Well, it's no news to me that I'm the luckiest woman in the world, and I never, ever forget to be grateful.
Chief amongst my lengthy list of things for which to be grateful, has to be the joyous, loving relationships I have, and have had, with so many friends from all over the world and from all sorts of disparate times of my life.
If you should stumble into some decent tomatoes, not too watery from all of the rain that's bombarded our beloved Hanover of late, do yourself a favor and make this!
At least a couple of times during the late summer, I'm known to "accidentally" forget to make dinner, or "inadvertently" become so embroiled in closet cleaning that, surprise, it doesn't seem to make any sense get it together. Then, oh so smoothly and nonchalantly, I just say to Jeff, "Hey, why don't we just run over to Joe's Inn?"
"Whatever this salad thing you've got going on, I like it!" proclaimed happy Felix earlier this week. As he tucked into his second salad dinner of the week, I had to admit I'd scored well with only a modicum of planning and very little effort.
I knew it was likely to be a fraught week between shooting my corn fritters video, entertaining house guests from Paris and being on deadline with my story for the Times-Dispatch. Plus, the weeds in my garden have gotten out of control, and I just knew I'd want to be sneaking out there to wage war on them when I wasn't wrangling corn in the kitchen and on my computer.
I was stunned to realize the other day that I've never posted this dear old friend pasta. Now that we're all supposed to be joyously embracing the Mediterranean diet, this almost conforms, bursting with fresh tomatoes, peppery arugula and bright, fresh lemons and garlic. It iis really only inappropriate because of the heavy cream, oh, and the cheese. Never mind, it's SO good and easy for any old weeknight, that at least I always take comfort that there's no artery clogging meat in it.
It's not hyperbole to say that my world has been shaken in every possible way since I last properly blogged nearly a month ago. Yes, there has been an earthquake with the epicenter located, I'm reliably told, next to my friend Kevin's tomato plant in his garden in Mineral. Yes there has been a hurricane whose epicenter, I'm convinced, was right here on my block where we lost something like ten aged oaks which squashed seven cars to pancake proportions. No, the earth-shaking thing that happened here was the unexpected death of my beloved Father, Tom Osdene--in so many ways, the inspiration for almost everything I've ever done or accomplished in my life, and most assuredly the catalyst for and soul of my kitchen.
Goody, a reader request andan excuse to use my favorite kitchen tool--my mandoline--all in one go. In today's "Clare's Kitchen"column in the Times-Dispatch, a reader noticed my reference to cucumber salad and wondered how I make it. This involved a phone call to my father to verify my technique since he's the cucumber salad czar. He reassured me that my instincts were correct. (I think I make this phone call to him annually to verify, by the way. He must think I'm kooky.) Anyway, I think it must be Austrian or Czech or something, but no matter whence it comes, it's refreshing, crunchy, spicy and possibly the perfect thing to make for July 4th.
Last night while I was trolling the refrigerator for dinner ingredients, I admit to laughing out loud when it came to me. The perfect thing would surely be a black and blue salad.
It's been a wild few days, chock-a-block with activity and emotion surrounding Felix's stellar high school graduation on Friday. We've been surrounded by family and friends and lots of fun which by last night left a fridge full of inspirational ingredients and a tired Jeff and Clare, home alone and looking for something quick and delicious for dinner. Black and blue salad was the perfect thing, and the name was just a little humourous jab administered by the universe.
What better way to break in a new website than by launching my inaugural blog here at Clareskitchen.net?
Autumn’s arrival signaled the start of my beloved soup season. And, since I knew it would come eventually, even when the temperatures were hovering in the upper 80’s not too long ago, I proactively did all sorts of things in preparation: I made sure there was lots of great homemade chicken stock in my freezer: ordered a gorgeous new shipment of beans from Ranchogordo.com; and made sure that there was an array of aromatics, like carrots, celery, garlic, and onions positioned to get things moving along in the right direction when the moment seemed auspicious.
Since it's St. Valentine's day eve, perhaps it's time for a true confession: I've recently fallen madly in love. It was on a quintessential autumn day in New York last year (strike up the Mel Torme, please) and we were dining with beloved friends just in from Afghanistan and London. Needless to say, when you've been stationed in Kabul, what you're really longing for, is some good, authentic NYC deli, and Russ & Daughters, that venerable lower East Side bastion of all things kosher, didn't disappoint.
Yes, the lox and whitefish were superb, the bagels nonpareil, but I was completely overcome by the Russian Cabbage soup. Okay, it wasn't much to look at admittedly, But there just was something about it. I couldn't get enough of it. I thought that perhaps it was the most delicious thing I'd ever eaten. It was lovely to see my friends and all, but, my goodness, this soup! Crazy, I know, but I fell, and I fell hard.
Yoo Hoo! Here I am! I know, it's been entirely too long, but if you have been worried about me, fear not, I'm perfectly happy and right as rain.
I realized just how long I've been missing in action last night while I was photographing a great corn pudding with orange bell pepper and summer squash that I'd just created to accompany the summer's first crab cakes. Jeff, who was champing at the bit to actually lay into it, asked, "Actually, how long HAS it been since you last blogged?" When I embarrassingly admitted the truth, he gasped, I tell you! He literally gasped which, I must say, rather stole my thunder and quickly put pay to any self-satisfied pride I had over the corn pud.
I have been remiss. It's not that I haven't been cooking, or writing, or even photographing. It's just that I've been up to my nose in other stuff and I haven't been posting. In going through my photographs from the last few months, I'm struck by how many lovely things graced our kitchen table that I've not shared. I shall do my best to make amends.
And speaking of sharing, just maybe, this is a good time to discuss the saga of "the great pantry debacle" which may provide some comfort, or at least amusement to you, my equally fraught fellow home cooks.
Here I am after a long summer bursting with trips and frivolity. Best of all, beside the distinct pleasure of being home and trying to create some semblance of order in my chaotically overgrown garden and, heck, well, life, Felix is home for a brief visit before heading back to college.
