpier, colder self from a few months back with effusive gratitude for buying an ice cream maker. To truly show my appreciation, I would give her a bowl of this salted caramel ice cream, just to let her know what she had to look forward to five months later, sitting barefoot on the front porch watching the sun go down at nine in the evening. It would be the least I could do.

SALTED CARAMEL ICE CREAM

From food+words

As the original recipe warns, make sure you have all of your ingredients at the ready when you're preparing the salted caramel. Making caramel is a time- and temperature-sensitive endeavor, and you certainly do not want to be caught unawares. Also, wear oven mitts. Please. Nothing sounds worse than a molten-sugar burn.

FOR THE CARAMEL:

1 cup sugar

6 tbsp cold butter, cut into pieces

pinch of sea salt

1/2 cup heavy cream

seeds from 1 vanilla bean (cut bean lengthwise and use the back of a knife to scrape off the tiny seeds from the inside of the pod)

FOR THE ICE CREAM:

2 cups whole milk

5 egg yolks

1 cup heavy cream

1. Heat the sugar in a heavy saucepan over medium-high heat, stirring with a wooden spoon. Even though it might seem like nothing is happening, trust me--it is. Just keep stirring until the sugar starts to liquify and clump up slightly. The sugar will soon liquify completely and turn light golden brown, like pure amber. When the sugar is thick and golden, add the butter and continue stirring. The mixture will hiss and bubble (at which point you will be glad you're wearing oven mitts), but keep stirring until the butter is fully incorporated. Remove the pan from the heat, count to three, and add the cream. Again, don't be alarmed when the mixture starts to foam/bubble/take on a life of its own, because it will settle down once all of the ingredients have blended together. Let the sauce cool for 5-7 minutes, stir in the vanilla bean and the salt to incorporate.

2. Return the caramel to medium-low heat and add the milk, stirring until the caramel is fully dissolved.

3. In a medium bowl, whisk the eggs yolks. Slowly drizzle about 1/2 cup of the warm milk-caramel mixture into the yolks to temper them, whisking continuously. Scrape the tempered yolks into the saucepan with the remaining milk-caramel mixture and stir continuously.

4. Continue to cook the ice cream base for 5-15 minutes, until the mixture is thick enough to coat the back of a spoon. Remove from heat and strain through a sieve or a strainer lined with cheesecloth into a clean bowl. Add the heavy cream and stir to combine.

5. Transfer the ice cream base to an airtight container and refrigerate for at least two hours, though overnight is best. Then, prepare the ice cream according to your machine's specifications. Mine took about 25 minutes to reach soft serve consistency. What you don't eat immediately, put in an airtight container and store in the freezer to firm up.

Paying it forward

2011-06-25T22:54:00.000-07:00

Tucked deep into the northeast corner of my backyard, there is a small patch of rhubarb fanning out underneath a glossy row of hedges along the fence. A tenant from years past planted it, and it has produced a humble crop for us as we wind down into the lazy first weeks of summer. And while rhubarb has taken center stage in a few pies of late, more recently I've wanted to branch out a little bit, try something different.

I was actually thumbing through How to Cook Everything Vegetarian, a treasure penned by the wonderful Mark Bittman, for an idea on what to do with my enormous stockpile of red lentils, when I naturally happened upon a recipe for dal. Rhubarb wasn't even on the brain until I saw a variation for Bittman's basic dal laced with softened slices of the bright crimson stalks. In a moment of wistfulness, I sighed and lamented that I had used all of my rhubarb from my last CSA delivery--until I remembered the kindness of a stranger whose home I share, if not at the same time then through the fruits of his labor. I smiled, because that's what it's all about, isn't it? What we eat and where we get our food spin together a whole complex story of sharing, of doing right by those whom you may never know. I felt honored to be able to make a meal because another wayfarer decided to leave an imprint beyond his stay here, and to nourish me and the others who cycle through this house for years to come. May I take that little lesson and sow it through this and the next phase of my life, starting with a simple rhubarb dal and a lot of gratitude.

RED LENTIL DAL WITH RHUBARB

Adapted from How to Cook Everything Vegetarian by Mark Bittman

File this one under "Things you might not want to look at but definitely want to eat."

1 cup dried red lentils, washed and picked over

1 tablespoon minced garlic

1/2 tsp ground cloves

3/4 tsp turmeric

1 1/2 tsp ground ginger

1/4 tsp red chili flake

1 tsp cracked black pepper

Salt

2 tbsp cold butter

3 to 4 stalks rhubarb, chopped

Plain yogurt, for serving

1. Combine the lentils, garlic, cloves, turmeric, ginger, chili flake, pepper, and rhubarb in a saucepan and cover with water by one inch. Cook at a steady simmer until the lentils are soft, 20 to 30 minutes, adding salt as necessary while the lentils soften. Stir in the butter and adjust the seasoning to taste. Top with a dollop of fresh plain yogurt and serve with warm flatbread or crackers.

Asparagus two ways

2011-06-12T11:39:00.000-07:00

My life is overflowing with asparagus. Such is one of the biggest joys of late spring. Walking into the farmers market, I see bunches of crisp, slender asparagus spears poised and ready to be whisked away to some lucky shopper's skillet, grill, or stockpot. I even came home on Thursday to an unexpected CSA delivery (I thought my last one was two weeks prior), and lo and behold, a hefty bundle of asparagus (strung tightly together and about the size of my calf) sat awaiting me.

Finding myself with such a bounty of asparagus--with much gratitude, I might add--I wanted to share two ways I've enjoyed eating the pencil-thin spears that make us all swoon for late spring. The first is an asparagus risotto whose recipe my dad shared with me on my recent surprise trip back to Colorado; the second is the result of my own late evening craving for something bright, green, and quick to prepare. These recipes are similar in their basic premises, but differ pretty widely on flavor. One is laced with salt, nutty parmesan cheese, and homemade onion and asparagus stock, and the other has tangy notes of balsamic vinegar and woodsy, almost-caramelized mushrooms. Luckily, with all of the asparagus around, you don't really have to choose which one to make--there's plenty for both.

CREAMY ASPARAGUS RISOTTO
From Russ Parsons' book How to Pick a Peach (and made vegetarian)

Come to think of it, I had never made risotto prior to this. This recipe does demand quite a bit of attention, and there was a moment when I thought my arm might fall off from all the stirring. Don't let that discourage you. There are many reasons to stick with this recipe--principally, the unbelievable satisfaction of diving into the rich and tender final product. Plus, haven't you been meaning to work on your triceps, anyway? Yeah, me too.

1 1/4 pounds of thin asparagus
1 onion, minced with trimmings reserved
9 cups water
4 tbsp butter
2 cups arborio rice
1/2 cup dry white wine
Salt and pepper
3 tbsp freshly grated parmigiano-reggiano cheese
1/4 cup snipped fresh chives

1. Cut off the bottom 1 to 1 1/2 inches of the asparagus spears. Thinly slice the bottoms and add them to a large saucepan along with the onion trimmings. Cover with water and bring to a boil, then reduce the heat to a simmer and cook for at least 30 minutes. When you have a mild stock, strain into a bowl and return to the saucepan. Keep at a low simmer and reserve for the risotto.

2. Cut away the asparagus tips and reserve them. Slice the remaining stalks into 1/4" rounds.

3. Melt 3 tablespoons of the butter in a large skillet and add the onions and asparagus rounds. Cook until the onion softens but before it begins to brown, around 5 minutes.

4. Add the rice and cook, stirring constantly, until all the kernels are opaque, about 5 minutes. Add the wine and stir until it evaporates. Ladle approximately 1 1/2 cups of the stock into the rice and cook, stirring constantly until the bottom of the pan is almost dry. Then, add another 1/2 to 3/4 cup stock and cook, stirring, until it evaporates.

5. Keep cooking this way, adding more stock in 1/2 to 3/4 cup increments, until the rice begins to swell and become tender. Stir in 1 1/2 teaspoons salt and the reserved asparagus tips. Continue cooking until the rice kernels are swollen and completely tender, approximately 20-22 minutes total. Do not cook the mixture dry; the final texture should be thick and creamy with slightly thickened liquid. As the risotto cooks, put four shallow, oven-safe bowls in the oven at 200ºF for serving.

6. Remove the skillet from the heat and add remaining 1 tablespoon of butter, cheese, and chives. Stir into the risotto until the butter and cheese melt. Add salt and pepper to taste and spoon into the pre-heated bowls. Serve immediately.

MUSHROOM AND ASPARAGUS LINGUINE

For 2 people.

I started the asparagus in the oven to get the tips a little crisp the way I like 'em, then finished them off in the skillet.

1/2 pound asparagus, woody stems removed (you can discard these or use them for asparagus stock, like the one above!)

2 tbsp olive oil

2 tbsp butter

3 tbsp thinly sliced green garlic (green and white parts--use green onions if you can't find green garlic)

1/2 cup roughly chopped mushrooms (I used criminis, but any mushroom will do)

1 tbsp balsamic vinegar

1 tsp lemon juice

1/2 pound linguine

Salt and pepper

1. Preheat the oven to 425ºF. Bring a large pot of water to a rolling boil.

2. Cut the asparagus into 1 1/2" pieces. Spread the asparagus in a single layer on a baking sheet and toss with the olive oil until well-coated. Roast in the oven until slightly tender but not fully cooked, about 8 minutes.

3. While the asparagus is in the oven, generously salt the pot of boiling water and add the linguine. Cook the pasta until ever-so-slightly shy of al dente, about 9-10 minutes. Drain over a bowl, reserving about 1/2 cup of the cooking liquid.

4. Meanwhile, melt the butter in a large skillet over medium heat. Add the sliced green garlic and cook until fragrant, about 2 minutes. Add the mushrooms, stir to coat with the butter, and cook for 5 minutes. When the mushrooms begin to brown, add the vinegar and cook, stirring occasionally, until the liquid is absorbed and the mushrooms are slightly caramelized.

5. Add the asparagus pieces, linguine, and pasta cooking liquid to the skillet, stirring to incorporate the mushrooms and green garlic. Add the lemon juice and cook until the liquid has mostly evaporated. Season with salt and pepper to taste and serve immediately.

Resolutions

2011-06-02T23:30:00.000-07:00

Things are a bit gloomy around here in the city of roses. After a week of fair skies and almost unwavering sunshine back in Denver, pulling myself out of bed this morning to the sound of rain on the roof was quite the challenge. We Portlanders have entered a period of erratic, indecisive weather, filled with plenty of the chilly and misty mornings that remind me all-too-well of midwinter. Welcome to June-uary.

You know, speaking of January, I've started this June thinking back to that other month, beyond just my feeble attempts at patience as I await the arrival of reliably sunny weather (hopefully before July!). More specifically, I've been thinking about my new year's resolution--to eat out at new restaurant or food cart each week of the summer. Writing it down here is going to help me stick to it, and lucky for me I have some additional incentive to make sure I keep good on my promise. June is Dining Month here in Portland, which means that us lucky food-lovers-on-a-budget get the chance to experience some of this city's best cuisine for twenty-five dollars a meal. That's right--each of the participating restaurants is offering a special three-course meal for just twenty-five bucks, an especially incredible deal when some entrees can cost that much on their own. And these deals are going on throughout the entire month of June. Have I mentioned lately how much I love this city? Even better, you can go here to have the sponsors of Dining Month randomly select a restaurant for you. Nothing beats that, folks.

In addition to Dining Month, I also snagged a year-long membership to Portland Eats Out (for half-price, thanks to a special promotion during May). Sundays through Thursdays, I get fifteen percent off my entire tab at participating restaurants and food carts, which means I get to share the perks with some of my equally hungry and adventurous friends. Ah, how great it is to find an excellent deal and get some of my favorite right-hand folks to come along with me to enjoy the culinary mysteries this city has to offer. Summer cannot come soon enough.

I did get started on my resolution little early at the end of May by going to Toro Bravo and Metrovino for the first times, and I can assure you they did not disappoint. Toro Bravo (sister restaurant to Tasty N Sons, which I wrote about here) is a bit easier to navigate as a vegetarian, given their extensive and varied tapas menu, but Metrovino certainly did not let me down either (and the atmosphere is killer, especially if you can sit outside).

If you're a vegetarian and you're headed to Toro Bravo, some of my favorites included: marinated sheep's cheese, potatoes bravas (I want to eat these every day of my life. Pan-fried and covered with sweet paprika, chilies, tomatoes, and lemon mayonnaise. Yes please, forever and ever), Basque piperade with a baked duck egg (Basque piperade is like a hybrid stew-sauce, loaded with tons of onions, tomatoes, and peppers--delicious), churros (with chocolate dipping sauce! These are the best churros that have ever graced my lips--light and fluffy with a slight tinge of lemon), and olive oil cake with rhubarb compote (especially good if you don't have the biggest sweet tooth). One of my dining partners, Melinda, would also tell those of you inclined toward the animal side of things to indulge in some spicy octopus and prawn stew, her absolute favorite. I'll admit I dipped my spoon in the broth, and I immediately wished I could have gulped down a bowl of just that, sans the seafood.

At Metrovino, try the pecorino toscano (a sheep's milk cheese paired with a stonefruit mostarda that will knock your socks off, or at least clear out those sinuses--in a good way), grilled broccolini with a crispy poached egg (everything is better with a poached egg on top, and a poached egg is even better when it's breaded and fried), chilled spring pea vichyssoise (hearty enough to tide you over 'til dessert, especially if you began your meal with that broccolini), and coconut milk bread pudding (we ordered four desserts and this was the standout, served warm with a bittersweet chocolate granita on the side. This stuff approaches dessert perfection).

Again, my meat-eating companions delightedly smacked their lips over some duck leg confit and grilled wild salmon, which I am told are not to be missed. The beet and avocado salad earned the praises of my boss, Kyle (fun fact: he shares the same surname as the former bartender at Metrovino) as the perfect summer salad--crisp, tangy, and refreshing with gleaming orange wedges and salty feta. We were all fans of the chocolate espresso cake, impressive for its presentation alone. While I was initially seduced by the parmesan pound cake with saba and green apple jam, I wasn't quite as blown away as I had hoped to have been. I think Toro Bravo did a better job with the sweet-meets-savory dessert with their olive oil cake, so go for the bread pudding at Metrovino if you have to choose.

Anyway, the forecast might not read like summer just yet, but that certainly isn't going to stop me from starting to celebrate the new season the best way I know how--eating. Here's to you, summer. I can't wait to see what you have in store.

A random order

2011-05-25T13:04:00.000-07:00

A couple of weeks ago, a few friends and I roamed over to northeast Portland for the weekly street fair Last Thursday on Alberta. We ended up sneaking out of the rain and into a handful of different shops, hoping to dry off a little bit and fill our bellies with something sweet. Cool weather tends to light up my sweet tooth, inspiring me to fortify myself against the elements. I picked up a few pastries from La Petite Provence to deliver to Sara, who spent that evening trudging away at her work in the library and who needed a substantial pick-me-up. For myself, I set my sights on Random Order, a little coffee shop whose bakery case overflows with all sorts of big, handmade pies. My eyes darted around, looking at the handwritten signs showcasing treats like blackberry apple, brandied peach, and Tahitian vanilla salted caramel apple. I'm sure ny of those pies would have sent me into a dizzying spell of sugar-induced bliss, but instead I went for the one that just felt right for that moment--rhubarb with ginger streusel.

Historically, I cannot stand ginger. With the notable exception of Swedish-style, wafer-thin ginger snaps that I consume in record quantities during the Christmas season, I tend to scrunch up my face in a tightly-knit pout if I end up biting into something laced with ginger. Or at least, I used to do that, until I began to work at the farmers market, and Marven convinced me to try the homemade ginger-rhubarb jam he sells. Spicy, tangy, and just a little sweet, the ginger-rhubarb somehow managed to stand out against all others as my favorite jam. I can't really explain why, except that every note that ginger and rhubarb hit on their own is that much clearer when they do it together. Something magical happens in those little jam jars that tames ginger's potency just enough so that it doesn't quite lose its bite, but it certainly doesn't overwhelm. I just love the stuff, and so when I saw the pie at Random Order, I knew. And then I just couldn't get enough.

GINGER-RHUBARB PIE WITH STREUSEL TOPPING
Inspired by Random Order, with some guidance from this recipe

I almost cried when I ate this. It's not quite the same as what you'll get at Random Order, but it is a damn good pie, especially if you like desserts that aren't too sweet. I made two of these in a week, since the first one was gone in under six hours.

FOR THE PIE:
1 batch pate brisee, à la Martha Stewart (this recipe makes two rounds of pie dough, but you'll only need one for the pie. I'd recommend freezing the other round for later use)
4 stalks rhubarb, green stems discarded, sliced into 1/2" pieces
2/3 cup sugar
2 tablespoons flour
Zest from one lemon
1 tbsp lemon juice
2 tbsp grated fresh ginger
1 tsp vanilla extract
1 tbsp butter

FOR THE STREUSEL TOPPING:
3/4 cup rolled oats
1/2 cup brown sugar
1/2 cup flour
8 tbsp or 1/2 cup butter, chilled and cut into pieces

1. Combine rhubarb and next six ingredients in a medium bowl and mix well. Let stand for 15 minutes to let the rhubarb macerate (this part is important, as it release some of the moisture in the rhubarb and makes for a more syrupy filling).

2. Preheat the oven to 375ºF. Remove the pie dough from the refrigerator and let stand for 10-15 minutes before rolling out.

3. Butter a 9" pie plate and place rolled out dough in the dish, trimming off the edges. Pour rhubarb mixture into the crust and bake for 10 minutes.