Our trip to Greece was, well, dreamy, and future postings will delve into everything Jeff and I saw, learned and ate. This time however, I thought I'd go for a gentle reentry into Clare's Kitchen with what turned out to be a lovely, gentle reentry into cooking dinner again.
I'm clearly having a soup craze. I know this seems nutty on a day when we're supposed to have a high of 73 degrees, however, it is still February, so my soup obsession is at least seasonal, even if the seasons aren't playing along. This all started earlier in the week when, yes, there was snow on the ground. Better still, I had the great good fortune to luck into a meaty ham bone at the grocery store. I habitually check to see if they've got one at the deli, having finished up slicing a spiral ham. When I find one, I scoop it up and stow it away in the freezer knowing it will find a happy home in something or other before too long.
Who'd a thunk we'd finally have a snow day around here? Best of all, it's President's Day so lots of folks have the day off and don't have to drive around in it. They can actually go out and play while it lasts, which, from a quick peak at Mr. Washington's trusty thermometer outside my living room window, won't be too long. The General Assembly soldiers on regardless of things like holidays and snow, so from my perspective, sitting here alone--well Briggs and Eudora Richardson are here with me of course (my black and white furry companions)-- I've really lucked out with perhaps the quintessential snow day lunch for one.
On Friday night, I was driving home from a very good talk by Ben Campbell at the library and listening to my radio, when it suddenly started to send out shock waves of Noel into the unseasonably warm night air. With that familiar refrain, I suddenly realized that it was Twelfth Night. Because, as I've already alluded, I'm a creature of idiosyncratic culinary habits tied to all sorts of things, certainly including but not limited to the ecclesiastical calendar, I realized with delight that I'd therefore be producing the beloved cauliflower and Stilton soup over the weekend, for around here, Twelfth Night and Stilton soup go hand in hand. It all goes back to my Christmas obsession with Stilton. I grew up with a creamy round of Stilton being an integral part of the fabric of the holidays as, I imagine, it is in most English households. Even before I was old enough to love the musty blue cheese myself, I loved all of the accoutrements that it brought with it. The monogrammed Stilton "shovel" used to dig the green-veined cheese from the very heart of the round, the little glasses of port that accompanied it, the table water biscuits, the walnuts and the old familiar nut cracker, etched with complicated squiggles, that added the sound of a nice resounding crunch to the festivities.
I believe this would be appropriately termed an embarrassment of riches. I've had a simply lovely week of being a pampered houseguest in not one, but two extraordinarily beautiful historic homes in Virginia. As though that wasn't incredible enough, both visits were with people I dearly love and involved most of my favorite things--talking, walking, laughing, swimming, cooking and eating. Sheer bliss in every way that I can possibly imagine. To guild the proverbial lily, I returned home to find everything going berserk in my garden (as you can see from these lilies) and then, this morning, at the farmer's market.
Let me just say that the New Year is off to a raucous and challenging start. Felix is back to school as a “second semester senior” which, for some reason seems to mean to him that he’s completely autonomous and in charge. Don’t think so. Also Jeff is back at the General Assembly which means long days for him and meal uncertainty for me. Will anybody be home for dinner? If so, when will they be here? And if they show up, will they even be hungry? And to top all of that off, Felix has just informed me that I’m no longer an Aries! Where will it all end?
When Felix bounded out of the house to head back to Williamsburg earlier this week, it was not with a bang but a whimper. To further torture T.S. Eliot, the whimper was entirely mine when I opened the refrigerator to figure out dinner, and realized my beloved, recently departed son had left it a veritable waste land. Once my eyes grew accustomed to the bizarre appearance of open space in my hitherto jumbled, bursting fridge, I realized that surely there was something in there that I could scrounge together into something I'd actually like to eat. The thing was, it was late, I was tired, it was cold, and I felt that Jeff and I could really use something that seemed more like comfort food than gourmet repast.
At least some eggs were there, and some feta cheese was twinkling away for starters, oh and a jar of harissa...then an image burst into my brain. I'd been looking at Yotam Ottolenghi's great book Jerusalem the other day, for an unrelated issue. The gorgeous cover sprung into my mind and I raced for the book.
It promises to be a blustery cold weekend coming up and it occurs to me that, before we all delve willy nilly into holiday cooking, this might be the perfect time to make a brisket. Now, I'd never really thought about brisket before I married Jeff in 1988. It hadn't ever appeared in my coterie of Episcopalian go-to recipes, and I don't think I'd ever even had it before my first Passover Seder where I was charmed and amazed by this disarmingly flavorful wonder. How had this meltingly delicious, hearty braised masterpiece eluded me?
Needless to say, though I'm not usually a very observant wife to my lovely Jewish husband, I have happily produced this brisket each springtime to rave reviews.
Wow. Somehow when I read Sam Sifton's article and recipe in last Sunday's New York Times magazine, I just knew. And last night, when I cooked it and subsequently tore into it, I was sure. I've stumbled upon a new keeper, bound to make frequent appearances at my table, and maybe at yours too.
Extremely easy, and only a bit time-consuming (about an hour all together, mostly sitting around getting hungry as the yummy aroma wafts about the kitchen), it's bound to be a family pleaser--and in fact, is destined to be Felix's welcome home meal when he returns from school in the not-so-distant future.
How's about a little tweak for Valentine's Day? Polpettone, which sounds very glamorous indeed, is Italian for meatloaf and I have to say, in the light of the crazy blizzard around here, you may want to consider losing your plans to sally forth to some overcrowded, overpriced restaurant and instead, wire up this baby for tonight.
Whisper down the lane. At least that's what we used to call it in England. You know, that childhood game where you whisper a phrase to your friend who whispers it to the next person in line, and, at the end of the queue, the last person shouts out what they heard and it bears no resemblance to the initial phrase?
For some reason, I always found it endlessly amusing at slumber parties, which is perhaps why this recipe is both amusing to me and perfectly appropriate for today.
"Cold, Cold, Cold, Cold, Cold, Cold" - Lowell George, LIttle Feat
I guess I'm showing my advanced age by quoting lyrics from the 70's, but really, I can't get it out of my mind. And speaking of my youth, I don't ever remember it being this cold. I mean it must have been, surely, because however else were we seemingly constantly ice skating round and round the lake at the University of Richmond? I guess it must have been this cold, I just didn't feel it so much, bursting with the endless joie de vivre and hot internal furnace of youth.
That being said, let me let you in on a little secret. I know how to get it back. No, not ALL of the hot blooded enthusiasms perhaps, but at least the means for a happy, warm glow that will get you scooting through this polar vortex or storm Leon or whatever next week's version is going to be dubbed.
"The times, they are a-changin", Bob Dylan's epic album of that name came out in January 1964 which (if my notoriously bad math is correct) means that just shy of 50 years ago, things were moving along at the same pace as the world seems to be at this very moment. My crazy old world is changing by leaps and bounds everywhere I look, and I bet yours may be doing the same thing.
Earlier this year, for example, the names of cuts of beef and pork, 350 of them in fact, were officially changed for the first time in 40 years, leaving me, for one, completely intrigued and confused.
Last week I had the great good fortune to take a lovely trip to the Upper Penninsula of Michigan to visit dear old friends. There on the shore of Lake Michigan, I witnessed several "Michigan sparklers"--days so bright and sunny that the entire lake seemed to be a sea of diamonds. Also, there, I had the joy of donning my first sweater in many months; the wonder of primo star-gazing and pondering the meaning of the universe while reclining in a golf cart on the 9th hole late at night with beloved pal Sarah and a rambunctious English bulldog, and the sweet surprise of endless local cherries--both drenched in dark chocolate and without.
When I started this blog, I said I intended the share tales of the boundless generosity of my friends, but nothing prepared me for the extraordinary gift I received this past week from my old college pal, Bill Norton.
It turns out, that while I wasn't paying attention, Bill became an astounding and renowned pit master, charming his many friends in Charlottesville and beyond with the sumptuous bounty from his smoker. I've looked on, positively drooling, to photos on Facebook of his backyard exploits until I could take it no longer. When he showed pictures of the tasso ham he'd produced, I could no longer stifle my longings and just let out a resounding, "I want some!"
I'm laid up and loving it. That is to say, I appear to be faux-laid-up having, to my total embarrassment, perpetrated an elaborate fraud on my nearest and dearest.
I had a wee bit of oral surgery yesterday which I thought had the potential to be a whole big palaver. So, readiness being all, I made provisions. Lots of provisions. Parsnip bisque. Check. Boat-loads of good Greek yogurt. Check. Lovely stone ground grits prepared with lashings of cream. Check.
Last Saturday being St. Patrick's Day, I was inspired to make some corned beef. No not on actual Saturday (which would have been too predictable) when we went out to a very good Italian restaurant with friends, and no, not the home-corned variety that Pooh used to make that was exquisite. This was just good ole' grocery store common or garden corned beef. To make it is as easy as can be, as you know. Basically, I hurled the beef into a gargantuan Dutch oven of boiling water with the contents of its sinister spice packet, and some additional bay leaves, two peeled onions (each one chopped in half with a whole clove poked into each half), and a huge bunch of thyme. I put the cover on the pot, tossed it in a 325 degree oven and didn't think about it for four hours.
I'm way too barbecue savvy to bring down the wrath of my true-believer bbq loved ones to proclaim this as anything other than good old-fashioned faux barbecue. I've spent entirely too many 4th of Julys watching Bryan, in amazement, as he brings his Memphis birthright to bear in producing the real thing in all of its smoky splendor. No, this is just an easy, family pleasing way of dealing with roast pork leftovers that remains a tried and true hit. Just please don't be misled into thinking that this in any way, except maybe for taste, resembles the real deal.
If you happened to read my column in the Richmond Times Dispatch a couple of days ago, you're well aware that it's been pasta-world over here for seemingly weeks. Now don't get me wrong. I love pasta as much as you do. However, having made so many batches of it that I lost track, and having eaten every single one...well, you won't be surprised that I'm having the inverse reaction to carb-loading or, at least a temporary carb aversion.
When they decide to start a new television series dubbed Cookbook Hoarders I just know my phone will ring and I'll be invited to appear in the premiere. Yes, dear readers, I have a problem. It seems to me, however, that there are a lot worse maladies than compulsively buying cookery books. At least as long as the walls of our house don't implode, I suppose.
On the plus side, I really do read them. In fact, I do more than read them. I pour over them, I consult them, I come back and reread themand somehow, what I've read in the past is constantly percolating through what I'm reading in the present.
I love it when Kismet strikes and you know the Universe is sending you a message, which is what happened to make this incredible dinner come together the other night.
It all started just before Thanksgiving when my beloved friends Charlotte and Sarah came from London for a festive,whirlwind weekend visit. Stories abound, of course, but on the culinary front, I was mortified to have to admit to Sarah that there was nary a juniper berry in the house. " How in the world," she inquired with only very thinly veiled horror in her voice, "do you make venison?"
The end of daylight saving time is a great excuse(as though you need one) to whip up this supremely easy, supremely delectable autumn feast. It popped into my head yesterday as I was strolling through the glorious Virginia countryside with my friends. Was it the ravishing sunset colors of the sugar maple that firmly planted sweet potatoes in my mind? Perhaps the crackling of the logs in the fireplace, as we feasted and laughed, that reminded me that nothing in the world is better than a divine, stick-to-your ribs, homey meal in the company of good friends.
I couldn't be more delighted that the chilly winds that are blowing around, sending the maple leaves swirling and opening up our view of the James more and more with each passing moment, are bringing a succession of my beloved friends from all over the world to visit in the coming weeks.
First up this week was my adored friend Sarah Hazlegrove who dropped in from her whirlwind "Tobacco People" project which is taking her to seemingly every corner of the globe. I caught a glimpse of her between Indonesia and Brazil, as well as her more usual France, and was even able to turn my camera on her. What a nice change as she she's always taking my picture, as you can see from her handiwork on my "about me" page. She's some photographer.