4. While the pie is in the oven, mix together the oats, brown sugar, and flour. Cut in the butter and combine until the mixture is crumbly. Remove the pie from the oven, cover with the streusel topping, and bake for an additional 25-30 minutes or until the crust and streusel topping are golden brown.

Eggs and nettles, part two

2011-05-11T10:41:00.000-07:00

I know. I just wrote a post about stinging nettles and eggs, and now I'm writing another one. It occurred to me while writing my previous entry that I had never actually featured fried eggs in one of my recipes, even though I am clearly a huge fan of them. I figured I'd correct this oversight by highlighting the newest addition to my life's ongoing culinary experiment--stinging nettles--in a variation that lends itself to quite nicely to fried egg consumption. I'm talking about flatbread.

The idea struck me on Saturday at the farmers market (a place where many a good idea crops up--no pun intended) after asking a few more folks what they do with their nettles. When someone told me she uses them for pesto, my mind went immediately to flatbread. And then it went to sesame seeds. In my head, I was conjuring up something akin to za'atar breads in Middle Eastern cuisine, but with some odds and ends pieced together from the market. As I was strolling around on my break, I happened upon a stand selling (of all things) gomashio, a mixture of toasted black sesame seeds and sea salt. It was fate, really. The ladies at Cascade Naturals had roasted this batch two days prior, and I gladly added a jar of the stuff to my shopping bag.

After a long shift at the market, plus an evening of dancing my heart out at my lovely college's annual Stop Making Sense/Talking Heads party, all I wanted to do on Sunday was lounge around and indulge myself with the smell of warm bread in the oven. I decided to go out on a whim and make flat bread with some soft-milled wheat flour from Gee Creek Farm out of Ridgefield, Washington since I had plenty on hand. Their flour is delicate and grainy, which made for a not-too-dense flatbread that received quite a generous rubdown with stinging nettle pesto and a sprinkling of gomashio. When all was said and done, I thought this bread deserved nothing more than a fresh, fried egg nestled snugly on top.

BLACK SESAME SEED AND STINGING NETTLE FLATBREAD

FOR THE DOUGH:

2 1/2 cups whole wheat flour (I used whole wheat pastry flour as I mentioned, but regular is fine)

1 cups all-purpose flour

1 1/2 tsp active dry yeast

2 tsp salt

1 1/2 cups warm water

1 tbsp olive oil

FOR THE TOPPING:

1 cup stinging nettles, blanched (see this post for how to prepare nettles)

1/4 cup pine nuts

1/4 cup olive oil

2 garlic cloves, peeled

2 tsp lemon juice

Salt and pepper to taste

3 tablespoons gomashio (or just regular toasted sesame seeds, black or white)

1. Add dry ingredients to a large bowl. Slowly add water and stir with a wooden spoon. Mix by hand until dough is soft and does not stick to the bowl. Knead on a clean surface for one minute, then shape into a ball. Let rise in an oiled bowl, covered, for 1 hour.

2. In the bowl of a food processor, at nettles, pine nuts, olive oil, garlic, and lemon juice. Pulse to combine. Add salt and pepper as needed.

3. Preheat oven to 500ºF. Line an 11-by-17 inch baking pan with parchment paper and grease with olive oil. Carefully stretch the dough to the edges of the pan using your knuckles. Drizzle generously with olive oil. Spread the pesto evenly on the dough, leaving approximately a 1/2-inch border around the edge. Sprinkle with gomashio.

4. Bake the dough for 20-25 minutes or until slightly crisp and golden brown. Serve on its own, with hummus, or with a fried egg on top. I personally did all three.

Firsts

2011-05-05T21:32:00.000-07:00

A few weeks back, Tyla over at Learning to Live Without a Microwave posted about learning to fry an egg, a skill she admits to never having gotten the hang of despite you know, being a food blogger. It was so heartening to read about her foray into the world of fried eggs, especially since my love of them is quite deep. When I went to South America at eighteen and put my veganism on hiatus for the sake of my travels, I ate a fried egg with thin, crisp rounds of flatbread every morning for breakfast. Unsurprisingly, when I gave up veganism for good back in the States about a year later, fried eggs were the first animal-centric dish to slide comfortably back into my diet. This does not mean that learning to make a good fried egg has been easy by any means. To the contrary, I find myself breaking a yolk in the pan more often than I'd like to admit, leaving me with a sad pseudo-scrambled breakfast every now and again. But I too am starting to get the hang of it, and it's nice to know there's a kindred spirit out there who is doing the same.

Tyla's post also made me feel better about another lack of expertise I have in the world of eggs: omelettes. I'll go ahead and say it: everyone should know how to make an omelette. I should know how to make an omelette, and yet in the past year of eating eggs, I had barely even considered the imperative to learn. Until, of course, I was confronted with another foreign food item: stinging nettles. Yep, at work at the farmers market a week or so ago, I saw the bright green leaves with tiny little barbs along their stems for the first time. Curious, I brought a bag of them home with me after asking a few regulars at the stand what on earth they do with the stuff. The common consensus? Use them like you would spinach, and see what happens.

So I thought I'd go for it. I'd never made an omelette before and I'd never had a stinging nettle touch my palate, so my logical conclusion was to try to tackle both culinary firsts at once. I admit my omelette-making skills are not the most enviable, but I don't think I did the worst job in the world. While my omelette wasn't going to win any beauty pageants, the nettles were delightful, richer and more bitter than spinach, and not too frightening in their all their spiny glory. I added some goat's milk feta cheese from Monteillet Fromagerie (our neighbors at the farmers market), giving the whole thing a sharp, salty bite. This may have been my first step into the world of omelettes and nettles, but I'm sure I'll make my return.

STINGING NETTLE AND GOAT'S MILK FETA OMELETTE
I let Mark Bittman's method from How to Cook Everything Vegetarian take the reins on guiding my omelette preparation.

INGREDIENTS:
2 eggs
Approximately 2 handfuls of stinging nettles (Don't actually touch them with your hands! Tongs are your friend)
2 tablespoons butter
A handful of goat's or sheep's milk feta cheese, crumbled
Salt and freshly ground black pepper

1.Bring 4 cups of water to boil in a medium saucepan over medium-high heat. Add nettles and blanch for 2-3 minutes, then transfer to a bowl of ice water to stop the cooking process. Remove the nettles from the ice bath and drain. Tear the nettle leaves from the stems and discard the stems. Wrap nettle leaves in a towel and squeeze out remaining moisture. Set aside.

2. Beat the eggs, salt, and pepper together in a bowl. Have a clean plate ready near the stove.

3. Heat a small nonstick or cast iron skillet over medium-high heat and wait one minute. Add 1 tablespoon butter and swirl around the pan until the foam subsides. If the pan looks a little try, add the other tablespoon. Pour in the egg mixture once the butter has melted and cook, undisturbed, for about 30 seconds. With a rubber spatula, push the edges of the egg toward the center. Tip the pan slightly to allow the uncooked eggs in the center to reach the edges of the pan.

4. Continue this process for about 2 minutes, then add the nettles and feta to down the middle and to one side of the omelette. Cook 1 more minute.

5. Hold the pan at a 45-degree angle so that the half of the omelette with the nettles and cheese slides onto the plate, then gently increase the angle of the pan over the plate, allowing the omelette in the pan to fold over the first half. Serve and enjoy!

Portland: A Love Story

2011-04-14T08:30:00.000-07:00

When I was sixteen, I made a decision that, at the time, was motivated almost purely by romance. The spring of that year, I was accepted by the college of my dreams--a place I imagined to be ethereal, mystical, and full of whimsy (and indeed it has, at times, been all three). For several months before receiving that thick, confetti-stuffed envelope in my mailbox, I would stare wistfully out the windows during class and think about how I longed for well, rain. I had, somewhere along the way, settled on my school not only for its reputation for gleeful dorkiness and intensity, but also for its prime location in the city of roses. Of course, I had never actually been to Portland, nor did I have the faintest clue what picking up and moving halfway across the country to go to college would really be like, but I was lovesick nonetheless.

For all my imaginings about what little mysteries this city would hold, all those hours I spent poring over college course catalogs and restaurant reviews, I was downright slaphappy the moment I read the word "congratulations" because I knew those hopes and images would finally begin to take shape. So, four years ago in April, my parents and I stepped into PDX for the first time, and the shift from romantic fantasy to utter adoration was well underway.

Working in college admissions, prospective students often ask me why and how I made my decision all those years ago. I always tell them to scrap the logic of it all (or at least table it, since I was definitely the kid with the meticulous notebook filled with stats about each college that made it on to my radar) and just feel it. I say that I knew I was in the right place when I saw the cherry blossoms in bloom and inexplicably burst into tears, murmuring some incoherent oohs and aahs to my parents from the backseat of our rental car. But I've been thinking about that story lately, and I realized it just isn't complete. Sure, the moment that fantasy became reality about college was when I stepped onto campus and could not muster even the feeblest attempt to stop the waterworks. But I hadn't just fantasized about college--I had a whole romantic notion of an unknown city I had yet to explore, and I knew I had to fall in love all across the board if I were going to make the leap.

So I want to amend my story just a little and add the moment when I knew I wanted to be in Portland. It's all very simple. Just take a wide-eyed, embarrassingly enthusiastic teenager still caught up in the throes of veganism, sit her down at a diner on Belmont, and place before her a plate of sweet and steaming cornmeal pancakes the size of a record. As if there could have been any turning back after that.

There are, of course, many things I have since come to love about Portland (from bicycle rides across the Hawthorne Bridge at 5:30 in the morning, or the fact that we have a whole festival devoted to pickles), but it all started with the pancakes. In some ways, I prefer cornmeal pancakes to their traditional buckwheat or buttermilk brethren, though admittedly I can't think of a pancake I've encountered that I haven't enjoyed on some level. But when push comes to shove, nothing quite stirs my heartstrings like a fluffy-crisp cornmeal pancake drizzled with honey and slathered with butter (I didn't retain the veganism of my former years).

CORNMEAL PANCAKES WITH FENNEL AND BLACK PEPPER

Made with some guidance by the LA Times, who used the Joy of Cooking as a reference.

These are a departure from the corn pancakes I had when I came to Portland (these aren't vegan--see note below). I've eaten those in many incarnations--plain with syrup, with apples and walnuts, or with jalapeños and salsa. If you take out the fennel seed and black pepper, this recipe can serve as a base for a whole range of flavor combinations, so play around with it!

Sometimes flipping pancakes is hard...

FOR THE PANCAKES*:

1 cup yellow cornmeal

1 tsp salt

1 tsp ground fennel seed

1 tsp ground black pepper

2 tbsp melted butter

1-2 tbsp honey

1 cup boiling water

zest from one lemon, plus 1-2 tsp lemon juice

1/2 cup milk (I used whole milk, as always)

1 egg

1/2 cup flour

2 tsp baking powder

*To make these vegan, substitute any mild vegetable oil for the butter, maple syrup for the honey, soy milk for the whole milk, and 2 tbsp of soy yogurt for the egg. Follow directions accordingly. Thanks to Isa Chandra Moskowitz and her book Veganomicon for the help on this one.

1. Mix together the cornmeal and next five ingredients in a large, heavy bowl. Pour the boiling water over the top and whisk to combine. Add the lemon zest and juice and stir lightly to combine. Cover bowl tightly and let stand at least 10 minutes.

2. Beat together egg and milk in a measuring cup until smooth. Add to the cornmeal mixture and whisk to combine.

3. Sift flour and baking powder into the cornmeal mixture and fold into the batter, being careful not to overmix.

4. Heat a cast-iron skillet, non-stick skillet, or a griddle to medium-high. Test the surface by dropping a little water onto the pan or griddle (if the drops dance around, then you're all set). Lightly butter or grease the pan or griddle, then pour the batter using a 1/3 cup measure. Cook until bubbles stop appearing on the top of the cakes, then flip (this usually takes 1-2 minutes, but you can always sneak a peek under each cake to see if they are slightly browned and crisp and ready for flipping). Turn and cook until cakes are set.

Bakesale for Japan

2011-03-30T20:24:00.000-07:00

(image courtesy of Bake Sale for Japan)

Hey everyone! Just wanted to let you know about the Bake Sale for Japan coming up this Saturday, April 2nd from 10am-2pm. I am making a batch of my cranberry-oatmeal scones for the occasion and they will be for sale at Barista at 539 NW 13th Ave (Ristretto Roasters at 3808 N Williams Ave will also have goodies available).

Please come by to show your support for Japan and to have a chance to snag some delicious treats! For those of you not in Portland, be sure to check out the above website to see if there are events going on in your area. Hope you make it!

A spring almost-break

2011-03-29T10:41:00.000-07:00

Around here, spring break is more of a fantasy than a reality. Sure, I had a week off from classes, but I also had to spend that week writing a big ol' forty-page paper about alternative agriculture movements. Naturally, I decided to do some "field research"--and find at least a little break from my studies in the meantime--by celebrating the opening on the Portland Farmers Market at PSU.

It felt so good to be back amid the crowds of folks vying for fresh bunches of carrots and crisp, spicy radishes. Most of the vendors were there in full swing, even if we're still a ways away from the best and brightest of the harvest. But it's only going to get better from here. I can't wait to see asparagus and fava beans in the next few weeks, and then it'll almost be time for berries! Oh spring, how I have missed you.

I also managed to steal away for an afternoon to grab some arepas at Fuego de Lotus, a food cart I had seen up on Alberta last summer that conveniently moved to the cart pod on 32nd & Division, much closer to my neck of the woods. My brother was actually the one to turn me on to arepas last summer, after he came back from Bogotá having stuffed himself with many of the delicious cakes made from fluffy white corn masa (rather than more coarsely ground cornmeal). Arepas are a point of some contention in the Latin American food scene, as most restaurants I've encountered claim that they are of Venezuelan origin. My brother and my friend Erica, who makes arepas à la her Colombian grandmother, beg to differ. Further research into the topic has led me to conclude that the arepa debate does not fall cleanly between the Colombian and Venezuelan camps, as each country produces in itself several varieties. All that aside, this arepa came smothered with black beans, a crisp cabbage salad with scallions, and plenty of cotija cheese (Fuego de Lotus claims to fall on the Venezuelan side of things). Just enough to keep me going on a cool spring afternoon and well into the night, back in the library.

And then there was Wednesday. My best friend and partner-in-crime Sara turned the big 21 and convinced me to allow myself one full day off in the week to celebrate. I jumped at the excuse to treat ourselves to brunch at one of Portland's most beloved restaurants (and somewhere I've been eyeing for quite some time)--Tasty n Sons.

We dove head first into a plate of steaming biscuits covered in a warm, homemade berry compote and a generous dollop of whipped cream. I imagine waking up in the morning to biscuits like these in some far-off fairy tale version of my life, which also features lots of strong, hot coffee and a kitchen with a view of the rolling hills in my backyard. They were sweet and rich with tons of butter, but small and flaky enough to be almost dainty--the type of biscuits I'll probably only be able to make once I'm a grandmother. After those, we moved on to the potatoes bravas, a heavenly concoction of thick cut hash browns in a spicy-sweet tomato sauce and topped with lemon cream. I almost spoiled my appetite devouring spoonful after spoonful of these, but I was perfectly willing to eat them every day for every meal from then on out, no questions asked.

But then, just as I was about to throw all caution to the wind and stick my face into the cooling cast iron skillet to get every last bit of tomato sauce, the waitress set a sizzling butternut squash frittata right in front of me, steaming and fragrant with feta and sage. Seconds later I had almost forgotten about the potatoes bravas in favor of the bites of caramelized onion and swiss chard running through the frittata, which at every turn surprised me with different notes of sweetness, salt, and smoke. I admit that after loading up on biscuits and potatoes, I couldn't finish the whole frittata without needing to take a nap on the table, so I did the best I could and regretfully watched my not-quite-empty skillet get cleared away. After all, it was Sara's birthday, and I had to be sure I would be ready for chocolate.

And so we rounded out Sara's birthday with a pan of coconut brownies, and the next day I hit the books again. So I suppose that spring break gave me chances here and there to relish in the season's bright new offerings, despite the onslaught of academic pressures. Luckily, yesterday I turned in my behemoth of a qualifying exam and am geared up for relatively smooth sailing toward summer, and a whole lot more to eat.

COCONUT AND OLIVE OIL BROWNIES

From the New York Times

I made a batch of these coconut brownies shortly after I saw the recipe published in the New York Times in February, and Sara requested them again on her birthday. In my first shot at them, I spread them out in a 9"x 13" pan as the recipe suggests, but felt as though that was a little bit of stretch relative to the amount of batter I had. This go around, I opted for a 9"x 9" pan, which ended up being too small. Even though the recipe says the brownies will set after they cool, mine didn't quite make it all the way in the middle (though actually, once refrigerated, that made for some great quasi-fudge, so no complaints). If you want brownies that are a little truer to brownie form, I'd go ahead and use the 9" x 13" pan. The end result will be a tad thinner and crispier than your standard brownie, but certainly delicious nonetheless.

3/4 cup olive oil, plus more to grease pan

1/3 cup cocoa powder

2 ounces unsweetened chocolate, finely chopped

2 large eggs

2 large egg yolks

1 teaspoon vanilla extract

2 1/2 cups sugar

1 3/4 cups all-purpose flour

3/4 teaspoon kosher salt

2 1/2 ounces bittersweet chocolate (I used bittersweet chips from Ghiradelli)

2 cups shredded sweetened coconut

Fleur de sel, for sprinkling.