Perhaps it's that first autumnal nip in the air, perhaps it's just the usual busy week, but I was again reminded that possibly my all time favorite, easiest comfort food dinner of all just may be roast chicken.
Talk about easy--at least the way I habitually make it--and talk about delicious. As with all things, the results are going to be very dependent on the quality of ingredients, so, for the sake of argument, let's just assume you're going to come up with the very best, freshest and hopefully non-battery raised bird you can find.
In the utter silence that cloaks my house this afternoon, it's hard to believe that two weeks ago today things were rockin' and rollin' around here. The College of William and Mary had just elected to close ahead of the impending arrival of Hurricane Irene. With that, Felix and five hall mates who had been together for all of six days followed their "personal evaluation plans" and came to roost here for the storm.
Having just spent a wonderful few days in New Orleans, I'm refreshed and full of lots of ideas. The food there was stupendous, of course: red fish, black drum, banana praline bread pudding--well, you get the idea. All that, plus hanging out with some of the best people the world has to offer: urban librarians. Talk about a happy break full of lots of interesting ideas.
Anyway, back at home I seem to have adopted my own attitude of the "Big Easy," in other words, with minimal effort, getting something on the table that satisfies the teenaged carnivore, and, well, everyone else too.
This is so easy I almost hesitate to share it. Nonetheless, I recently taught it to my pal Elizabeth who quickly incorporated it into her culinary repertoire to universal raves. If you don't already have a lasagna recipe to which you're attached, this is a good candidate I think. At least, everyone around here is crazy about it , even though it doesn't have meat in it....come to think about it, they may not know it's meatless, so for goodness sake don't tell 'em! I use whole-wheat lasagna noodles because I really like their almost nutty taste, but if your family is whole-wheat averse, regular lasagna noodles are just fine. Do not use those "no-boil" noodles however, which for some reason strike me as rather sinister because, though you don't pre-boil these noodles, they work perfectly anyway.
A trip to the farmer's market inspired a new take on an old favorite this week. I was able to find these beautiful garlic scapes as well as oodles of beautiful "English" peas...at least that's what I call them.
But what to make with this delicious booty? I was reminded of my one and only attempt at entering a food competition. Many year's ago I somehow or other was inspired to submit a recipe to the California sun-dried tomato growers. Needless to say, I lost and was so annoyed that I ceased making the stellar recipe that I'd invented for the competition. As I surveyed my peas and scapes, I was reminded of it as it featured peas and tons of garlic.
Somehow or other, I'd not exactly forgotten about, but hadn't made these wonderful chicken thighs for quite a while untilI was reminded of them earlier this week.
I saw the package of thighs beckoning me and thought, as Mark Trail would say, "What th' ?" How had I misplaced this old standby?
Just in time for Easter, the quintessential thing! You must make this! It fulfills all of the necessary requirements: lamb (means spring to me, how about you?); wonderfully green, minty, herby presentation; ridiculously easy; stunningly delicious. In short everything you need but the bunny.
A persillade is a mixture of chopped parsley (persil in French)and garlic, which I've stretched to include some mint and fresh rosemary. After chatting with my guru Pooh, I added a glaze of red pepper jelly on top which was the perfect "glue" for a nifty coating of persillade mixed with breadcrumbs.
I'm positive that this isn't an original thought, merely original to me. However, that being said, I did stumble into a delicious and embarrassingly easy dinner last night. Earlier in the week I had a lovely dinner at Bacchus on Main where I had just the thing for comfort induced carb loading: an enormous bowl of penne and white beans tousled with pesto sauce.
Several days later, while looking through my fridge for something to make for dinner with the beautiful shrimp I'd just scored, I remembered that soothing pasta , and what I've always considered to be a great affinity between shrimp and white beans.
I am reminded every time I make this for dinner, how much we all love it, and wonder why I don't make it more often. It's easy and so creamy and full of flavor that it's really just glamorous comfort food when you get right down to it. Actually, it's so easy to keep the ingredients on hand, that there's no reason for it not to become a good ol' pantry special--you know, one of those things to make when you haven't planned anything and it's suddenly dinnertime and your beloved family clearly expect that it's going to magically materialize. Actually, at times like this, when you hear the crunch on the driveway that signals your brood is home and you've been lazing about the hacienda doing lots of stuff that doesn't include making dinner, my first advice is to lay the table. That way, you can stall for time while you figure out what in the world you're going to do, and it lulls them into a false sense of security that you've got it together.
When Jeff comes home after a long day riding herd over the General Assembly I like to think there's some small measure of comfort for him here. And surely it can't be all sweetness and light working hard at senior sliding either? Felix probably deserves a good dinner too, which is another way of saying that sometimes I can lure him home for a rare sighting if the proffered meal is alluring enough. I think pot roast has generally fallen out of favor since the days of my childhood, which I think is a pity. I really can't imagine why, but I rarely hear of anyone (other than me) making it very often. It really can be the perfect thing for a chilly day, a busy day, a happy day or, well a sad day. Plus, if you don a cute apron while you prepare it, you start feeling all retro, and before you know it, you'll think that mixing up some martinis before dinner might be an idea....though that's another story entirely.
Let's face it, coming up with an interesting dinner night after night can certainly be a challenge, particularly when time is short and hunger looms large. Therefore, I think it's time to unlimber an old tried-and-true favorite of mine. This falls under the broad definition, I suppose, of macaroni and cheese. I'm still laughing over my friend Carroll's pronouncement that macaroni and cheese is perfect for "when I lose my teeth." This, however, is great for right now--teeth intact--as it appeals to grown-up taste buds and definitely demands the ability to chew.