1. Heat the oven to 350ºF. Lightly grease a 9-by-13-inch baking pan (or slightly smaller, if you have one).

2. In a large bowl, whisk together the cocoa powder and 1/2 cup plus 2 tablespoons boiling water until smooth. It's best to mix continuously as you add the water slowly, creating a smooth paste. Add the unsweetened chocolate and fold in with a rubber spatula until chocolate has melted. Whisk in the olive oil. Add the eggs, yolks and vanilla, and continue to whisk until combined. Don't over mix, because the brownies are already pretty dense and overmixing will just make them tough. Add the sugar, whisking until fully incorporated. Using a spatula, fold in the flour and salt until just combined. Fold in the bittersweet chocolate pieces.

3. Pour half the batter into the prepared pan and smooth with a spatula. The batter will spread pretty thin, so you might want to put a little more than half of the batter on the bottom layer if you are having trouble covering the whole pan. Sprinkle 1 cup of the shredded coconut on top of the batter. Pour in the remaining batter and smooth. Top with remaining coconut. Sprinkle with fleur de sel and bake until just set and firm to the touch, about 25 to 30 minutes. (These brownies solidify as they cool, so inserting a toothpick to check for doneness will not work; it does not come out clean.) Transfer the pan to a wire rack and allow to cool completely before cutting into 2-inch squares.

Yield: About two dozen brownies.

Spring forward

2011-03-13T16:40:00.000-07:00

Things are flying by at an unbelievable pace here in the Pacific Northwest. As I pulled myself out of bed this morning, I had to remind myself that I willingly traded that extra possible hour of sleep for the assurance that spring will soon be here. With spring will come the reopening of the farmers' market (in six days!), the slow transition away from root vegetables (oooh and it's about time), and the impossibly pink-and-red hues of rhododendrons and cherry blossoms in full bloom. I've seen glimmers in the past few days that spring really is on its way, being smacked unexpectedly with a gust of wind laced with the scent of flower buds, or emerging from the library only to see the sun beaming with gusto and my fellow students lounging in the grass. I am beginning to feel like I can make it through the final push out of winter and into spring, especially if time keeps moving as quickly as it has been.

Nonetheless, to welcome springtime with open arms seems a bit premature at this point, especially as I look at the torrential downpour going on outside (lest I forget that I still live in Portland). I'm still clinging to a late winter menu most of the time, trying to help myself get through my busy weeks with warm, soulful foods. Because I spend most of my weekdays on campus from the early morning until late at night, I try to use my weekends to make food that will last me throughout the week. Soups, in particular, are great for longevity, though I often feel reluctant to make them because sometimes they don't seem substantial enough to constitute a whole meal. This very conundrum reminds me of this episode of Seinfeld, in which Jerry and Elaine attempt to determine when soup does and doesn't count as a meal. They never reach a conclusion. I find myself neglecting to make soup because big plates of roasted, sautéed, or broiled foods heaped together seem better suited to usher me through a long week of class.

I decided to reconsider my bias when I ended up buying a few pounds of chickpeas in bulk a couple of weeks back. It was only after I got home from the food co-op that I realized I hadn't actually given any consideration to what I would do with the chickpeas. Then I remembered a dish my mom started making for me a few years ago--a hearty, Moroccan-style chickpea stew with tons of tomatoes and sweet raisins. Something clicked, and I knew soup was the right way to go. This one is thick with toasted chickpeas and plumped up raisins, which add a faint but persistent note of syrupy sweetness to the otherwise nutty flavors. After a week of happily devouring it, I can confidently say it has crossed the threshold into meal territory.

CHICKPEA TOMATO STEW WITH RAISINS

I'm not sure where my mom got the recipe for her original version of this, but I got a little help from this recipe.

1 tsp. paprika

1 tsp. salt

1/2 tsp black pepper

1/2 tsp. cloves

1/2 tsp. coriander

1/2 tsp. cayenne

1/2 tsp. ginger

1/2-1 stick cinnamon

2 cups chickpeas (if you use canned, drain and rinse; see note below if using dried)

1/2 cups raisins (you can use golden raisins, currants, or a combination of all three if you prefer)

4 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil, divided

2-3 cloves garlic, finely chopped

1 medium yellow onion, diced

1 14.5oz can organic tomato sauce

4 cups low-sodium vegetable broth

1 lb. baby Yukon gold potatoes, cut into 1-inch chunks

handful of parsley, chopped

1. Preheat oven to 450ºF. Stir together paprika and next six ingredients in a small bowl and set aside.

2. Toss chickpeas in 1-2 tablespoons of oil (I always end up going heavy on the oil--whoops) and spread evenly on a large rimmed baking sheet. Roast, stirring occasionally, until slightly toasted, about 15 minutes. Set aside.

3. Heat remaining oil in a medium stockpot over medium heat. Add the garlic and onion and cook until soft and translucent, about 5-6 minutes. Stir in spice mixture and continue cooking, stirring occasionally, until spices are toasted and fragrant, about 2 minutes. Add tomato sauce and stir, cooking 2 minutes more.

4. Add broth, potatoes, and chickpeas and bring to a boil. Reduce heat to medium-low, cover and simmer until potatoes are tender (almost "al dente"), about 20 minutes. Uncover pot, stir in the raisins, and simmer until stew is thickened and the chickpeas are tender, about 25 minutes more. Serve with parsley and enjoy.

Rewriting my history

2011-03-07T21:58:00.000-08:00

I have been thinking a lot lately about my food history, about how I ended up with a deepening appreciation for and fascination with food. I didn't start out like a lot other "foodies," whose childhood memories are peppered with lively and fragrant nights around the dinner table or cooking lessons from skilled, intuitive parents. Not that my parents aren't skilled or intuitive, mind you, it's just that much of their culinary skills when I was growing up started and ended with frozen peas. With varying degrees of embarrassment and acceptance, I admit that my fondest recollections of food revolve around diving into special-occasion Vienetta ice cream cakes and licking the remnants of Lays potato chips off my fingers. I was raised on processed (and so-called "convenience") foods, and making the transition away from that style of eating has been a kind of hazy process, filled with missteps and leaps into the sometimes unknown realm of local goods.

As I have grown to appreciate different, more wholesome foods, I have certainly developed newer, more vivid food memories. I still get shivers thinking about the first time I tasted goat cheese, deep-fried and drizzled with honey. I felt like the ultimate hedonist, and at that time I still considered myself vegan, so indulging in such a sensual and taboo initiation was riddled with giddy excitement and rebellious abandon. That night marked a shift in time such that I can reasonably divide my life into "the period before goat cheese" and "the period with goat cheese." It's a lot better on this side, though I probably don't have to tell you that.

Even though there are certain foods, like goat cheese, that very clearly punctuate my transition into a more food-centric lifestyle, there are others whose growing presence has been more subtle. Take polenta, for instance. I know there had to have been a time when I first tasted polenta, but doing so wasn't quite such a revelation. Polenta just settled comfortably into my culinary life, happily called upon to add just the right amount of buttery softness to a dish. There's a place in anyone's repertoire for both kinds of foods--those that completely disarm you, unravel your tastebuds, and entice you down a road of further indulgence, and those that remain steady, don't show off, but have attained a respected status as a delectable kitchen staple.

Sometimes staples need some dressing up, so I figured I'd give polenta a little special treatment. As much as I love the stuff as a creamy porridge of sorts, or fried in rounds with a generous heaping of fresh tomato sauce, I had a craving for something only slightly more decadent. Let's just say that after eating these, I am heavily indebted to my broiler.

LEMON POLENTA FRIES WITH PARSLEY-HAZELNUT PESTO

Inspired by Gourmet

Feel free to double the quantities in the basic recipe if you want more--I certainly did.

FOR POLENTA:

Good quality olive oil for brushing

3 1/4 cups cold water

1 cup polenta (not quick-cooking)

1 tsp lemon juice

1 tsp grated lemon zest

1/2 cup grated Parmigiano-Reggiano

2 tablespoons unsalted butter, cut into bits

FOR PESTO (this is the same basic recipe as my parsley-almond pesto, just with hazelnuts substituted for the almonds):

2 cups packed Italian parsley leaves
1/4 cup extra-virgin olive oil
2 tablespoons hazelnuts, toasted and cooled with skins rubbed off
2 tablespoons fresh lemon juice
2 tablespoons water
1 clove garlic, peeled

1. Brush an 8-inch square baking dish with oil.

2. Combine water and polenta in a heavy medium saucepan and bring to a boil over medium heat, whisking. Reduce heat to medium-low and cook, stirring constantly with a long-handled wooden spoon, until polenta begins to pull away from the side of the pan. Add lemon juice and zest; stir to combine. Season with salt and pepper to taste. Stir in cheese and butter until incorporated, then transfer polenta to a baking dish and spread evenly with a dampened rubber spatula. Chill, uncovered, until set, about 45 minutes (the polenta will dry out a little bit on top, so if you plan to let it chill for longer, make sure to cover the top with foil after the initially 45 minutes).

3. Meanwhile, blend all ingredients for pesto in a food processor until combined (do not overmix). Season with salt and pepper to taste.

4. Preheat broiler. Line a baking sheet with foil and brush with oil.

5. Unmold polenta, then cut into sticks (about 4- by 1-inches). Brush tops with oil and space evenly on baking sheet. Broil about 4 inches from heat until golden, about 8-10, then flip and continue broiling for 8-10 minutes more.

29

2011-02-24T19:28:00.000-08:00

All things considered, Valentine's Day was pretty quiet around here. Sure, all of us in the house had to work, as did our significant others, so it makes sense that we let the day come and go with minimal commotion. But really, I think we were all resting up to make sure we were prepared for an even more special occasion: Joshua's 29th birthday party.

We take parties very seriously here, and Saturday night was certainly no exception. Joshua decided he wanted something like a Valentine's run-off theme, completely over-the-top with satin jewel-toned fabrics and cut-out paper hearts all over the place. Michael, Joshua's boyfriend, went to a florist a few days prior and got a garden's worth of V-day rejects, so we had slightly wrinkled bouquets of roses strewn about the house. And let's not forget the candles, which burned long into the evening and were quite possibly visible from space. Yes, last night delightfully tacky and opulent was the name of the game.

For my part, I opted for simplicity. Well, almost. I wanted to make something decadent, but not showy (we had plenty of that going on). Appropriately, my ice cream maker yearned for use. I'm sure it's been feeling neglected since I got back to Portland, so I figured I would give it the attention it deserves and make chocolate hazelnut gelato (aka gianduja gelato--the fancy name elevates it to birthday party status, don't you think?).

I am so glad I finally came around to hazelnuts (much of my adolescence was spent emphatically rejecting Nutella while everyone else around me oohed and aahed at the stuff). After being toasted in the oven, hazelnuts lend a full-bodied, caramel sweetness to slightly bitter chocolate. The result is subtle, rich, and complex--perfectly suited to help us in the house celebrate Joshua's birthday. There's only one problem with this gelato. It's absolutely impossible to make as much as you're going to want.

GIANDUJA (CHOCOLATE-HAZELNUT) GELATO

From Gourmet

INGREDIENTS:

2 cups hazelnuts, toasted, skins rubbed off, and cooled

3/4 cup sugar

1/8 tsp salt

4 1/2 cups whole milk (use whole milk--c'mon, it's gelato!)

3 tbsp cornstarch

bittersweet chocolate, finely chopped (I used a bar of 60% cacao Ghiradelli)

EQUIPMENT:

An ice cream maker

1. Pulse hazelnuts with sugar and salt in a food processor until finely ground. Transfer to a heavy saucepan with milk and bring to a boil, stirring occasionally. Remove from heat and let steep, covered, 20 minutes.

2. Strain mixture through a fine-mesh sieve into a bowl, then return to cleaned saucepan.

3. Put 1/4 cup milk mixture in a small bowl and whisk in cornstarch. Return to saucepan, then boil over medium head 2 minutes, whisking often (mixture will be thick, like pudding). Remove from head and add chocolate (about half to 3/4 of a bar, in my case), stirring until melted and incorporated. Chill, stirring occasionally, until very cold, 3 to 6 hours.

4. If your mixture has clumps after cooling, put in a food processor and blend until smooth.

5. Prepare gelato according to ice cream maker instructions. Transfer to an airtight container and put in freezer to firm up. Gelato lasts one week (if you're lucky or incredibly self-restrained).

Seeing red

2011-02-15T23:21:00.000-08:00

Trying to muster up any original insights on Valentine's Day seems fruitless. We all already know the dramatic range of feelings about the holiday, from defiance against corporate America to schmultzy, romantic indulgence, from bitter resentment to downright cluelessness. We've heard it all. My personal attitudes toward Valentine's Day fall somewhere between ambivalence and moderate joviality. When February 14th rolls around and I'm feeling particularly celebratory, it really has nothing to do with dorky cards or over-the-top displays of affection. It's much more about the color red.

Red is far and away my favorite color. My hair was dyed in various shades during my high school years, from fire-engine to purple-y crimson. My glasses are red, and so are my water bottle and my winter coat. I went to replace my red cell phone over winter break (mine has a crack in the screen) and the first question out of my mouth was why all of the new models were either black or silver, with no red phones in sight. I know it's downright silly, but I walked away with my scratched up phone still tucked in my pocket because the thought of not having a red cell phone just felt weird to me (the only two phones I've ever had have been red). Red and I have a special bond, and Valentine's Day just so happens to be the perfect excuse to celebrate that bond.

Yesterday I was decked out in all of my usual favorite red accoutrements, and I even pulled on a pair of too-infrequently worn red heels for the occasion. Given the relatively subdued color palette most Portlanders tend to don during mid-February, I must have looked like a one-woman Valentine's Day parade. Many commented on how seriously I must take the holiday, which made me chuckle. Sure, I thought, I am very serious about this opportunity to sport as much red in a day as is socially acceptable. Can't let this one pass me by.

Of course, I wasn't just wearing red. After clearing out all of the various root veggies from my most recent CSA delivery, I was eating red, too. Such is the beauty of cooking with beets. By the time I had finished making this root vegetable and mushroom pie, the beets had worked their Valentine's Day magic and spread their lovely pinkish-red hue to every turnip, sunchoke, and potato in sight. It may not be the prettiest date of all, but I'm still swooning anyway.

ROOT VEGETABLE AND MUSHROOM PIE WITH ROSEMARY BISCUIT CRUST
Adapted from Bon Appetit

The original recipe calls for a combination of carrots, parsnips, and rutabegas instead of the beets, sunchokes, and potatoes. Use whatever you have on hand--I just threw in what was left of this week's produce from my CSA box, but any combo of root veggies should be delicious.

FOR THE FILLING:
4 cups water
2 cups vegetable stock
3-4 medium sized beets, peeled cut crosswise into 1/2-inch pieces
3-4 small turnips, peeled cut crosswise into 1/2-inch pieces
1 lb. baby new potatoes, cut crosswise into 1/2-inch pieces
1 large celery root, peeled and cut crosswise into 1/2-inch pieces
4-5 medium sunchokes, peeled and cut crosswise into 1/2-inch pieces
3 tbsp butter
2 cups chopped onions

2 medium sized portobello mushrooms, coarsely chopped (you can keep or discard the stems)

1 cup shiitake mushrooms, chopped

4 large garlic cloves, chopped
1/2 tsp minced fresh rosemary
1/2 cup all purpose flour
1/4 cup heavy cream
2 tablespoons red wine vinegar
1/4 cup chopped fresh Italian parsley

FOR THE BISCUITS:
2 1/4 cups unbleached all-purpose flour
1 tbsp baking powder
2 tsp minced fresh rosemary
1 tsp salt
6 tbsp (3/4 stick) chilled unsalted butter, diced
1 1/3 cups chilled buttermilk

1. Preheat oven to 400ºF. Bring water and vegetable stock to a boil in a large pot over medium-high heat. Add beets and next four ingredients. Simmer until vegetables are slightly tender, about 4-5 minutes. Drain into a bowl; reserve vegetables and broth.

2. Melt butter in same pot over medium heat. Add onions and sauté until beginning to brown, about 7 minutes. Mix in mushrooms, garlic, and rosemary; stir for 2 minutes. Add flour and stir until well combined with butter (I added a little more butter at this stage in the game, and you might need to as well). Gradually whisk in reserved broth, then cream and red wine vinegar. Cook on medium-low heat until sauce is thick and reduced to 4 cups, whisking often, about 8 minutes. Mix in reserved vegetables and parsley. Season with salt and pepper. Transfer filling to buttered 13x9x2-inch baking dish.

*Filling can be made 2 days ahead, just cover with foil and chill.

3. Bake filling, covered, until bubbling, about 40-50 minutes.

4. Meanwhile, prepare biscuits. Stir first 4 ingredients in a large bowl to blend. Add butter and use fingertips to rub in butter until the mixture resembles coarse meal. Gradually add buttermilk, mixing dough with fork until evenly moistened. Add more buttermilk by the tablespoon if dry.

5. Drop biscuit dough atop hot filling by heaping tablespoons and sprinkle with pepper. Bake uncovered until toothpick inserted into center of biscuits comes out clean, about 40-45 minutes. Cool 15 minutes.

Backdating

2011-02-06T15:00:00.000-08:00

It's a boring story by now, I'm sure, that I have spent the last several months falling head over heels in love--with cranberries. I know I've featured a few recipes here about oatmeal and scones celebrating the juicy little treat, but trust me I haven't stopped there. From hot cranberry compotes bubbling on the stove to tart-sweet juices sipped at the farmer's market, I am completely hopeless at turning down anything involving a cranberry. Which, of course, is what brings me here now.

As a bit of an aside, now that school has started back up, I am finding myself strapped for time once again. I know that once the initial hubbub dies down, I will be able to settle into some sort of rhythm (ah, wishful thinking), but as of now I have had a hard time getting myself into the cooking spirit. That isn't to say I haven't been cooking--it's just that most of what I have made and eaten in the past week or so has consisted of root vegetable hash (this round with celery root and Jerusalem artichoke) and beans and rice with spicy cilantro pesto. Feeling somewhat overwhelmed at the transition back to Portland life has made me a little lazy, and I take comfort in being able to cook a big pot of something simple and wholesome to help me charge through the week. It's just that, even though I know everyone loves beans and rice (or everyone should), it doesn't make for the most interesting topic of discussion.

So that's why I return to the cranberry, and in so doing, I'm heading back in time a little. After all, how could one not get all dreamy-eyed thinking about cranberries, especially when they form the foundation for a vanilla sugar coffee cake? Yeah, that's a little more exciting than beans and rice.

I want to share the recipe for this lovely cake even though I haven't made it since Christmas. I meant to write about it over winter break, but I got sidetracked by the lures of ice cream. Don't let that fool you into thinking that this cake deserves to be pushed aside, however. Hot from the oven, this cake will seduce you with its buttery, vanilla perfume. Just you wait. I added almonds to the original recipe to give a little crunch to the juicy, sweet cranberry center, and I think it was an excellent move. I fell in love with this cake, and with the cranberries that make it so perfect for a winter breakfast, so I'm hoping you will too.

CRANBERRY-ALMOND VANILLA COFFEE CAKE

Adapted from Gourmet

1/2 vanilla bean, split lengthwise (don't use vanilla extract)

1 3/4 cups sugar

2 cups fresh cranberries (we all know I love Vincent Family Cranberries)

3/4 cup raw almonds

2 cups plus 1 tablespoon all-purpose flour, divided

2 teaspoons baking powder

3/4 teaspoon salt

1 stick plus 1 tablespoon unsalted butter, softened, divided

2 large eggs

1/2 cup whole milk

confectioner's sugar to garnish

1. Preheat oven to 375ºF with rack in middle. Generously butter a 9- by 2-inch round cake pan. Line bottom with a round of parchment paper and butter parchment.

2. Scrape seeds from vanilla bean into a food processor with tip of a paring knife (reserve pod if desired). Add sugar and pulse to combine. Transfer to a bowl.

3. Pulse cranberries and almonds with 1/2 cup vanilla sugar in processor until finely chopped (do not purée).

4. Whisk together 2 cups flour, baking powder, and salt.

5. Beat together 1 stick butter and 1 cup vanilla sugar in a bowl with an electric mixer at medium-high speed until pale and fluffy. Add eggs 1 at a time, beating well after each addition. Scrape down sides and bottom of bowl. Reduce speed to low and mix in flour mixture and milk alternately in batches, beginning and ending with flour, until just combined.

6. Spread half of batter in pan, then spoon cranberries over it, leaving a 1/2-inch border around edge. Tope with remaining batter and smooth top.

7. Blend remaining 1/4 cup vanilla sugar with remaining tbsp each of butter and flour using your fingertips. Crumble over top of cake.

8. Bake until a wooden pick inserted into cake (not into cranberry-almond filling) comes out clean and side begins to pull away from pan, 45 to 50 minutes. Cool in pan 30 minutes, then remove from pan and cool completely, crumb side up.

Victory and defeat

2011-01-26T14:39:00.000-08:00

If you care about football, you already know by now that the Jets lost the AFC championship to the Steelers on Sunday. Normally, this is not the kind of information that would cause too much of a stir in my life, but that was before I started dating a New Yorker. Josh loves the Jets with such a brotherly sincerity that even I felt a little crushed when the clock ran out at the end of the fourth quarter, leaving a whole slew of men donning white and green to walk off the field utterly defeated. Even though I have somewhat of a soft spot for the Steelers, I couldn't help but sympathize with the Jets as well as the man sitting next to me on the couch, whose face all but beat out Rex Ryan's in terms of sheer dejection.

Luckily, there are cures for this kind of thing. Time is the best of course, but before the wounds of defeat close up, there's always chili. The version I made, from Mark Bittman's How to Cook Everything Vegetarian, is richly sweet with a boost of flavor from smoky chili powder and strong, bitter espresso. I served it with raw milk aged gouda, cilantro, and avocado, and I could not have been more pleased with the results. This is one of those simple, one-pot meals that does most of the work on its own, so that no matter the situation, you can be sure of culinary victory. I know that was cheesy, but trust me, you won't care after you give this chili a shot. It's superb.

ESPRESSO BLACK BEAN CHILI
From How to Cook Everything Vegetarian

3 tablespoons olive oil
2 medium onions, chopped
2 tablespoons minced garlic
3 cups chopped ripe tomato (about 1 1/2 lbs. whole; if using canned, don't bother to drain)
1/2 to 1 cup freshly brewed espresso, 1 to 2 cups brewed coffee, or 2 tablespoons espresso powder
2 tablespoons chili powder
1/4 cup dark brown sugar or 3 tablespoons molasses
One 3-inch cinnamon stick
1 pound dried black beans, washed and picked over
Salt and freshly ground black pepper

To serve:
Sour cream
Cilantro
Shredded cheese
Avocado

1. Put the oil in a large pot with a tight-fitting lid over medium-high heat. When hot, add the onions and cook, stirring occasionally, until soft, about 5 minutes. Add the garlic and cook for another minute.

2. Stir in the tomato, espresso, brown sugar, cinnamon, and beans; add water to cover. Bring to a boil, then lower the heat so the liquid bubbles steadily but not violently. Cover and cook, stirring occasionally, until the beans begin to soften, 30 to 40 minutes. Add a good pinch of salt and pepper.

3. Continue cooking until the beans are tender, anywhere from another 45 minutes to 1 1/2 hours. Taste and adjust the seasoning, adding more sugar, salt, or pepper. Serve or store, covered, in the refrigerator for up to 3 days.

Impulse

2011-01-23T21:23:00.000-08:00

There I was, on what seemed like my hundreth pass down the kitchen supplies aisle at the ARC thrift store in Fort Collins, when something unnoticed suddenly caught my eye. I had been mindlessly browsing the selection of old teacups and bundt pans while Allie tried on an impressive assortment of fake leather and lime green pants, but I'm surprised I didn't see this gem sooner.

I have been fighting the urge to buy an ice cream maker for a long, long time now. I was so proud of myself for resisting temptation during the weeks of blistering heat last summer, despite the fact that there were a few evenings where I went to bed realizing I had eaten ice cream for dinner. But I could keep those kinds of incidents low, I thought, as long as an ice cream maker remained absent from my mish-mash of kitchen gadgets. I did well for awhile, but I was completely hopeless before this beauty. Seven dollars for a bright red, salt- and ice-less wonder capable of churning out decadent and simple ice cream in half an hour. But you know, even as I was standing in the checkout line wondering if I could fit an ice cream maker into my carry-on, I felt no remorse. Despite prior attempts at resistance, I feel good about this purchase, impulsive though it was. It's probably best that I bought it in the winter anyway, so that I'm not too tempted to use ice cream as a mildly effective replacement for air conditioning in mid-July. It might help me not to go too overboard. Maybe.

Admittedly, I made ice cream twice within the first 72 hours or so of having this machine, so maybe I'm not doing so well on the temperance thing, but it was so worth it. My friend Sylvan brought me some wonderful milk and eggs from the dairy in Fort Collins where she works and we made a simple, decadently rich batch of vanilla bean ice cream. My dad and I upped the ante when I got back to Denver by adding cookie dough (one of his favorites). Heavenly, really. The ice cream is soft and a little thin right after it's made, but it's even better after it's had time to set up in the freezer for a day or so.

CHOCOLATE CHIP COOKIE DOUGH ICE CREAM

Cookie recipe from Orangette added to the basic vanilla ice cream recipe that came with the new addition to my kitchen family

FOR THE COOKIE DOUGH:

2 cups minus 2 Tbsp. cake flour

1 2/3 cups bread flour

1 1/4 tsp. baking soda

1 1/2 tsp. baking powder

1 1/2 tsp. coarse salt, such as kosher

2 1/2 sticks unsalted butter, softened

1 1/4 cups light brown sugar

1 cup plus 2 Tbsp. granulated sugar

2 large eggs

2 tsp. vanilla extract

1 1/4 pounds bittersweet chocolate chips (~60% cacao), such as Ghiradelli

FOR THE ICE CREAM:

2 eggs

2/3 cup sugar

1 3/4 cup milk

2 cups cream

1 vanilla bean

1. Sift together flours, baking soda, baking powder, and salt in a bowl and set aside.

2. Cream together butter and sugars with a hand-mixer until light and fluffy, about 3 to 5 minutes. Add the eggs, one at a time, mixing well after each addition. Mix in the vanilla. Scrape down the sides of the bowl with a rubber spatula as needed. Add dry ingredients in batches with the mixer speed on low and mix until just combined. Add the chocolate chips and mix briefly to incorporate. Press plastic wrap against the dough and refrigerate overnight.

3. To prepare the ice cream base, beat eggs and sugar with a hand mixer until thick and cream-colored. Slice the vanilla bean lengthwise and add the seeds, milk, and cream to the egg mixture. Mix well. Use immediately, or refrigerate overnight.

4. When ready to make ice cream, add 1/2 inch pieces of cookie dough to the ice cream base. Add base to ice cream maker and prepare according to manufacturer instructions.

(You're bound to have cookie dough leftover, and as such, I recommend you make cookies! Preheat the oven to 350ºF. Remove dough from the refrigerator and let the dough come to room temperature. Line a baking sheet with parchment paper. Using an ice cream scoop, scoop six mounds of dough onto the baking sheet, spacing them evenly. Sprinkle lightly with sea salt, and bake until golden brown but still soft, 18-22 minutes. Let cookies cool for ten minutes, then transfer to a wire rack to cool completely. Repeat with remaining dough).

Breakfast for dinner

2011-01-15T15:49:00.000-08:00

I hope I haven't misrepresented myself too much. After all my talk about how ~~predictable~~ reliable I am in my breakfast routine, I am afraid I might have suggested that I just don't like most breakfast foods. Nothing, in fact, could be further from the truth. I love breakfast--pancakes, waffles, benedicts, crêpes, hashes, whatever (meat-free, of course), I want it all. In fact, going out for breakfast has always been the most challenging of restaurant experiences for me, and has led to my ordering heaping plates of delectables both sweet and savory in greater quantities than any reasonable person should even attempt to consume. Thank goodness for the to-go box and its ability to extend a great breakfast throughout the course of the day in the form of repeated nibblings and trips to the refrigerator. I even have a pre-plane breakfast ritual, wherein I pay a visit to Paradox Cafe for thick corn pancakes, a veggie scramble, and bottomless cups of coffee before heading off to the airport to head to Denver, my stomach heartily stuffed and an equally full to-go box in my carry-on. Trust me, just because I eat more than my share of fried eggs in the morning doesn't mean I don't love other breakfast-y type foods (it just means I really, really love fried eggs).

Breakfast is a meal so rich, so fortifying, and so perfect that I often find myself craving foods from among the traditional early-morning repertoire all throughout the day. I know breakfast for dinner is not a new concept, but it is one that I embrace with my whole heart and belly. I regularly feel strapped for time in the morning before I pack up and head to class or work, and part of the stability in my breakfast routine stems from the convenience factor of frying an egg over making pancakes, for example. Breakfast for dinner affords me the opportunity to make a more intricate and involved meal when I actually have the time for it, once the rigors of work and school have been conquered and I'm home for the evening.

This recipe celebrates the various flavors and textures of those now-ubiquitous winter root vegetables and adds a bright burst of lemon and parsley to elevate a standard roasted breakfast hash to the next level. Plus, anything served with an egg on top (in this case poached and not fried, but still) is bound to get a resounding approval from everyone at the table no matter what time of day it is.

ROOT VEGETABLE HASH WITH POACHED EGGS AND PARSLEY-ALMOND PESTO
Adapted from Epicurious

FOR THE PESTO:
2 cups packed Italian parsley leaves
1/4 cup extra-virgin olive oil
2 tablespoons almonds, toasted (you can do this yourself with raw almonds placed in a dry pan over medium-low heat on the stovetop)
2 tablespoons fresh lemon juice
2 tablespoons water
1 clove garlic, peeled

FOR THE HASH:
2 1/2 cups 1/2-inch dice red potatoes (about 1 pound)
2 1/2 cups 1/2-inch dice peeled parsnips
1 1/2 cups 1/2-inch dice peeled carrots
1 1/2 cups chopped roasted red peppers (since peppers aren't in season right now, I opted for jarred peppers from the US--just make sure you don't get any with high-fructose corn syrup in them)
2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
3 garlic cloves, minced
4 green onions, sliced (green and white parts)

4 large eggs

1. Preheat oven to 400ºF
2. Blend all ingredients for pesto in food processor until almost smooth. Season with salt and pepper.
3. Grease a large rimmed baking sheet with olive oil. Toss potatoes, parsnips, and carrots on prepared sheet and spread in a single layer. Season generously with sea salt and fresh-crack black pepper. Roast vegetables until tender, about 45 minutes. Stir in garlic, red peppers, and white parts of onions and roast 5 additional minutes. Remove from oven and add the green parts of the onions.
4. Meanwhile, bring a pot of water at least 3 inches deep to boil. Add 1 tablespoon vinegar. When the vegetables have about 15 minutes of cook time remaining, reduce heat to a steady simmer. Then, crack eggs (one at a time) into a coffee cup or ramekin and slide into simmering water. Poach until softly set, about 2-3 minutes, then carefully remove from water with a slotted spoon and drain on a plate lined with a paper towel.
5. When vegetables are cooked, divide hash among four plates and use a slotted spoon to carefully top each serving with 1 poached egg. Drizzle with pesto and enjoy.

Note: If you use fresh red bell peppers, add them to the roasting pan with the root vegetables; otherwise, mix them in with the garlic and white parts of the onions.

Ringing in the new year

2011-01-03T20:46:00.000-08:00

Even though I have spent the last few years falling in love with Portland and all of its idiosyncrasies, I must confess that I am completely and hopelessly devoted to Colorado. After moving away, I have developed a much richer appreciation for Denver's thin, dry air and almost-unfailing sunshine, even during these chilly mid-winter days. I love the way the Rockies unfurl across the clear blue sky behind the long, flat stretches of corn and wheat fields to the west of I-25, and during the summer I go weak in the knees for juicy, drippy, sweet Palisade peaches or crisp and tender Olathe corn. Colorado remains among the most beautiful places I have ever seen, and upon every homecoming I discover new treasures nestled in Denver to deepen my long-standing infatuation with this charming city. Since being back for this round of vacations, I happened to find Denver Urban Homesteading's year-round, indoor farmer's market. I was searching for a place to buy local dairy products when I stumbled across DUH's website, and was delighted to have the opportunity to go to their brick-and-mortar market with my parents a week or so ago. This place definitely gets a spot on the list of wonderful Denver-based gems.

We went during the week, when most of the vendors were (unfortunately) not there. Nonetheless, we got to check out the space and are planning a return visit on an upcoming Saturday to see the market in full-swing (or, as full-swing as it gets during January). Despite the fact that only a few folks were there selling their wares when we made our visit, we certainly did not leave empty-handed. In the back room of the market was a bountiful display of handmade pastas from Pappardelle's, a local company familiar to my family for its presence at the summertime farmer's market near the Cherry Creek mall. Pappardelle's pastas are truly something special, and my mother has received heaps of praise from friends and colleagues for the dishes she prepares with the stuff. A fragrant and thick-cut lemon pepper linguine caught my eye, and I walked out of the market giddy to search for a dish that would let the pasta shine.

A few months back, I saved a recipe for a Brussels sprouts barigoule, a dish traditionally made with artichokes braised in white wine and served with aromatic vegetables. This spin on a classic barigoule highlights one of my favorite winter staples, and seemed like the perfect venue for my delicious, peppery ribbons of pasta.

Especially after a week of tour-de-force cake-baking (Christmas and my brother's birthday fall within six days of one another, and both obviously demand cake consumption), this recipe is a wonderful way to rest an overworked and overstuffed stomach. The leeks and Brussels sprouts marry well with white wine and lemon juice to create a light, tangy-sweet broth. Nutty, freshly shaved parmigiano-reggiano, a few pinches of salt, and some cracked black pepper round out the dish and make it a perfect way to ring in a healthy and full new year. May I resolve to eat as much of Pappardelle's pastas as I can before I pack up and return to the Pacific Northwest.

LINGUINE WITH BRUSSELS SPROUTS BARIGOULE

Adapted from Gourmet

3/4 lb Brussels sprouts, trimmed and quartered lengthwise

2 leeks

3 tbsp extra virgin olive oil, divided

3 tbsp unsalted butter, divided

4 garlic cloves, finely chopped

2/3 cup dry white wine

3 cups water

1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice

2 tsp thyme

1/2 lb lemon pepper linguine

1/4 cup chopped flat-leaf parsley

1/4 cup grated parmigiano-reggiano

1. Thinly slice leeks, then wash and drain in a colander. Cook leeks in 2 tbsp oil and 2 tbsp butter with 1/4 tsp each of salt and pepper in a 12-inch heavy skillet over medium heat, stirring occasionally, until softened, about 5 minutes. Add garlic and cook, stirring, for 1 minute. Add wine and simmer until most of the liquid has evaporated. Add water, lemon juice, thyme, and remaining tbsp each of oil and butter. Simmer briskly, covered, until liquid is reduced by half. Stir in Brussels sprouts and simmer, covered, stirring occasionally until sprouts are tender, about 5-7 minutes.