There’s just something about meatloaf. It’s nothing fancy or difficult, but sometimes it’s just the thing. The other day we had some friends visiting from England and after considering all sorts of glamorous things to make for them, I decided that the perfect thing would be something they don’t get at home. I rustled up Felix’s favorite meatloaf, some mac ‘n cheese and green beans lickety-split and everybody was happy as can be, though, as our guests were leaving, Warwick turned to me and said, “What WAS that?” So, Warwick, here is what it was…
When the autumn days get shorter and cooler, there’s really nothing I like as much as settling into my kitchen and cranking up the oven for a little braising. There are so many semi-obscure cuts of meat, many of them inexpensive, that are transformed into fall-apart-on-your-tongue deliciousness with slow cooking in a yummy liquid up to their proverbial armpits, if you see what I mean. Among my favorites are lamb shanks, pot roast, short ribs, brisket…well, the list goes on and on. Today, however, I’m tackling Osso Buco, an Italian favorite that means, literally, “pierced bone” and refers to the cross-cut bone-in veal shanks that are the meat of choice for this dish. Because the bone marrow is so collagen rich, it provides a gelatin-like thickening agent during the slow cooking that results in a flavorful, velvety smooth sauce.
I just realized that in all this time of blogging, I've neglected to discuss one of life's greatest winter joys–Brussels sprouts. Ridiculous really, because at this time of year, they're never not in my larder, waiting for some opportunity to leap onto the plate--perhaps not as the main star, but certainly gaining kudos as best supporting actor. So quick and easy, so versatile. So delicious. As friend, Pooh, would say: "What's not to like about Brussels sprouts? Nothin'"
The key for these cruciferous veggies, is to be desperately careful to not over cook them, lest that horrid sulfurous smell and taste, that can happen if they're overdone, be unleashed. No, let your darling little green bulbs just be heated very quickly and very hot for the minimum possible time so that their outside layers get crunchy and brown, and their innards stay bright and vibrantly green.
Fast and furious. That's the only way to describe the transformation of my lovely storybook morning into something which very nearly could have resembling the film "Psycho" had not my better self intervened.
The start of my very busy video shoot day dawned lovely and cool, with even a little mist rolling off the river. Kitchen shears in hand, I wandered down to the kitchen garden to harvest herbs to incorporate into the tomato sauce which I was planning to create as soon as my trusty photographer appeared.
Help! I'm drowning, and I have a feeling you may be too. In zucchini that is.
How is it that something so longed for, can quickly turn into too much of a good thing? I happen to love zucchini--its subtlety, its versatility, its special place in the late summer garden and kitchen. What I realize I'm not so keen on, is zucchini unabated for weeks and weeks.
In fact, I was almost relieved the other day when, upon inquiring into the dietary restrictions and disinclinations of our Parisian guests, I was told they all ate everything, with the exception of 10-year old Jacob, who, it turned out, was game to try anything but zucchini, or courgette, as it came out in his lilting French.
Here's what I was in the throes of doing today, and heaven forbid I would wreck someone's Thanksgiving over something as sad as a lost recipe, so here, due to heartfelt reader requests, is my cranberry conserve recipe which first appeared in the Richmond Times Dispatch two years ago.
It's not actually mine, coming from my beloved mother-in-law, Dilly, so it's a bona fide Schapiro family recipe. It wouldn't be Thanksgiving around here without it, and once you try it, you'll find that it's that way in your house too. It takes a little bit of time, but it's happy, contemplative time, and your house will smell enchantingly like Thanksgiving so I would leap in and do it. You'll be happy you did!
Time for some Kismet cooking. As you doubtless know by now, there's almost nothing I like so much as ingredients coming my way through seeming coincidence. In figuring out what to do with them, I know I'm on the right track when I having a niggling feeling of vaguely remembering something. That's where my colossal book of clipped recipes comes in. It drives Jeff bonkers, because it's such an enormous overstuffed notebook that inevitably seems to be perched right in his way. By now he's surely learned that any criticism of my notebook, boldly entitled "Clare" on its spine, is rife with peril. I guess its title shows that I view it as an extension of myself, and dishing it is akin to answering "yes" when I ask him if I look fat in my new red dress. In other words, its someplace he doesn't want to go. My trusty notebook sent out a virtual vibration recently when my sweet next-door neighbor appeared bearing the last butternut squash from her garden. In looking around at my stash, nestled amongst my usual hoard, was a loaf of sourdough bread that had somehow been left behind in its rotation and was surely past its prime. I also had an abundance of Fontina left over from my stellar mushroom lasagna (more on that later). That was enough to cause that familiar niggling sensation and send me straight to "Clare". What was that recipe? Well, it was for panade and I found two--one from the New York Times, and a more recent one from the Wall Street Journal.
How in the world did that happen? Suffice it to say, in a happy blur of family, friends and food, and oh my goodness, such food! Even for me, I have to say, I spent rather a lot of time in the kitchen, being productive, yes; however, it seems to have rather kept me away from my trusty computer and letting you all in on the festivities. This is a shot of my kitchen a few days before Christmas when I was thick in the throes of cookie-dom. As you can see, it wasn't pretty, but take it from me, it sure was fun. Let me just say, here and now, I'm not into "resolutions." I guess it's the rebel in me that makes me immediately shy away from whatever it was that I had the best intentions of doing and instead, do just the opposite. That being the case, I "intend" to blog more regularly in the coming year, and I think may circle back to some of the great things that happened in my kitchen over a prolonged Christmas cooking-fest. The good news is that I took pictures and I most likely can figure out whatever it was that I did when I did it.
The other day, since Jeff was out-of-town for a speaking engagement, I found myself faced with the prospect of dining alone. This was quite an opportunity, I realized, to see if I was all talk and no action, and if in fact I was true to my word.
Last month I had the distinct honor of speaking to the James River Women's Club. Their chosen topic was "cooking for one" which, obviously, isn't something I have very much call to do these days, however, like most things, it's something about which I have strongly held convictions.
It's still all soup, all the time around here. I got into a soup-making frenzy for this week's food section story in the Richmond Times-Dispatch, and by virtue of there having been over 14,000 views of my Oktoberfest soup video since it went up 4 days ago--it's just a guess, mind you--but I think you might be making soup, too.
So, assuming that you are --either one of mine, or one of your own favorites -- it occurs to me that what you may want right about now is a great recipe for gougeres or, what in English is known as cheese puffs.
Because of the aforementioned chaos that's been the state of things around here of late, I seem to have mostly missed out on one of my favorite late summer obsessions: figs. One place from which I have been conspicuously absent is my garden. After a weekend at Bois Dore opining to my friend Claudia upon the wonder that is figs, I sheepishly went down to inspect mine. Sadly, I think that the squirrels and birds have had a fig fest going on which didn't leave but so many for me. Nevermind, the great thing about gardens, I've discovered, is that even if you "miss" a season through benign neglect as I seem to have done, it will come back around next year, hardly the worse forwear.
I've had cheese souffle weighing on me of late, and, since it's light as a feather, that obviously hasn't been too much of an ordeal.
I was reminded how much I love it when, earlier this summer, Strother made some divine individual ones for Evie's birthday. I mean, what can be more festive, more delicious, or make more of a dramatic appearance than a souffle bursting forth from its ramekin? The entry of the frowzy beauty straight from the oven is thrilling. Knowing that her bouffant will quickly flop adds to the excitement. The necessity of leaping in before the fall means that a certain informality, and spirit of fun, suffuses any meal where souffle makes her all too rare, as far as I'm concerned, appearance.
I can't think of anything more appealing to eat right about now than tomato pie. My pal Suzette has been whipping them up for the last few weeks and swooning about how divine they are. Her rampant enthusiasm meant that I'd been meaning to rustle up one of my usual yummy ones anyway, when I had a spot of inspiration yesterday. We just returned from a stellar weekend at the Homestead which afforded all sorts of over-the-top culinary experiences when we weren't mindlessly floating around in the Jefferson Pools in Hot Springs. Anyway, yesterday when I reached for one of the frozen homemade dough balls I keep handy to make a pie whenever the mood strikes, I had a flash of a particularly tasty pimento cheese sandwich I ate at tea in the Grand Hall on Sunday. A new taste treat was born.
I had some really successful kitchen kismet this week. Bob and Evelyn sent over some fabulous beans. I think I made an erroneous assumption that they were Chinese long beans. Whether they were or not, it set off a tidal wave of memories for me and, as usual I headed to my trusty stash of recipes, which live in the gigantic white loose-leaf notebook called, simply "Clare". Hmmmm....I wonder if in my heart, cooking defines me? Clearly the subject for, if not therapy, then lots of further thought. But I digress....back to beans. I found a wonderful Gourmet recipe from 2006 and there, right beside it, a Mark Bittman recipe from 2002 which I must have decided at some point would go together beautifully.
I'd like to say right up front that I love pimento cheese. Although I was born in New Jersey (if Princeton counts as New Jersey) I think I've always loved the quintessentially southern treat since I first encountered it on rubbery store-bought white bread made into crustless sandwiches when I was a little girl transplanted to Virginia. In the old days, one used to be able to buy "good" pimento cheese at the grocery store, which, I'm very sad to say, is no longer the case. I've made it a little game to look at the ingredients on containers of pimento cheese I've stumbled upon in recent years, and, frankly, have been horrified with some of the completely unacceptable things I've found listed. Believe me, cream cheese has no place in real pimento cheese.
This time I think I've finally done it! Found the ultimate oatmeal cookie. There's something about this time of year that annually renews my quest. Believe me, I think I've tried 'em all, and almost invariably return to that tried and true one that lives underneath that charming Quaker gentleman.
This time, however, I tackled Ina Garten's from last year's Make it Ahead and I have to say, my girl Ina really nailed it this time.
This is a story of adaptation and collaboration. A couple of weeks ago, my bee-loving- beloved-friend, Jen, gave me a cookie to eat from her friendly neighborhood baker. It was a great rosemary lemon cookie which really piqued my interest (apparently obviously) so, as I chewed, clearly ruminating, she asked me what I thought. "They should lose the lemon frosting on top, and up the rosemary" I muttered, and on we went to the Lewis Ginter Botanical Garden plant sale.
The next Friday, I was back again, but this time, we were headed off to Lavender Fields Farm. She handed me another cookie, this time of her own creation, and asked if it was better. Indeed it was so good, by the time I got home, I wanted more.
I remember precisely the view when I opened my eyes that first morning.
My growing realization as the white plaster wall came into focus, that I'd finally found my way to my dream of the Greek island of Evia. Stories of this magic place had enlivened my imagination since adolescence. I was expecting the exotic beauty, the beloved friends, the splendid joys of the island unfolding before me.
What I wasn't expecting, however, was the overwhelming, sweet aroma wafting from the kitchen where a sublime treat was gently bubbling away in preparation for our first Greek breakfast.
As it says at the top of this page, "Saving the world, one bite at a time". Desperate times call for desperate measures, and sometimes I can't think of a thing in the world I can do to make anything better, save for making a batch of cookies.
When I came home from Michigan a couple of weeks ago, my luggage was bursting with cherries. As I desperately tried to get my suitcase shut, I must admit to thinking that this must have been how the guy in Midnight Express must have felt. Fortunately, cherries aren't considered to be contraband, so, loaded up with friend Sarah's incredible gift of pounds and pounds of the best the Upper Peninsula has to offer, I made my way home. Both dried and covered in dark, rich chocolate, I've been gently nibbling away at my incredible cache and enjoying every bite.
True Confessions. When in comes to provisioning, I like to think of myself as a model of organization. The truth, however, is that frequently real life intervenes--a sudden irresistible invitation for dinner or a late afternoon swim, for example--and the best laid plans for what I'm going to cook, and when, goes cattywampus. Really, I wouldn't have it any other way for, in cooking, as in real life, the ability to be flexible, it seems to me, is a highly underrated virtue.
Ah, the best laid plans...
I woke today, fully intending to blog. I had given lots of thoughts to what I might be blogging about. It was most likely going to be about the sumptuous gift of delectable home grown sausage that Kenan gave me a couple of weeks ago. It was just conceivable it was going to be about a killer batch of red beans and rice I made this week, and not beyond the realm of possibility that it would be about a nifty little brunch dish I created over the weekend, featuring crumpets and poached eggs.