2. Meanwhile, cook linguine in a pot of boiling, salted water until almost al dente. Reserve 1 1/2 cups pasta-cooking water, then drain pasta.

3. Stir linguine into vegetables with reserved cooking water. Add salt and pepper to taste. Simmer until pasta is al dente, 2-3 minutes. Remove from heat and toss with parsley. Serve in shallow bowls with some of broth. Top with freshly grated parmigiano-reggiano.

Variations on a theme

2010-12-23T12:12:00.000-08:00

Admittedly, I am quite the creature of habit. I eat the same thing for breakfast every day, and often fall back on the usual suspects in the produce department to take center stage for my other meals. Sometimes I have my moments when I ~~completely~~ partially go out on a limb (like eating pancakes instead of a fried egg for breakfast, oh boy), but for the most part I stay within my comfort zone. Call me predictable, but when something tastes so good that it hits the spot every time, I can't help but get tunnel vision.

Enter the cranberry--a juicy, tart, jewel-hued delight of a fruit that has found a comfortable place in my repertoire for winter cooking. I can't get enough of them. Remember a few weeks ago when I posted about cranberry-ginger oatmeal? After spooning out bowls and bowls of the stuff for myself every morning for a week or two (talk about breaking with habit!), I began to crave something a little sturdier, a little crumbly. I wanted a scone.

I had made oatmeal scones before from a recipe I found on Gourmet's website, and after stocking up on a few bags of Vincent Family cranberries, I thought I'd dress up my new favorite breakfast treat with a little soft butter and creamy buttermilk. Perfect to tuck into my bag before running off to school, or to nibble on with a cup of coffee sitting at my parents' Thanksgiving (or Christmas!) table. I've made these with dried and fresh cranberries, but I have to say that nothing beats the burst of tart, syrupy juice from a whole, fresh berry nestled right into the crumbly, dense scone. I might just be forming a cranberry habit yet.

CRANBERRY OATMEAL SCONES

Adapted from Gourmet

1 2/3 cups all-purpose flour

1/4 cup plus 2 tbsp packed light brown sugar

3/4 tsp cinnamon

1 tbsp baking powder

3/4 tsp baking soda

1/2 tsp salt

1 1/3 cups plus 2 tbsp old-fashioned rolled oats

1 1/2 sticks (3/4 cup) cold unsalted butter, cut into tablespoon-sized pieces

2/3 cup well-shaken buttermilk plus additional for brushing (I used 2/3 cup of heavy cream mixed with 2 tsp of white distilled vinegar as a substitute for buttermilk--just let the mixture sit for 5-10 minutes until it curdles)

1/2 cup fresh or dried cranberries (if using dried, try to find some with no sugar added)

1. Put oven rack in middle position and preheat oven to 425ºF.

2. Sift together flour, 1/4 cup brown sugar, cinnamon, baking powder, baking soda, and salt into a food processor. Add 1 1/3 cups oats and pulse 15 times. Add butter and pulse until mixture resembles coarse meal with some pea-size lumps. Transfer to a bowl.

3. Add buttermilk and stir with a fork until a dough just forms. Add cranberries and fold in to the batter.

4. Pat dough into a 9-inch square (1/2 inch thick). Cut into 9 (3-inch) squares. Cut each square diagonally to form 2 triangles. Transfer to an ungreased baking sheet. For larger scones, simply shape each of the 9 original squares into triangles.

5. Brush with buttermilk and sprinkle with remaining brown sugar and oats. Bake until golden brown, about 16 minutes.

Soup for all

2010-12-08T11:45:00.000-08:00

I feel like I need to brace myself. After having just come over the hurdle of one intense, rich, and excessive bout of holiday eating, I'm gearing up for the second go-around. Christmas is inching ever-nearer, and I want to be ready for it. I have been craving foods that will keep me energized, grounded, and not-too-full in these weeks between holidays, so that when the time comes for even more brown-butter squash and goat cheese ravioli and my mom's unbelievably delicious (and unbelievably rich) dressing, my stomach will be well-rested enough to rise to the challenge.

So I'm taking it easy on the food front, and these days that means letting soup take center stage. One of the hardest parts of the winter months is the relative lack of abundance of fruits and veggies, compared to the overflowing produce bins at the farmer's market during the summer. Soup is a great way to get some of the best of the best of winter produce together in one pot, and is a warm reminder to take it slow, to savor, and to appreciate what the earth does bring us in this colder season.

My most recent CSA box delivered me with a bunch of carrots, a huge bulb of fennel, and the largest parsnip I have ever seen (this thing was seriously bigger than my forearm). This soup brings them all together in a delicately sweet, velvety mixture with the slightest hints of licorice from the roasted fennel. I definitely recommend putting the last few hunks of some toasted day-old French bread to mighty good use soaking up the last of the soup from the bottom of the bowl. A perfect way to celebrate December, before Christmas even comes upon us.

ROASTED FENNEL, CARROT, AND PARSNIP SOUP

Adapted from this recipe on Epicurious

2 medium fennel bulbs with fronds
1/2 pound carrots, cut into 1 inch pieces
1/2 pound parsnips, cut into 1 inch pieces
1 medium onion, quartered
3 garlic cloves
5 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil, divided
1/2 teaspoon sugar
2 1/2 cups vegetable broth
2 1/2 cups water
1 teaspoon fennel seeds

Preheat oven to 450°F with rack in lowest position.

Chop enough fennel fronds to measure 1 tablespoon and reserve. Discard stalks and remaining fronds. Slice bulbs 1/4 inch thick and toss with carrots, parsnips, onion, garlic, 3 tablespoons oil, sugar, 1/2 teaspoon salt, and 1/4 teaspoon pepper. Spread in a 4-sided sheet pan and roast, stirring occasionally, until browned and tender, 25 to 30 minutes.

Blend half of vegetables in a blender with broth until very smooth. Transfer to a medium saucepan. Repeat with remaining vegetables and water. Thin to desired consistency with extra water and simmer 2 minutes. Season with salt and pepper.

Meanwhile, finely grind fennel seeds in a grinder or using a mortar and pestle and stir into remaining 2 tablespoons oil. Serve soup drizzled with fennel oil and sprinkled with reserved fronds.

Fortification

2010-12-08T11:04:00.000-08:00

I have to admit that I'm getting pretty sluggish these days. As I was walking home yesterday, I couldn't help but feel a little defeated that the sun was beginning to set at four o'clock in the afternoon. With the little daylight that we have this time of year continuing to dwindle well into late December, a girl could use a pick-me-up. Something bright, comforting, and warm to fortify her through the doom and gloom of finals season in the midst of a Northwest winter. This girl needs oatmeal.

Now I know that oatmeal ranks high among the easiest foods to prepare, and that is precisely why I want to talk about it. I am certainly a sucker for recipes that demand a lot of attention and affection directed their way, and I have been known to carve out substantial chunks of my day so that I can dote on some food item or another. But sometimes, I get tired. And sometimes, when facing an unprecedented onslaught of academic responsibilities, I get tired fast. When that happens, all I want is a fleet of culinary elves, toiling away in the kitchen as I sleep and leaving me with a day's worth of delicious treats (shoes, incidentally, would be nice too). In the absence of such magical assitance, oatmeal comes in at a pretty close second in terms of minimal effort expended. All the better that it happens to be delicious, hearty, and fortifying for a sleepy and bundled up college student bracing herself for another day of cold, damp, and darkness.

CRANBERRY-GINGER OATMEAL WITH TOASTED HAZELNUTS

Bright, tart cranberries from Vincent Family Cranberries and sweet, toasty hazelnuts from Freddy Guys dress up a breakfast standard.

1/2 cup fresh cranberries

1-inch piece of fresh, peeled ginger root

1 cinnamon stick

1/2 tsp cloves

1/4 tsp nutmeg

1/2 cup rolled oats (I used quick-cooking oats)

1 1/4 cup water (more or less depending on how thin/thick you like your oatmeal)

Pinch of salt

1/4 cup hazelnuts (I used a combination of whole hazelnuts and hazelnut pieces)

Add water, cranberries, ginger, and spices to a medium saucepan. Bring to a boil over medium-high heat. When the cranberries begin to burst, lower the heat to medium-low and add the oats, stirring occasionally until the desired consistency is reached, about 5-7 minutes. When oatmeal is cooked, remove the ginger and cinnamon stick and add salt.

Meanwhile, heat a small skillet over medium-low heat and add hazelnuts. Toast in the pan until you can smell the hazelnuts, as this means they are releasing their oils. Turn off heat and add hazelnuts to the oatmeal. Enjoy!

L'heure bleue

2010-12-02T09:49:00.000-08:00

The Portland food scene has been abuzz with gossip lately, mostly notably because head pastry chef at Bluehour, Alissa Rozos, is jumping ship to sign on with the folks at St. Jack. Luckily for me, my boss is good friends with said pastry chef, and he managed to orchestrate a field-trip of sorts for fifteen of us undergrads to Rozos' last official event at Bluehour--a private, three-course meal, topped off with our own personal pastry lesson from Rozos herself.

I remember stumbling across Bluehour for the first time about a year ago as I was en route to Cargo, a veritable warehouse of handcrafted goods from jewelry to furniture to glass. I stopped and stared through the enormous floor-to-ceiling windows of this restaurant nestled right in the heart of Portland's Pearl District and scanned the menu with a sigh, knowing that the contents of my belly would remain as empty as those of my wallet. Bluehour became just another one of those many Portland restaurants whose menus I read longingly on the late nights when I want to find some dreamy refuge from my studies, immersed in fantasies of black truffle gnocchi and chanterelle flan.

Imagine my delight, then, upon being ushered through a non-descript door in the back of the restaurant and up a hidden staircase to Bluehour's private dining room, its walls lined with tall mirrors and old wine bottles. Our group settled in at a long banquet table, each of us brimming with excitement for the rare treat to eat at one of Portland's most celebrated restaurants. I waited eagerly, sipping on my coffee and talking with my classmates about our Thanksgiving plans.

The first course was a thick, nutty parmesan soup that I licked greedily off the back of my spoon. A crusty wedge of dark wheat bread came in handy to soak up the last slurps of cream from the bottom of my bowl--the perfect teaser for what was to come.

Nestled underneath a perfectly poached egg was a bed of crispy fried gnocchi, roasted Brussels sprouts, woodsy fried chanterelle mushrooms, and a tangy salad of daikon radish and haricots verts. There were almost tears, people. The chanterelles melted almost immediately upon hitting my tongue--soft, buttery, and sigh-inducingly rich. The acid from the lemon juice lightly dressing the radishes and haricots verts cut right through the fatty, delectable egg yolk oozing onto the plate, and made what could have otherwise been too heavy of a dish into a complex, utterly satisfying meal. Biting into the gnocchi through their crispy thin crusts contrasted wonderfully with the smooth and delicate burst of potato inside. After that dish, I almost slipped into a food-induced reverie so enchanted I could have easily forgotten about what we had been waiting for all along--Alissa Rozos and her dessert magic.

Wide-eyed and inquisitive, we all watched as Alissa seamlessly worked together the base of her chocolate earl grey tart--a dense, crumbly pâte sucrée. After she pressed her dough into tiny tart rounds, she whisked together even more chocolate with heavy cream, crème fraîche, an egg, and bergamot-infused warm milk, pouring it generously into another set of pre-baked crusts. Served along with a sweet and fluffy ice cream flecked throughout with vanilla bean, this bright, citrusy chocolate wonder made the perfect capstone to a deeply appreciated meal.

CHOCOLATE EARL GREY TART

Courtesy of Alissa Rozos

For the chocolate pâte sucrée:

2 cups all-purpose flour

1/2 cup cocoa powder (Dutch process, if you can)

1/2 cup granulated sugar

1/2 tsp salt

8 oz. unsalted butter, cold and cut into pieces

2 egg yolks

2 tbsp ice water

For the earl grey custard:

7 oz. bittersweet chocolate

1/2 cup whole milk

1 bag earl grey tea

1 egg yolk

1/2 cup crème fraîche

1/2 cup heavy cream

1. Mix flour, cocoa powder, sugar, and salt in a medium bowl. Add egg yolks and ice water to dry ingredients. Add cold butter and mix until batter resembles a coarse meal.

2. Pour mixture onto a clean surface and knead together. Roll out dough, occasionally pressing it together with your hands as it will begin to crumble. Lift the dough off your work surface and lightly dust it with flour to prevent sticking.

3. Roll the dough out to an eighth of an inch in thickness, making sure it is as even as possible. Cut the dough into circle 4" in diameter, then gently press the rounds into 3" tart shells. Chill the dough for at least an hour.

4. Preheat the oven to 350ºF. After the dough has chilled, bake the shells on a baking sheet lined with parchment paper for 5-10 minutes until the dough is slightly dry and firm.

5. Meanwhile, bring milk to a low boil and add the tea bag. Turn the heat off and let the tea steep for 5-10 minutes, then discard the bag.

6. Melt the chocolate over a double-boiler. Add the milk to the melted chocolate and whisk to combine. Add the crème fraîche, egg yolk, and heavy cream. Scrape down the sides of the bowl and mix thoroughly.

7. Pour the custard mixture into the tart rounds, nearly filling each one. Bake for 5-8 minutes at 325ºF. Remove from tart shells and serve with vanilla bean ice cream.

On pickling

2010-11-20T18:00:00.000-08:00

A few weeks ago, over Fall Break, Anne and I went downtown to the Portland Fermentation Festival, a whole evening devoted to the celebration of all things salted and submerged in vinegar. After sampling all manner of pickled chili peppers, radishes, cabbage, and garlic, I decided I wanted to take the plunge. Call it another adventure in my desire to delve right into DIY, but talking to those pickling enthusiasts got me all excited about trying my hand at the whole business.

I know I have already mentioned how fortunate I am to work at the farmers' market, but nothing quite prepared me for the day when the produce gods would present me with a five-pound Romanesco broccoli, mesmerizing in its gorgeous, fractal wonder. As I cradled my newly purchased Romanesco on the bus ride home, I could only think of one thing: pickles.

I admit I was scared since I had never pickled anything before, and consequently the Romanesco sat in my refrigerator for a few days before I finally treated it to the hot vinegar bath it so desperately deserved. Once I got started with the process, however, I wondered why I on earth I hadn't started preserving ages ago.

I filled my mason jars with cumin, coriander, turmeric, black pepper, fennel seed, chili flakes, and bay leaves before adding a mixture of lightly boiled Romanesco florets, beets, and parsnips. I carefully topped the jars off with a hot, salty broth of white vinegar, tightly screwed on the lids, then submerged my soon-to-be pickles in a pot of boiling water.

As the final credits rolled on Pride and Prejudice--of which Sara and I purchased an emergency copy, but that's a whole different story--I listened and counted six loud, clear pops spring forth from my kitchen. I had done it, and now I can consider myself among the ranks of those other pickling enthusiasts out there. Who knows what's next for me--more Romanesco, to be sure, but come springtime maybe some nice slender asparagus spears, or crisp green beans in the summer. For a girl who is as fond of salt and vinegar as I am, I'm sure it won't be hard to dream up another adventure in the world of pickling.

Fall Break

2010-11-03T11:23:00.000-07:00

Phew! Sorry for the long hiatus--things have been extra crazy around here these past few weeks and I'm carving in just a little moment of down time in the middle of it all. Hopefully I'll be able to be a little bit more consistent now that my school's big Halloween festival has come and gone and I am relinquished of my event-planning duties.

Anyway, one of the greatest perks of attending my particular college is the week away from classes during mid-October. After seven weeks of pushing ourselves to the limits of sanity, I'd like to think that we have earned ourselves a little respite before plunging right back in and chugging along until the end of the semester. It is with much appreciation that I reveled in my break, and I was marginally restored to sanity by the week's end. Well, almost.

This year in particular, the normally cloudy fall skies in Portland were kind enough to remain bright and sunny during my week away from the library. Perfect weather, as luck would have it, for apple-picking--and that's just what Sara, David, Josh, and I set out to do two Sundays past. We drove forty-five minutes southwest to Sherwood, home of the apple orchard where I passed one of the most idyllic afternoons of my life during my first year of college. The orchard boasts trees with eighty-five varieties of apples, not to mention pears, cherries, quinces, and grapes, for its visitors to pick on their own. Arming ourselves with five-gallon buckets for each of us, we eagerly made our way up a grassy slope onto a small hill lined with rows and rows of trees bearing the richly varied fruits.

After we plucked dozens and dozens of firm, ripe apples of all shapes, sizes, and flavors, we mosied back down the hill to pay for our loot. I added four bright yellow and deliciously fragrant quinces to my big cardboard box, and we drove away from Sherwood all the more immersed in the bounties of fall.

Back in Portland, we stopped by Cacao (this is becoming a dangerous habit for me, it seems) for drinking chocolate. Josh also gave us some nibbles of a mint truffle and a PB&J truffle whose origins I have since forgotten. The mint was exquisite--bright and fragrant with the herby aroma of the real stuff, not the extract that flavors toothpaste. I was less sure about the PB&J, if only because I am such a stubborn supporter of the crunchy style of peanut butter that this truffle was, regrettably, lacking. Call me particular, but I would have loved that truffle a hundred times better if I had gotten a burst of chunky peanut butter mixed with smooth jam and silky chocolate. If I ever go into the chocolate business, I'll know my charge.