You know what they say: When life hands you a cold, rainy day in February, make Meyer lemon cheesecake.
I don't know about you, but I've been happily tripping over Meyer lemons for weeks now at the grocery, so when I spied this recipe the other day on Food 52, I was ready. Creamy and delicious, not too sweet, but not too tart either, my initial reaction to reading it was that it just might be the perfect way to banish the reality of it still being February and happily, I was right. It came together in a jiff, and the only trauma was waiting for it to cool because the Meyer lemonyness suffusing my kitchen proved to be almost irresistible.
This is going to be a short and sweet lagniappe as it's a glorious day and my garden beckons. It's actually being written in anticipation of tomorrow when my column in the Times Dispatch is all about homemade ice cream. I've been in an ice cream making frenzy for weeks, as you'll see if you read the paper, however, my theory is that if you're going to make ice cream, you need to make a really fabulous something with which to bedeck it: caramel sauce.
Chased inside from my epic weeding undertaking (just call me Sisyphus) by thunder, I am bursting with observations and conclusions wrought from a steamy morning trying to make order from chaos: 1) When one is covered head to toe with columbine seeds from banging into their seed pods repeatedly whilst weeding, they are completely indistinguishable from deer ticks and will exacerbate any already lurking anxiety. 2) Anxiety caused by dwelling on those things one hasn't done for three weeks (like gardening, blogging, exercising) is even more debilitating than insanely trying to pick infinitesimally small seeds off your sticky self with your gardening gloves that are encrusted with them,i.e., a complete waste of time.
I can't believe it happened again. Yes, more trips, more adventures, more parties and general festivities, which put pay to my best intentions to blog more. Among the many happy things that led me astray were Felix's birthday, which involved a brunch party for none other than the hurricane boys (see my posting on shrimp, chicken and andouille gumbo for details.) It turns out that the "hurrication" and Felix's birthday were perfect bookends for freshman year; so, not only were we able to catch up and reflect on a stellar first year of college, the Griffin even showed up to wish Felix many happy returns! Worth a little blogging lapse, I'd say.
I'm mesmerized with horror at the length of time since I last blogged. The good news is that it's because I was doing lots of other festive things--amongst them, an enchanting Low Country holiday on a boat with lovely friends, eating myself silly up-and-down the Inland Waterway from Jekyll Island, Georgia to Charleston, South Carolina and all points in between. Let's just say I have an even more intimate relationship with pork and pimento cheese than I would have thought possible.
I often think that a simple fruit desert is my very favorite, and this rustic apple tart is high on that list. I'm not sure that this photograph really does it justice, however, since the whole point is that it's homemade, this certainly looks the part. Oh, if you could just smell it, you'd know that this is a scrumptuous treat that will end any meal on a splendidly high note. Perhaps part of the reason I like it so much, is the anticipation. I have to plan to make it, for at least a couple of days, because it is made with creme fraiche, for which I am way too cheap to pay the exorbitant asking price in the local gourmet market. You see, not normally known to economize when it comes to ingredients, I made the mistake of discovering just how easy creme fraiche is to make, and therefore can't bring myself to buy it anymore. Instead, when I get the wild hare to make this tart, I buy some preferably whole milk buttermilk and some whipping cream. When I get home, I put a couple of tablespoons of the buttermilk into a glass bowl with a couple of cups of cream in it, stir it gently and pop it into my oven set to "proof". Like alchemy, 24 hours later I have a great big bowl of creme frache, which, let me just say, is a pretty magical and empowering thing to know you can do.
One of my great coups of Thanksgiving had to be this pie. I'd read about it in the New York Times several weeks ago, where it listed some ingredients in passing, but no recipe. I was totally intrigued and just had to give it a whirl. After all, what's the worst thing that could happen? A big fail, that's what, but, given that enough food to feed a small army was already prepared, I decided that even if it didn't work, no one was going to starve, so "what th' ?" as Mark Trail would say. I thawed one of my trusty no-fail dough balls that I've written about in a previous post, assembled my ingredients and let 'er rip. What a wild success and a new addition to not just the Thanksgiving repertoire, but really, a new favorite apple pie. I know the ingredients are a bit wacky, but give it a try anyway. Salt and pepper aren't just for entrees anymore.
Just like your house, things are in a cooking frenzy here in preparation for the big day. Felix returned home from college yesterday and I wanted to make something special for dessert that would be a foreshadowing of the delights to come, without stealing the thunder of the actual day.
In conversation with my sister, I remembered this old favorite which completely fit the bill. I think it would be great for Thanksgiving too, as a matter of fact, but I'm obsessed with creating a salted caramel apple pie for tomorrow. If that's a disaster, at least I'll have most of this in the kitchen and I can always dish it out in there, can't I? What they don't know won't hurt 'em.
Today's dawn broke bright and happy around here in the shape of a cozy breakfast with our friends Chris and Lilla who were visiting from The Plains. We had such a festive reunion after running into them last week in Charlottesville, and putting the wheels in motion for our long-overdue "hanging-out" visit which came to fruition yesterday. We laughed, we reminisced, we ate, we looked at art, we had dinner with their wonderfulmusician-daughter and even went out dancing last night, like the raucous young things we were -- longer ago now than I care to remember. We reminisced lots about eating (even about specific meals, like Chris' dreamy hazelnut pancakes that have been lurking in my heart for more than 30 years), and I was happily reminded of the ease with which one can pick right back up with good old friends, even when your separation has inadvertently been entirely too long.
Anyone who has spent any significant time with me knows that I am a big proponent of afternoon tea. I guess it's my English mother and my years living in England, but every afternoon, at around 4, should you happen by, you will be undoubtably be offered a cup of tea. I'm mad for just the right thing to go with that tea and am always on the prowl for good candidates.
Last week while I was on my apple brown Betty quest, I was perusing my beloved Richard Sax cookbook, "Classic Home Desserts" and stumbled upon this incredible recipe for "Grasmere Gingerbread" aka oatmeal shortbread squares. I knew, just by reading it, that I was going to love it, and sure enough, they're possibly the quintessential afternoon tea dainty. At least this afternoon they surely are.