Later we stopped by Whole Foods on Burnside so Josh could pick up some groceries, and I was almost tempted by a huge wheel of Cowgirl Creamery's Mt. Tam--until I saw the price tag. I instead opted for a ripe, creamy goat cheese speckled with grape leaf ash from a dairy in Humboldt county whose name escapes me.

So tangy and pungent, and especially delicious with a little drizzle of wildflower honey from my stand at the farmers' market. And sometimes a cheese is so good, a girl just ends up eating an entire meal of the stuff spread across a handful of thick, toasted slices of baguette--all the while standing in her kitchen with two lovely friends and a lot of laughter.

Josh and I decided to top the evening off with a batch of homemade caramel corn. The four of us had initially planned to go to the pumpkin patch and corn maze on Sauvie Island after apple picking but we ran out of time. I had my heart set on kettle corn or something like it, and what we came up with certainly did the trick.

COULDN'T-MAKE-IT-TO-THE-FAIR CARAMEL CORN

FOR THE CARAMEL (these are estimates--feel free to tinker around):

4 tbsp unsalted butter

1/4 cup granulated sugar

1/2 cup brown sugar

1/2 tsp salt

1 tsp cinnamon

1/2 tsp vanilla extract

2 ripe Braeburn apples, sliced

FOR THE POPCORN:

2-3 tsp light oil (canola or vegetable)

1/3 cup popping corn kernels

1. Melt butter in heavy saucepan over medium-low heat, then add both sugars. Stir constantly until the sugar begins to dissolve, then lower the heat. Stir occasionally until the mixture is completely liquid and starts to turn a light brown. Add the salt, cinnamon, and vanilla and stir to combine. Place the apple slices in the caramel mixture, cooking until soft. Remove the apples and eat them while you prepare the popcorn.

2. In a large pot with a lid, heat the oil over medium-high heat. Test the temperature by throwing in one kernel--if it pops, the oil is hot enough for the rest of the kernels. Add the kernels and shake once to coat with oil, then cover the pot with the lid. Once the popping has slowed, turn off the heat and set the pot aside.

3. Pour the reserved caramel into the pot with the popcorn, cover with a lid, and shake to coat. Enjoy!!

Apple-Infused Caramel Corn

Sweetness

2010-10-20T08:51:00.000-07:00

I have a tremendous sweet tooth. Sometimes when I take a step back to take stock of what kinds of foods I prepare in a given week, I'm a little unnerved by my overwhelming inclination toward sugar. Don't get me wrong--I would never forsake the savory for the sweet, but I am utterly hopeless when it comes to passing up the opportunity to whip up a dessert.

So this week, when met with an offer to have a new friend prepare dinner for me, I felt it only right to show my appreciation with a batch of apple brown-butter "doughnut" cakes. At least, I thought, I was going to share these calorie-laden balls of heaven, so I didn't have to worry too much about suffering from a self-induced sugar coma. Besides, they have apples in them! That must mean they're a little bit good for you, right? Right.

After work on Thursday evening, I stopped by Limbo and picked up four hefty, ripe Braeburn apples for the occasion. As soon as I got home, I scoured the endless database that is the Internet for an appropriate recipe. The one I found was, of course, all in the metric system. With a handy kitchen converter and a little guesswork, everything managed to come together in the end. At least, I didn't receive any complaints from the delighted recipient of these tasty treats, and that's really what matters.

APPLE BROWN BUTTER "DOUGHNUT" CAKES WITH CINNAMON AND HONEY

Adapted from the metric system using this recipe on Citrus and Candy

FOR THE CAKES:

1 cup plus 1 tablespoon unsalted butter

1 3/4 cups flour

1 1/2 teaspoons baking powder

1/2 teaspoon salt

1/2 cup brown sugar

1/4 cup honey

1 teaspoon cinnamon

2 large eggs

2 medium to large apples, peeled and grated (I used Braeburn, but feel free to use any other kind of apple you'd use for a pie)

FOR THE SUGAR COATING:

1/2 cup ultrafine sugar (I made this by pulsing white granulated sugar in a food processor until it was somewhere in between granulated and powdered in consistency)

1 teaspoon cinnamon

1. Preheat oven to 350ºF. Lightly grease a 12 cup standard muffin pan and set aside.

2. To make the brown butter, melt the butter over medium heat until it begins to sizzle and froth. As soon as the sizzling noise slows down, immediately turn the heat to low and simmer, stirring, until the froth on top begins to turn a light brown. Take the pot off the heat and set aside. Stir the butter in the pan to incorporate the froth into the rest of the butter. The residual heat from the pot will be enough to turn the butter to a light, golden brown color. It should smell like nutty caramel. Strain the butter through a fine mesh sieve into a bowl and set aside to cool.

3. While the butter cools, sift flour, baking soda, salt, and cinnamon into a large bowl and stir in the brown sugar until combined. Mix in the honey and eggs, then add the cooled brown butter and stir until just mixed. Squeeze the excess moisture from the grated apples and gently fold through the batter.

4. Divide the batter into the muffin tin and bake for 20-22 minutes until golden and a toothpick inserted into the center of one of the cakes comes out clean.

5. Mix the ultrafine sugar and cinnamon together in a bowl or shallow plate.

6. Immediately turn the cakes out onto a wire rack and toss through the sugar and cinnamon mixture to coat. If the cakes have cooled too much, the sugar won't stick to the outside. Let the cakes cool completely on the wire rack. These are best eaten immediately, but they'll keep for a few days sealed in an airtight container. I'm skeptical that you'll be able to keep yourself from eating them all almost as quickly as they come out of the oven, but maybe you have more self-restraint than I do.

On fall and Brussels sprouts

2010-10-19T09:30:00.000-07:00

I absolutely love fall. As much as I bask in the delightful summer reverie of sun dresses and ripe peaches, nothing quite spells comfort and quiet elation like the warm reds, oranges, and browns of a crisp autumn day, paired with a handful of kettle corn or a cup of hot apple cider. But there is one part of the season that I feel is quite inappropriately under-appreciated. Whenever I mention to any number of friends my excitement at how fall ushers in a truly wondrous culinary bounty, in the form of butternut squashes and chestnuts and pumpkins and Brussels sprouts, their delighted faces shrivel into a puzzled grimace at the mention of the latter. Brussels sprouts? Really?

Perhaps it's because I can't remember eating Brussels sprouts as a child that I have no negative memories associated with them. I met my first Brussels sprout a few years ago after the peak period of my food pickiness, hot out of my mother's oven and fragrant with the sweet perfume of roasted garlic. I remember seeing those dainty little green orbs with their leaves slightly wilted and caramelized at the tips and popping them into my mouth like candies. I'm sure that just like so many other misunderstood vegetables--cabbage, broccoli, and asparagus come to mind--Brussels sprouts receive their negative attention from too many experiences in which the deliciously crisp and delicately bitter baby cabbages become unappetizingly soggy and regrettably noxious from overcooking. This pains me. As a person who welcomes fall into her life with open arms every September with nary a look back toward summer, I expect fall to bring me a heaping pile of Brussels sprouts along with all of the scarves, flannel, and alpaca sweaters appropriate for this time of year.

Fortunately for me, fall delivers. And perhaps I should thank those who don't delight in the wonders of the Brussels sprout, because that means I can eat more than my share. Or maybe, after tasting these, I'll convince people to come over to my side. It's greener over here anyway.

LEMONY CREAMED BRUSSELS SPROUTS WITH CELERY AND SPINACH

Adapted from Gourmet

4 ribs of celery, cut diagonally into 1/3-inch slices

2 tablespoons of unsalted butter

1/2 teaspoon fresh thyme

3 tablespoons all-purpose flour

1 cup milk (or, if you're really going for the gusto, use heavy cream like I did)

1 teaspoon freshly grated lemon zest

2 teaspoons fresh lemon juice

1/2 lb. spinach, ends trimmed

1 1/2 lbs. Brussels sprouts, trimmed, blanched for 12 minutes in boiling salted water or until tender, and drained*

*You could use two 10-ounce packages frozen and thawed, but I strongly recommend trying to find the freshest ones grown most closely to your home during this time of year (easier said than done in some cases). They'll taste better, though, I promise.

1. In a heavy saucepan, cook the celery in butter over moderately low heat, stirring, for 3 minutes or until it begins to soften. Stir in the thyme and flour and cook the mixture, stirring, for 3 minutes. Add the milk or cream in a stream, whisking, and salt and pepper to taste. Add the spinach and simmer the sauce, stirring, until it is smooth and thickened. Stir in the zest, lemon juice, and the Brussels sprouts and simmer the mixture, stirring occasionally, until the Brussels sprouts are heated through. Transfer the creamed Brussels sprouts to a heated serving dish and enjoy.

A day in photos

2010-10-18T23:25:00.000-07:00

Almost every Saturday since June, I have awakened to the cool, misty early morning air in this lovely city of mine, hopped on my bicycle, and pedaled across the river to work at the farmers' market. I came across this job serendipitously one day when my friend Julia and I inquired about a "Help Wanted" sign posted at the stand for Winters Farms. We gave Marven, the farmer, our contact information, and a week later we were standing behind the table selling berries, honey, and veggies galore.

Last weekend Anne was kind enough to let me borrow her camera to take with me to the market, so now I can give you, dear readers, a better idea of what my Saturdays look like. Of course, the sights of the farmers' market are only one piece of the experience. Just the act of going to the farmers’ market is an outing for people—an activity that, while certainly necessary on some level for the food it provides, becomes an experience that engages all of the senses with its endless displays of bright flowers and ripe produce, the wafting aromas of wood-fired pizzas and aged goat cheese, and the tiny nibbles of bread, hazelnuts, and jams that form a hodge-podge of breakfast on many a Portlanders’ Saturday mornings.

I love this time of year, seeing all of Marv's gorgeous veggies lined up underneath four huge, sprawling canopies. Tomatoes, zucchini, onions, eggplants, broccoli, peppers, cranberry beans, corn, and more. It's such a perfect way to spend a cloudy and cold Portland morning, nestled in among more than twenty-five varieties of squash and sipping a hot cup of cider infused with cinnamon, clove, and fennel. Sometimes it's enough to make you forget that your clothes are soaked through and your hands are covered in mud, because sometimes, there are just more important things to focus on. Like all that squash.

I had to write down all of the different varieties on a notecard so that I could keep track of them. I am enamored with all of the wonderful names of these squashes--Long Island Cheese, Pink Banana, Marina di Chioggia, Carnival, Cream of the Crop. And then there's this one.

The Galeuse D'eysine. Marv tells me the barnacle-looking fixtures on the outside are supposed to taste like pure sugar, but I am not sure I am convinced. Either way, I am still trying to build up to the day when I am strong enough to strap one of these babies to the back of my bicycle and ride home to try to coax out some of those hidden sugars.

On the days when I am not feeling brave enough to tackle preparing a wart-covered squash double the size of my heads, at least I know that Marv won't fail to bring some more familiar delectables to market.

After standing amid all of the vegetables for a few hours, it was time to venture out into the ever-so-spectacular world of the market, completely intoxicating with all of its sights, sounds, and smells. My first stop was to Misty Mountain Mushrooms, as the man who works there always steers me in a promising direction in my mycophilia. This week, he led me to a basket of cauliflower mushrooms--creamy and delicate in color, springy and almost elastic to the touch. These mushrooms look more like soft, feathery mid-fall blossoms than any of their sturdier, thicker cousins.

From there, I moved on to Tastebud, masters of all things wood-fired. It only occurred to me after inhaling a rather substantial bite of this pizza that I could take a photo of it, so please excuse the index of my ravenous hunger. Besides, what's really important here is the perfect marriage of shiitake mushrooms and pickled hot peppers laying delicately on a bed of still-bubbling mozzarella, and ricotta cheeses. The thin, crispy crust was still warm on my lips from its having been pulled from Tastebud's portable wood-oven not thirty seconds before, and though this was my first slice of pizza from these gurus, I assure you it will not be my last. Especially since each week, the stand features different combinations of veggies and cheeses on their vegetarian pizzas. I am quickly going to become a repeat customer.

After Tastebud, I moved over to Fressen, obvious sucker that I am for all things carbohydrate-based. Fressen has the most beautiful German-style breads, and I am particularly fond of their hand-twisted pretzels. But last weekend, I had my eye on something sweet, fluffy, and full of citrus. Enter the ethereal citrus brioche, flecked with soft, chewy bursts of candied orange and lemon peel. This treat reminded me of all that brioche can and should be--buttery, airy, and faintly sweet. The woman working behind the counter ended up gifting me with a pretzel, but I passed it along to Julia since at that point I had to move on from carbohydrates and into the world of cheese.

Enter Juniper Grove. When a girl needs to fill her goat cheese quota for the week, this is a wonderful place to come. The market has a fantastic selection of cheese makers, specializing in goat's, sheep's, and cow's milk cheeses. I love Juniper Grove for their clean, simple flavors and the mild tang of their goat gruyère. In a moment of splurging, I ended up taking a nice, thick wedge of the salty, nutty gruyère home with me. As if I hadn't already had a long bout of overloading on my carbs, fats, and sweets, Julia and I decided to finish the day off with a trip to Cacao.

Tucked in the corner of the Heathman Hotel, this is the shop I stumbled into two Novembers ago in search for a thank-you gift for my Thanksgiving hosts that year. It only took one sip of drinking chocolate to become completely smitten with the place, and I could think of no better way to warm up from the cold, wet, muddy day at the market--enjoy it though I did--than to share a cup with Julia. We ended up coming into the store on the tail end of a chocolate walking tour, so we got to hear a little bit about our fellow patrons' tastes and experiences with the chocolates they were eating. I love the thought of spending a day exploring Portland's chocolate-offerings, but I was content to pass that afternoon in Cacao alone.

And so, Julia and I sat along the bar looking out onto Broadway, hands curved around our warm mugs of thick, decadent drinking chocolate. As time quickly flew by inside the shop, it became easier and easier to forget about the damp in our clothes and the mud on our boots. Fortified with chocolate, we both spoke gratefully about the coming months at the market with its bounty of squash, chestnuts, and Brussels sprouts. And if we can follow up every cold market day in November and December with a trip to Cacao, I think market days will continue to be the highlight of my weeks.

Let her eat cake

2010-10-10T22:04:00.000-07:00

Last Friday night, my friends Mark, a film professor at PSU, and Marcelle, a writer/editor/sage of all things literary, took me out to dinner at a place called Navarre. Navarre won Restaurant of the Year in 2009 from the Oregonian, and it's easy to see why. We sat for hours in the chic and cozy dining room, and my eyes were consistently drawn to the wall with floor-to-ceiling shelves holding jars of Maldon sea salts and pickled vegetables of all kinds. The place was warm, vibrant, and packed with delighted eaters whose conversations echoed all the way up toward the vaulted ceilings, filling the room with celebration and pleasure. I regret that most of the evening was spent focused on my epic re-telling of the move from hell that happened at the end of the summer, but Mark and Marcelle were such involved and interested listeners that they urged me to discuss all the relevant details of my U-haul horror story (which probably does not bear re-telling here).

Anyway, after having been handed our menu and filling out our choices (one of the available options was either fruity or grassy olive oil for the bread--love it), we resumed conversation and anxiously awaited our meal. After a reseating scenario, we were served with a flight of colorful and varied small plates that covered almost every available square inch of our table. We helped ourselves to heaping spoonfuls (and forkfuls) of: mesclun salad with lobster mushrooms and candied fennel; warm toasted farro with bright, sweet roasted beets; long thin, delicately roasted and barely-caramelized ribbons of carrot; stuffed pattypan squash, overflowing with an unidentified filling, though it tasted of freshly brewed black tea and bright, tangy lemon--an unexpected but much appreciated surprise; creamy and rich kale gratin, sturdier and more assertive than creamed spinach but just as delicious, if not more so; and sweet, smokey braised collard greens with roasted chestnuts. Each dish was certainly bold, but they all rested lightly on the palette and gave way to the next as our evening of sampling and passing plates progressed.

We finished our evening with a trio of desserts, one of which deserves particular special mention. Yes, the almond cake was deliciously dense and moist with a thick, rich shell of chocolate ganache on top, and yes the crust on the apple and fig pie melted rich and buttery on my tongue underneath the slightly tart, syrupy filling. These desserts did all I could have asked of them, but the odds were stacked against them as soon as I saw this.

photo credit here

Behold what is, undoubtedly, the greatest red velvet cake I have ever eaten. I have no problems with hyperbole when talking about this cake. The crumb was delicate, the frosting tangy-sweet and not too thick, and the flavor of sweet, aromatic vanilla with the most subtle allusion to the cake's origins in cocoa was, well, almost otherworldly. I know it sounds silly, but I want to date this cake. It's perfection evokes nothing short of pure amorousness and devotion, and I eagerly await the day when the two of us meet once again.

And, to shift gears if I may, because after Friday evening came Saturday evening, and thus an excuse for more cake. Mamie, Russian scholar and embarrassing story-teller extraordinaire, was celebrating her 20th birthday and had requested the presence of a few friends for a potluck with her mom and sister, in town for the occasion from Colorado. Having received a bunch of red pears in my most recent CSA delivery, I sought to make use of them in a recipe fit for such a celebration. Look no further than ginger molasses cake with caramelized pears. After a long day of work at the farmers' market, my tired legs received a jolt of energy upon seeing this recipe to make a special trip to the food co-op for heavy cream and ginger. I simply could not pass up the opportunity to usher Mamie into "adulthood" and the rest of us into fall with such a decadent recipe. It's worth making just for how it will fill your kitchen with the perfume of fresh citrus and spicy ginger.

GINGER MOLASSES CAKE WITH CARAMELIZED PEARS

Doubled from this recipe on Epicurious

I made this cake in two 9" round cake pans, greased with butter and lined with parchment paper. After the cakes had finished baking, I let them cool for about 5 minutes in the pans, then I removed them from the pans and let them cool for another 10-15 minutes on wire racks. I cut a little well in the center of the top of the first layer and filled that with the caramelized pears, then put the second layer on top. I dusted the top of the cake with powdered sugar, though next time I might make a light caramel icing. Nonetheless, it was a perfect birthday cake to kick off the slow fade into autumn.

For the cake:

1/2 cup unsulfured molasses

1/2 cup sour cream

1 stick (1/2 cup) unsalted butter, melted

1/2 cup firmly packed light brown sugar

2 large eggs

4 teaspoons finely grated peeled fresh ginger

1 teaspoon freshly grated lemon zest

2 cups all-purpose flour

1 teaspoon baking soda

1/2 teaspoon salt

For the caramelized pears:

4 medium firm-ripe pears

2 tablespoons fresh lemon juice

4 tablespoons unsalted butter

1/2 cup sugar

6 tablespoons water

3 teaspoons bourbon

6 tablespoons heavy cream

1. Preheat oven to 350ºF. Butter, flour, and place parchment rounds into two 9" round cake pans. Place rack in the middle of the oven.

2. In a bowl, whisk together molasses, sour cream, butter, brown sugar, eggs, ginger, and lemon zest until smooth. Sift in flour, baking soda, and salt. Stir batter until just combined and spread evenly in baking pans. Bake cakes for 15-20 until a toothpick inserted in the middle comes out clean. Let cool for 5 minutes, then transfer cakes to wire cooling racks.

3. Meanwhile, peel pears and cut each pear lengthwise into 6 wedges, discarding cores. In a bowl, toss pears with lemon juice. In a heavy skillet, melt butter over moderate heat and cook pears in a single layer until slightly softened, about 3 minutes. Sprinkle pears with sugar and cook, shaking skillet and turning pears, until sugar is melted and pears are tender. Transfer pears with a slotted spoon to a bowl.

4. Boil the sugar mixture remaining in the skillet, stirring occasionally until the mixture turns into a golden caramel. Remove skillet from heat and carefully add water, brandy, and cream. Return skillet to heat and simmer sauce, stirring until smooth and thickened slightly. Return pears to skillet and cook until heated through.

5. Cut a small well into the top of one of the cakes and fill it with the pear mixture. Place the other cake on top and dust with powdered sugar. Serve immediately on its own or with ice cream.

Mom

2010-10-07T18:13:00.000-07:00

My mother is a wickedly smart, strong-willed woman. I'm not entirely sure I knew there was a ground beneath me until she taught me how to stand firm and resolute upon it. I can attribute much of my own resolve to the example she modeled for me, and I am endlessly grateful for her guidance and wisdom. Yes, when my mom decides to do something, she does it with the utmost gusto, and completely unapologetically at that.

Take, for instance, the "special day." When I was in elementary school, Mom instituted a ritual, day-long "vacation" from school during which we would go to the mall, to the movies, or to the living room to watch QVC for hours on end. These days were important for both of us--she helped me realize early on that we deserve moments of respite from our work and our routines to stay connected to each other. Despite what my elementary school teachers tried to tell me (and her), life wasn't all about book reports, gold stars, and assemblies. In fact, sometimes all it really boils down to is spending a day laughing with your favorite shopping partner and eating toasted asiago cheese bagels amid the hustle and bustle of the daily grind. And if any of my teachers tried to argue, she just told them I had a doctor's appointment--it just happened to be with the PhD-totin' woman who signed the nurse's note to begin with.

What I loved most about special days wasn't skipping class or getting to try on a dozen different lipsticks at the make-up counter at the Body Shop. No, what I always ended up looking forward to were the bagels. On every special day, as I took the last bite of bagel and wiped the final smear of cream cheese from my lips, I would look up at my mom and see the widest, most beaming smile spreading across her face. And she would tell me, in all earnestness, that she loved nothing more than seeing how happy it made me to eat my bagel, always lightly toasted with cream cheese on the side. I think those moments made me realize how much we share and communicate with one another when we slow down, take a breather, and enjoy food together. What could be more special than that?

So here is to you, my wonderful and resolute Mom, for teaching me how to climb onto my soapbox and for being patient with me once I'm up there. And thank you most of all for smiling so wide upon watching me discover, at so many points along the way, just how happy I am when I get to share great food with great company. All of my love on your special day.

Indulgence

2010-09-26T15:30:00.001-07:00

This week has brought me many wonderful things: a free bag of chicken of the woods mushrooms in exchange for my chanterelle bread pudding recipe, a thick wedge of herbs de provence goat cheese, a few ears of Rojo corn and some smooth, plump white and purple eggplant (all of the aforementioned from the farmers' market), and a CSA delivery with leeks, carrots, tomatoes, celery, beets, sweet chili peppers, apples, nectarines, pears, portobellos, chanterelles, and french bread. Despite the ever-quickening pace of my academic life, the good earth and the hands who tend it have been ever so kind to me.

And while I am a person who appreciates moderation in some scenarios, the most wonderful part of my week was ending it with two days of utter indulgence. It all started on Friday afternoon, when I realized that my schedule had left me so devoid of energy and so strapped for time that I wouldn't have time to make a dessert for my housemate's 25th birthday party that evening. Finding myself in downtown Portland after a massage (told you I was being indulgent--another plug for the joys of Groupon and its wonderful discounts!), I decided to stop by Cacao, a pure utopia for lovers of all things chocolate.

A little back story about Cacao. I first discovered the place before my freshman year of college when my brother and I were roaming around the streets of downtown. It was closed when we walked by, but I made a mental note of it and tucked it away into the recesses of my memory. It wasn't until that November when Sara, Ajay, and I were heading to the train station to go to Seattle for Thanksgiving that I had the opportunity to pay the store a visit. We went to get a gift for our weekend hosts (a generous bag of chocolate covered almond toffees), and while we were there the three of us each got a cup of hot drinking chocolate, sinfully thick and deliciously bitter. We ended up having to race over to the train station, being careful not to spill any of the liquid treasure along the way. Nothing could have been more soothing and decadent on that cold and misty Portland evening as a cup of Cacao's drinking chocolate, and I've been deeply enamored with the place ever since.

I've been back to Cacao a number of times since that first experience, whether to get a cup of drinking chocolate before a show at the Arlene Schnitzer Concert Hall (lovingly called "the Schnitz" by Portlanders) or to buy any one of the chocoholics in my life some sort of special-occasion gift. One particularly memorable trip occurred this summer, when Arthur came to visit from Colorado and we stopped in to buy a thank-you present for Mark and Marcelle, some of his family friends who had taken us out all over town for a week. As I was looking in the truffle case, I caught a glimpse of a basil truffle from Theo Chocolate. I couldn't resist. The basil was sweet and aromatic, lightly running through the soft ganache in the center. I get almost misty-eyed when I think about that truffle, even still, and I look forward to seeing it again next summer when basil is back in season.

Anyway, my trip to Cacao on Friday was nothing short of exquisite, just like always. I went to their location off Burnside near Powell's Books, which is a much larger, more open space than the shop by the Schnitz. The staff was incredibly friendly and enthusiastic in talking to me about their products and in trying to help me find an appropriate party treat. I decided I wanted to get something for the party plus something else just for Anne, so I settled on a bag of 68% cacao chocolate discs from Bolivia for the party and a box of 4 truffles for the birthday girl. The man at the counter offered me plenty of samples to make sure I felt confident in my choices, giving me a few bites of chocolate covered toffee and a salted caramel as well. For Anne, I chose a lemon truffle from Theo Chocolates, a gianduja truffle (which is milk chocolate and hazelnut) and a fleur de sel truffle with a roasted almond on top from Fran's Chocolates, and a simple but extremely delicious dark chocolate truffle from Michel Cluizel. I couldn't help myself and ended up getting a lemon truffle and an orange thyme caramel truffle (both from Theo) to eat right there in the store. The lemon was filled with white chocolate, with a buttery, almost chiffon-like consistency. I would have liked a little bit more tartness from the truffle, because the lemon almost got lost in the dense white chocolate. The orange thyme truffle was much more rich and earthy, with the thick caramel oozing out of the chocolate shell with the most subtle notes of citrus and woodsy thyme. Oh how good it feels to indulge. I walked away from Cacao confident in my choices, with the added bonus of having been given a tiny gift of a chocolate-covered candied lemon peel from Michel Cluizel. That, my friends, is the perfect marriage of citrus and chocolate.

When I got home, I immediately joined Anne, Joshua (another housemate), and Anne's friend James in a whirlwind of decorating and setting up for the party. We each sneaked away to shower in shifts, and when the house had finally come together, the four of us all got gussied up before descending back down to greet the guests. Sara brought a nice wheel of a herbed goat cheese and some almond-crusted cheddar, which joined a hefty wedge of brie on the cheese board. I contributed my loaf of bread from the CSA box and my just-purchased chocolates, and there were plenty of veggies and meats to be consumed (none of the latter for me, obviously). A cute chocolate cake with vanilla buttercream (classic) sat in the middle of the table, with Happy Birthday written in script in blue icing across the top. All in all, a very simple and tasty spread.

But then, a moment of surprise. Anne's friends Joel and Kelton arrived with their road-trip buddy Jeremy, who had in his hand a wheel of Cowgirl Creamery Red Hawk, the cheese that won 2nd place Best in Show from the American Cheese Society last year. I was bursting at the seams to try this cheese, and fortunately the boys had also brought a Grand Central Baking Co. baguette since the bread I had supplied was dwindling fast. Let me tell you, Red Hawk means business. I love a good cheese whose aroma can make my eyes roll back into my head, and this one was certainly up to that challenge. It spread thick and creamy across my bread like fresh butter, sharp and salty and assertive. I ended up eating alternating bites of just the cheese and some with small spoonfuls of fig relish on top, both of which were heavenly. I ended my evening feeling absolutely no shame that two of my meals that day had been nothing but bread and cheese and chocolate.

As if I could indulge no more, last night Sara and I went to dinner at uncommons. Uncommons is a club at my school geared toward bringing higher quality culinary experiences to us hungry, tired students than what we can find in the dining halls. The club is run entirely by students who design their own menus, cook multi-course meals, and host dinners for their peers in their on-campus apartments. My friend Bryan, one of the founders of the club, told me all last year that he would organize a vegan dinner at some point and asked me to be patient. Even though seating at uncommons is supposed to be based on a lottery-system, Bryan made sure that Sara and I got seats last night when the meal finally occurred, after a year of promises and waiting.

For five dollars, we were served an over-the-top, decadent, twelve-course vegan meal over the span of about three and a half hours. This, dear friends, was the menu:

-Popcorn with kaffir lime leaf, chili powder, and maldon sea salt

-Assorted housemade pickles with nut pâté and toast

-Fried green tomatillos with watermelon relish and remoulade

-Pumpkin coconut soup with powdered chili (my personal favorite)

-Roasted padrón peppers with sea salt and alioli

-Potato dumplings with sofregit, sweet onion purée, and roasted sorghum

-Cherry tomatoes infused with reduced onion stock, sea salt, and olive oil

-Oat risotto with wild mushrooms and microgreens

-Almond gelée with cantaloupe (I didn't care for this, since I don't like melon)

-Warm sliced peach with homemade coconut milk ice cream and toasted coconut

-Chipotle chocolate cake with caramel lattice and fresh huckleberry jam (another favorite, and so pretty!)

-Hot drinking chocolate

-Homemade almond milk and homemade "oreos" (the almond milk was one of the best beverage I have ever tasted)

I had a lovely evening conversing with some unfamiliar folks who go to my school and eating a wickedly good, undeniably excessive meal. I appreciated that despite the white table linens and tea light candles, my eye was repeatedly drawn to the "Empire Strikes Back" poster on the wall. This is college after all, and we have to have some things in our lives to balance out the extravagancies. So for me, the perfect end to my indulgent weekend is a hot cup of tea and a mountain of readings. Back to work I go.

Gnudism

2010-09-26T13:53:00.001-07:00

Remember how I told you that I made cheese not too long ago? Well, I neglected to mention what else came of that experience, beyond the red-waxed wheel of monterey jack aging in my kitchen. One of the best parts about making cheese is that it's kind of a two-for-one deal--once you separate the curds to make mozzarella/monterey jack/cheddar/etc., you're left with a giant pot of clear whey that you can use immediately to make whole milk ricotta.

Thus begins cheesemaking, part two. I only bought a gallon of milk for the monterey jack, so I ended up with about a cup of ricotta from the leftover whey. That was perfect for my purposes, however, since I was on a mission to make ricotta gnudi and I only needed a cup of the cheese to do so. However, at some point it dawned on me that I also needed parmesan cheese, something that I hadn't had the months/years of foresight to prepare on my own. In a moment of weakness, I bought a small wedge of parmesan from the grocery store and tried not to wrack myself with too much guilt as a consequence. After all, we all have those experiences when in an inexplicable fit of tunnel vision, we decide that we need one particular food item or all will completely fall apart. Parmesan cheese was crucial to the recipe--and thus, to my life, obviously--and I had to make do with what I could find.

Anyway, after giving in to the devil of dairy sitting on my shoulder, I pulled out a bunch of spinach from my CSA box and that week's bag of bright orange chanterelles from the farmers' market and got to work. Gnudi is similar to gnocchi, though it uses cheese as its primary ingredient instead of potatoes. Perhaps a better way to describe it is to say that gnudi is like ravioli filling without the pasta exterior. You get the idea.

After cooking down the spinach until it was a dark, almost emerald green, I added it to the cheeses, along with some flour, shallot, an egg, salt, pepper, and nutmeg. The dough itself was smooth and thick, all speckled throughout with tiny pieces of spinach. I sliced up the chanterelles and cooked them in butter with another diced shallot until they started to caramelize around the edges. As the intoxicatingly earthy smell of mushrooms filled the kitchen, I floured my hands and started hand-rolling my gnudi. Admittedly, they were kind of misshapen, but what's food without a little character, right? Then my little cheese dumplings were submerged in a boiling salt water bath for a few minutes before being drained and transferred over to the cast-iron skillet where the mushrooms were happily awaiting them.

I topped my gnudi off with a little more parmesan and sat down with my steaming plate at the kitchen table. The gnudi were soft, delicate little pillows of cheese that melted as soon as they hit my tongue. The hint of nutmeg in the background was perfect with the hearty mushrooms, and the two flavors instantly ushered me right into fall. The next day, I used what I had left of the dough and this time paired my gnudi with a sauce of reduced tomatoes from my CSA box, shallots, and some red chili flake. Both incarnations were delicious, and both let the cheesy, rich gnudi take center stage.

(I apologize for not having a picture of this dish, but it is rather unphotogenic)

SPINACH-RICOTTA GNUDI WITH CHANTERELLES

Adapted from Bon Appetit and Food and Wine

Active time: 45 minutes

Total time: 1 1/2 hours

Serves 4

For the gnudi:

1 pound spinach, with ends trimmed

1 cup whole-milk ricotta cheese

1/2 cup Parmesan cheese, plus additional for serving

1 coarsely chopped shallot

1 large egg

1/2 teaspoon coarse kosher salt

1/4 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper

1/8 teaspoon freshly grated nutmeg

1/2 cup all-purpose flour, plus additional for shaping dumplings

For the mushrooms:

2 tablespoons of butter

1 shallot, finely chopped

1 pound wild chanterelles (best in the fall)

Salt and pepper to taste

1. Heat a skillet over medium-high heat. Add spinach one handful at a time and cook until wilted, stirring occasionally. Transfer to a colander to cool. Squeeze the spinach until dry and then chop finely.

2. In a food processor, combine the spinach with the ricotta, Parmesan, egg, shallot, and spices and process until blended. Transfer the mixture to a medium bowl and add the flour. Mix until just combined.

3. Melt butter in a skillet over medium heat. Add finely chopped shallot and cook until translucent, about 3 minutes. Coarsely chop the mushrooms and add to the shallots. Season with salt and pepper. Cook over medium-low heat until mushrooms begin to caramelize, about 12 minutes.

4. Bring a large pot of salted water to a boil. Meanwhile, line a rimmed baking sheet with parchment paper. Spoon some flour onto a large plate. Working in batches, drop heaping teaspoonful of gnudi dough onto plate with flour to form about 36 gnudi. Using floured hands, gently shape each dumpling into a 1 1/2" long, 1/2" thick oval. Tap off excess flour and transfer gnudi to prepared baking sheet.

5. Slide gnudi into pot and cook for 3-4 minutes, stirring occasionally. Using a slotted spoon, transfer gnudi to the skillet and cook with the mushrooms until slightly browned on the outside. Serve gnudi immediately with salt, pepper, and grated Parmesan to taste.

Some of Seattle's finest

2010-09-26T11:36:00.000-07:00

There is so much to talk about! This week at school was particularly packed--right on cue for this point in the semester. I've been moving almost non-stop since Monday morning, and tomorrow is going to kick off the same trend. Amazing that classes started a month ago and that we only have three weeks until fall break. When did all of that happen?

Anyway, two weeks ago (!), my dear friend Mallory came to visit me from Seattle for a day. In the two years since she moved to the Pacific Northwest, Mallory’s become pretty well acquainted with cupcakes. Having initially migrated from Colorado in ‘08 to settle in Seattle, Mallory quickly found work at a shop called Cupcake Royale. For a girl who bore the brunt of several jokes about her all-black wardrobe, adding “cupcake decorator extraordinaire” to her resume seemed too deliciously incongruous. Though she left Seattle after a few months to test the waters in Olympia, no matter where she worked, there were cupcakes to be had. Now that she’s doing a second stint in Seattle before relocating back to Fort Collins, Colorado, her cupcake career is coming full circle at a place called Trophy Cupcakes & Party. Truth be told, Mallory has mixed feelings about the dessert-du-jour, but that hasn’t stopped her from faithfully bringing me one or two little treats each time she’s visited me in Portland.

So when she called me two Sundays ago, about to hop in the car and make the three-hour drive south to Stumptown, and asked if I wanted a few cupcakes (“to share with some friends”—yeah, right…), I quickly and delightedly squealed at the offer. When Mallory finally knocked on my front door, having made a requisite wrong turn somewhere that no trip to Portland would be complete without, I had almost forgotten about the cupcakes. That is, until I offered to help her unload her things from her car. There, sitting in the front seat, were two full boxes with “a few” cupcakes inside. I’m sure a bystander could attest to the fact that my eyes nearly spun in their sockets to reveal cupcakes instead of dollar signs. This, dear friends, was pure elation.

Thus my kitchen instantaneously became home to forty darling cupcakes, all iced by the graceful hand of my best friend. The usual suspects were well represented (chocolate/vanilla, vanilla/chocolate, vanilla/vanilla), as well as a handful of carrot cake, chocolate hazelnut, and lemon cupcakes. By the time I even got to taste one the next evening, my housemates had made a significant dent between the two boxes (with my permission, of course) and I could feel the sugar rush pulsing wildly throughout my whole house. I invited Sara and David over to share in the bounty that Monday evening, and I elected to indulge in a lemon cupcake. I thought it would make the perfect capstone to my impromptu dinner of bread and fruit from my CSA and cheese from (gasp!) the grocery store*. The cake was dense and moist—decadent, really—even if the icing was a touch too sweet. But I’m not one to look the proverbial gift horse in the mouth, and I still basked in the glorious explosion of citrus that unfailingly brightened up a long, cloudy Portland day.

Other highlights of Mallory’s visit include an unexpected and pleasantly refreshing glass of local carrot-orange juice from Vita Cafe, convincing Mallory to delve into the delectably primal and seductive world of the fried egg, and a trip to Stumptown coffee for a late-morning Americano—accompanied by a crossword puzzle, of course. After a frenzied weekend of cheesemaking and tart baking, I made sure that Mallory didn’t leave without first eating as much of the prune plum tart she could manage. And speaking of that tart, I think a recipe is in due order.

*See my next post for an explanation of this rather unfortunate situation.

PRUNE PLUM TART

From Orangette

I used this recipe to make two 9" round "tarts," though I think it's better suited to make one 12" tart as per the original suggestion on Orangette.

1 recipe Martha Stewart’s pâte brisée
2 pounds prune plums, halved lengthwise and pitted
2 eggs
¼ cup sugar
3 Tbs all-purpose flour
¼ cup heavy cream (got this and the milk from Noris Dairy)
¼ cup 2% or whole milk

1. Preheat oven to 375ºF, positioning a rack in the top one-third of the oven.

2. Remove chilled pastry dough from the refrigerator and let sit at room temperature for five to ten minutes. Roll into two rounds and ease into removable-bottom tart pans (*I didn't have these, so I put the rolled-out crusts into well-greased 9" round cake pans and I managed to get the "tarts" out fairly easily once they had cooled). Gently press dough into the corners of pan and trim off excess, or fold it over to reinforce the side rim. Prick the bottom of the pastry all over with a fork, and set aside.

3. Arrange plums, cut side down, in a single layer inside pastry shells. Whisk together eggs, sugar, flour, heavy cream, and milk in a medium bowl until smooth, and then pour custard over plums.

4. Carefully transfer tart to the oven and bake until plums are soft and top of custard is golden, about 45 minutes to one hour. Transfer tart to a rack to let cool completely before serving.

How I learned to stop worrying and love the cheese

2010-09-17T14:11:00.001-07:00

I have a hefty amount of resolve. When an idea pops into my head and really sticks, it is remarkably challenging to sway me in any other direction. Sometimes this extreme tunnel vision is a blessing--without it, I doubt I would have had the resolve to take a gap year and leave Colorado for Peru on my own and (mostly) on my own dime at the tender young age of seventeen. Nor would I have made the commitment to go back the following summer under similar circumstances, though this time with my dear friend and travel companion Moira at my side. Yes, sometimes it's good to be resolved.

It is this aspect of my character that led me, about nine months ago, to make another decision (though this time not as extreme as picking up and leaving the country). No, instead I became fixated on something I didn't have to go anywhere to accomplish: making cheese. I actually think the original interest sparked last summer when I read Barbara Kingsolver's moving and delightful memoir Animal, Vegetable, Miracle, in which she talked about going to a cheesemaking seminar in New England with a woman named Ricki. At the time of reading the account I was still pretty committed to my veganism, but that book and another (Kitchen Confidential, required reading for everyone by the exquisitely base Anthony Bourdain) started a ripple effect that led to a phenomenal sea change in my food philosophy and eating habits--albeit for entirely different reasons.* Kingsolver made the case for meat and other animal products, which I am going to drastically simplify, in this way: most of the dairies and meat producers in the country are part of a unsanitary, inhumane (for workers and animals alike) agro-industrial complex--but not all of them. The primary power we wield as consumers lies in where we choose to spend our dollars. If we have the option to support small businesses that offer an alternative to the aforementioned practices, we bolster a sector of the industry that makes animal welfare, food quality, and environmental impact primary concerns. And frankly, we could use more people like that.

So I started to shift my perceptions. Animals are part and parcel of the agricultural food chain that has been in place for the past several thousand years, and it looks like they're not going anywhere well into the foreseeable future. And while I understand that any number of vegans might criticize me for changing my lifestyle to try to work within the confines of a system that I know is almost irreparably damaged, in some ways I think it might be more effective. Veganism is, in part, a food ideology of negation: it is most easily defined by what you don't buy and what you don't eat. Now, don't get me wrong--vegans eat a lot of richly varied types of food. After all, there are thousands and thousands of varieties of fruits, vegetables, nuts, beans, and grains that I think are much too easily ignored so that meat can take center stage. Nonetheless, while more and more people are content to eat entirely on the plant end of the food spectrum, the total number of vegans in this country is only about 1 million--nothing to balk at, certainly, but nonetheless a relatively small piece of the American pie. It seems mighty challenging to convince the remaining 300 million or so eaters in this country to change their eating habits to fit into an ideology perceived as giving something up.

As any vegan, current or former, will tell you, the most common response to finding out someone is vegan (after "so, what do you eat??!?!") is an effusive, nearly tragic waxing on about how utterly unlivable life would be without cheese. At what point would it even be possible to convince a nation comprised of turophiles to abandon the rich, creamy delicacy--even if doing so were the most ethical food decision one could make (which, by the way, I don't think it is)? No, this is one of those cases where the do-gooder in me has realized that sometimes change has to adapt to reality, and the blossoming food-lover in me has realized that while life without cheese may not be utterly unlivable, it is certainly not the most enjoyable option.

I understand that I'm probably not going to win any more hearts and minds with the proposition that we all make our own cheese than I am with the former proposition that we all become vegan. The cheesemaking part of the tale stems from my own personal curiosity to delve right back into a part of the food system that had been absent from my life for almost five years. I didn't just shake off veganism instantaneously, and I resolved that if I were to explore the mostly unfamiliar world of cheese the right way, I should be as close to the process as I could manage.

So for Christmas last year, I bought myself a hard cheese kit from Ricki's company. Admittedly, it sat in the freezer for a long time. I had gone and bought all the necessary components but one--the milk. I couldn't bring myself to do it. The thought of walking in to a grocery store and buying a gallon of milk seemed so utterly alien that I avoided it at all costs. With some sense of shame, I took my kit back with me from Denver to Portland not having made a single attempt to produce my own cheese during the winter months.

By some stroke of fate, however, I found myself sitting one night in March in the middle of a community kitchen at a free cheesemaking class (free for me, anyway--it was kind of like a college field trip). I sat there with the rest of the group from my school and sampled all kinds of wonderful, homemade dairy products--spoonfuls of crème fraiche and mascarpone with lemon curd, feta marinated in olive oil and rosemary, cheesecake with quince paste. We all left, full and blissful, with tools and instructions to make our own crème fraiche and mascarpone. But more importantly, the hosts of the class had given us a list of local dairies where we could get the kind of milk perfect for cheesemaking--whole, not ultra-pasteurized, and completely lacking in antibiotics and bovine growth hormone. You know, actual milk.

Shortly thereafter, I enlisted my friend Sarah's help (and kitchen) to make mozzarella cheese. Fresh mozzarella is one of the simplest cheeses you can make, and I had found instructions to do so in 30 minutes (!). Having done research on the dairies I had learned about in the cheesemaking class, I found out that Noris Dairy sold some of their products at People's Food Co-Op, conveniently located about three blocks from Sarah's house. So, one Friday evening, we pulled out the stainless steel pot, the slotted spoons, the glass bowl, the measuring cups, and two heavy, gorgeous glass bottles of whole milk, a thick layer of cream setting nicely on top. As is prone to happen when you get two overworked and underslept college students into a kitchen, those 30 minutes easily stretched into three hours as we relished in the culinary alchemy that was taking place before our eyes.

Making cheese is nothing short of a miracle, let me assure you. At the end of the night, we had transformed two gallons of milk into a slick, shiny round ball of fresh mozzarella. We served it to a group of classmates a few nights later with just a bit of olive oil, salt, and pepper. It was divine. But beyond just how wonderful it tasted, I felt deeply gratified to eat cheese that I had personally made with the help and company of a new friend (the same is true of all food, I would say). Cheese took on a new importance for me that night, and I sincerely think that cheese made well and treated with respect truly does deserve all the veneration it receives. I love the way the tanginess of goat cheese surprises and invigorates me the second it hits my tongue, or how a new extra sharp cheddar can force me to reevaluate everything I thought I knew about cheddar.

My resolve to learn about cheesemaking has become less about being my own cheese producer and more about becoming more deeply appreciative of the cheese I choose to eat. Now that I know what kind of love and precision goes into making cheese, I want to be able to talk to the people who produce it. Nonetheless, I have not abandoned my own cheesemaking, and after a long cheesemaking hiatus this summer (due to a lack of a stainless steel pot), I finally dove back into it and made, dried, and waxed a wheel of monterey jack last weekend. In a few months I'll get to find out how I did, but in a certain sense, I am simply happy knowing that my initial desire to learn about cheesemaking as part and parcel of my shifting food philosophy has come full circle.

*I direct you to this video, featuring Mr. Bourdain nicely summarizing his view of vegans. The first time I saw it, I was still vegan. I laughed riotously. Touché, Tony. And now I know.

Conversion

2010-09-11T13:39:00.001-07:00

I aspire to be Molly Wizenberg. In fact, reading her blog Orangette was the final burst of inspiration that led me to create my own food blog, and I feel a certain virtual resonance with her writing (plus, we are both students of social science living in the Pacific Northwest). I can certainly relate to her stories of unexplained and sudden tours de force of baking, and though I still count myself among the ranks of vegetarians in this world, I appreciate her loving descriptions of meat and seafood all the same. And what's more, she may have just made a convert out of me yet.

I'm not talking about rushing out to the nearest butcher and snatching up a pork loin to sear or a salmon to grill. No, I am referring to something much more basic, much less carnivorous: scrambled eggs. Since I have slipped back into the world of egg-and-dairy consumption, I have been a staunch and unyielding supporter of the simple, pure, and heavenly fried egg, over-easy or sunny side up. With the exception of my marathon of bagel-eating this week, I have eaten a fried egg with sea salt and cracked pepper every single morning this summer. I started buying eggs from a woman at the farmers' market in late June and have been a loyal customer ever since. Admittedly, I was a little unsure of what to do when I cracked that first egg into my skillet, watching the edges bubble slightly in olive oil and firm up ever so slowly. I was nervous for the first flip, fearing I would completely destroy the bright orange yolk and be forced to watch it spill its contents into the pan in a chaotic mess of eggy destruction.

Not to fear, however. After cautiously and successfully conquering the flip, I slid my egg out of the pan onto a bed of steel cut oats, cooked in almond milk and generously adorned with sea salt and pepper. A deep breath, and then the moment of truth. I pushed my fork into the yolk, which met me first with a little resistance, and then ruptured, yielding a perfect gush of sunset orange running throughout the hearty, salty oats. From that moment on, I could not conceive of eating my eggs any other way but fried. I admit that somewhere along the line I made the switch from steel cut oats to toasted slices of Dave's Killer Powerseed bread, a hearty wheat bread covered with sesame, sunflower, flax, and poppy seeds from a local Portland company. But the egg remained constant, and each morning I relished in breaking that yolk and watching it mix with the sea salt and pepper, its faithful companions.

Loving as I do the pure, simple pleasure of the fried egg, I never really understood why anyone would choose to eat one scrambled. Scrambled? How could you take in the brilliant contrast between textures and flavors that make a white a white and a yolk a yolk? Scrambled eggs always seemed so messy, so heavy, so confused. Perhaps I was just traumatized from two years of seeing huge metal trays of pale yellow scrambled "eggs" in the dining hall (made from liquid egg product--ew!) that I could in no way make the connection between "scrambled eggs" and "appetizing." But then, I found Molly Wizenberg.

I read one month's worth of posts on Orangette each day, and a post from March 2005 bestowed upon me the treasure of a recipe for a French-style open faced sandwich with leeks and soft scrambled eggs. I was intrigued. When I opened my CSA box on Wednesday and saw those lovely green and white leeks staring up at me, I knew what I had to do. Casting all doubts aside, this morning I took the plunge and dove headfirst into the world of scrambled eggs. And oh, how glad I am to have done so.

I cut up the leeks into thin little rounds and dropped them into my cast-iron pan to caramelize in some butter and the slightest bit of sugar. Then, cracking two of the Raynblest farms eggs into a bowl with some melted butter and a little water, I took my whisk and with only the slightest twinge of anxiety, broke the yolks and swiftly mixed them together with the whites. I poured the eggs into a saucepan, whisking them continuously as they slowly started to thicken and take on the appearance of a bowl of oatmeal. Taking them off the heat shortly thereafter, I spooned them on top of the last of my bagels from the Portland Bagel Company--this one a seedy multigrain, toasted to golden-brown. I stirred the leeks with what remained of my cream cheese, also from PBC, and slid them out of the pan onto the heaping pile of eggs. Never forgetting the requisite sea salt and pepper, I sat down at my kitchen table with an open mind and an empty stomach and took my first bite.

These were no ordinary scrambled eggs. The eggs themselves were delicate and airy, with a wonderfully consistent and soft texture. Nothing sloppy or heavy about them. The leeks were mild and sweet, with the cream cheese adding the slightest bit of tanginess. And the bagel was crisp and sturdy as it cradled the more tender eggs and leeks in their voyage from plate to mouth. If this is what scrambled eggs can be, then I take back all previous disregard for their place at the breakfast table. I certainly could never turn my back on my love for the fried egg, but I think I have found a way to welcome scrambled eggs into my life on those rare occasions that I break from my routine.

SOFT SCRAMBLED EGGS WITH CARAMELIZED LEEKS

Adapted from Orangette

For the leeks:

2-3 small leeks

1 tbsp butter

1 tsp sugar

A pinch of salt

1 tbsp cream cheese

For the eggs:

2 large eggs (here's my plug for finding local, cruelty-free eggs--they taste better anyway)

2 tsp water

1/8 tsp salt

1 tsp butter, melted

For serving:

A multi-grain bagel, toasted (the original recipe suggests bias-cut slices of baguette, which would also be delicious)

Sea salt

Fresh cracked pepper

Begin by preparing the leeks: trim the root end off each leek, and slice them across their width into roughly ¼-inch-thick coins. Place the cut-up leeks in the basket insert of a salad spinner, place the basket in the bowl of the spinner, and fill the bowl with cold water. Let the leeks sit for a few minutes in the water; then use your hand to swish them around, loosening and removing any dirt that may be hidden in their layers. Remove the basket from the bowl, dump the water out of the bowl, return the basket to the bowl, and spin the leeks dry. [Alternately, if you don’t have a salad spinner, simply soak and wash the leeks in a bowl of water, and dry them with paper towels.]

In a large skillet, melt the butter over medium-low heat. Add the leeks, the sugar, and the salt, and stir to mix. Cover the skillet to allow the leeks to begin to sweat a bit, and, stirring occasionally and adjusting the heat as necessary if they begin to cook too quickly, allow the leeks to cook for about 15 minutes, until they are fragrant, soft, and almost melting. Add the cream cheese, and cook the leeks a minute or two more, stirring in the cream cheese as it melts. Set the skillet aside.

In a small bowl, whisk together the eggs, water, salt, and melted butter. Pour this mixture into a small saucepan, and place it over low heat, whisking constantly. When the mixture begins to coagulate ever so slightly and form tiny oatmeal-like lumps, begin a little dance of removing the pot from the heat and replacing it so that the eggs don’t cook too quickly, and reach all over the corners and bottom of the pot with your whisk. The eggs are ready when they resemble loose oatmeal; the process should take between 5 and 9 minutes.

Place the toasted bagel (or baguette slices) on a plate, and spoon the scrambled eggs on top of them. Top the eggs with a layer of leeks. Serve immediately, with salt and pepper as needed.

Serves one.