If you didn't already know it, I can be a bit of a kook when it comes to food. I'm clearly thinking about it, sometimes stewing about it, even when I'm asleep. Many times I wake up with either a fully formed food idea in my head, or a food clue rattling around. By now I've learned enough to know that a follow-up in the cold light of morning is usually a good idea.
In this instance, in preparation for Felix's fall break homecoming, I woke up with apple pandowdy on my mind. Not knowing exactly what constitutes a pandowdy, I had a grand time with my cookbooks trying to figure it out. What I learned is that pandowdy is decidedly American, dating from around 1880 and is, effectively, an apple pie made with the crust broken up half-way through the baking and then pressed into the pie filling. This is called "dowdying" in fact.
I promised a couple of weeks ago in the fig and blue cheese crostata post, to get into the subject of pastry. If you're game to read the saga, I'm game to tell you. Perhaps you've already noticed that I can be a tad bit--how shall I say?--obsessive. Pastry is one such obsession. I come from a fine tradition of expert pastry makers. My mother, who was otherwise not a particularly inspired cook, was renowned for her pastry. As a little girl, to my untrained eye, pastry making seemed to involve terrifyingly tiny dollops of ice water doled out just so. To my horror, with the least provocation, it seemed to me, a tiny drop too much could land the whole batch in the trash. Talk about intimidating.
I'm excited to be appearing on 'Virginia This Morning" tomorrow to make this trifle. I'm making it live mind you. Well, it won't be this one, obviously...this one will be there to show what it looks like in case I run out of time, which I'm very likely to do. My appearance is scheduled for sometime between 9 and 10 am on WTVR 6. by the way. If you watch me and want to make it, or even if you don't watch my appearance and just want to make it, here's how I did it:
I'm really not sure why, but as the sweltering heat of the last few days commenced, all I could think about was lemons. I kept finding myself thinking that a little lemon zest would improve, well, just about everything. Consequently, it felt as though my trusty microplane grater didn't leave my hand all week.
While I was grating merrily away into mostly savory dishes, I started thinking about lemon bars. Upon reflection, I realized that it had been ages since I'd made them and I got all sentimental remembering that they were a great favorite of mine long ago. I realized with some horror that I couldn't quite remember whose recipe I was in the habit of using in the lemon bar-centric days of yore. I did recall trying a great many different ones. This in turn resulted in several happy hours delving into my embarrassingly vast library of cookbooks comparing and contrasting recipes and trying to figure out which one I used to regard as the best.
By now perhaps you're starting to realize that I get passionately obsessed about things. Yes, certainly things happening in my kitchen. That's a given. However , what you may not know is that I'm also obsessed with my garden. And, just like in the kitchen, I'm a completely (well, almost completely) self-taught gardener. I must acknowledge, however, that my mother took great pains in teaching me how to properly prune roses, always on President's day.
This week I've been spending lots of time outside the window of my kitchen in my garden and am particularly pleased with my peonies which are just starting to bloom.
I'm always on the lookout for something new to grace my grandmother's cookie tin. Said cookie's starring role in Jeff's lunch sack every day means it needs to be tasty and portable too. I struck the mother lode the other day when I stumbled upon this great recipe in theGourmet Cookbook edited by Ruth Reichl in 2004. I'm very much inclined to try things I find in this estimable yellow tome--because I miss Gourmet, because I'm a Ruth Reichl fan and because seldom does it steer me wrong.
it happened to you. So the very best thing about my age and station in life is that, when it's my birthday, I get to make exactly what I want. One thing I've noticed is that, though I bake all sorts ofcakes for all sorts of occasions throughout the year, when it's pure and simply what I like, that ol' hummingbird cake is bound to fly into my head and out of my kitchen.
I desperately miss strawberries. Do you remember when they actually tasted like something other than slightly sweet cotton wool? Dear old strawberries. Like a pal who's undergone a facelift, strawberries these days--while absolutely gorgeous--make you long for the old one. Even with all their bumps, blemishes and imperfections, they were resolutely and authentically themselves andabsolutely irresistible.
I feel that in the kitchen, as in life, opportunities present themselves and one must be ever vigilant to recognize them. My beloved pal Sarah came to stay the other day, and presented me with a hitherto unexplored ingredient--a carton of organic egg whites. They sat there until yesterday when I noticed that I'd better do something with them before they set about expiringand making me send them to a better place before they reached their full potential.
Earlier this week when a friend was coming to dinner who prefers a gluten-free menu, I was delighted to remember this old favorite from Nigella's book, How to be a Domestic Goddess. I don't profess to be a "Domestic Goddess, " however, this is a delicious and very appealing cake, even for those of us who don't eschew gluten. Furthermore, it's very easy and positively bursting with chocolate and hazelnuts....I mean, really, what's not to love?
If your valentine is anything like mine, he (or she) doesn't want any more stuff to clutter up the joint. There's one thing, however, sure to win his (or her) heart and which is guaranteed not to be just one more thing.....meltingly beautiful and delectable linzer hearts. I'm a big believer that a homemade present is the ultimate in proclaiming love and devotion, so why not do what I'm going to do this weekend, and whip up a batch of these darlings?
I had a wonderful bit of clean-out-the-fridge kismet yesterday. I dragged myself away from sitting by the fire because I knew that lurking in the back was some delectable eggnog left over from Christmas. I knew it was still good because it was bursting with bourbon, andI know it's intended to "age" anyway, so what th'....? Plus I had some remnants of the Christmas pudding sauce--Umma's plum pudding sauce (the recipe for which is on TimesDispatch.com)still biding its time. Ditto with the high alcohol content I figured. I'd also secured a panettone when they'd gone on jaw-dropping sale after Christmas, so I realized I was ready to go with a stupendously easy dessert. To the probably four cups of eggnog, I added four eggs and beat well. I removed the crust from the panettone and chopped it into about 1 " cubes and put them in a buttered oval baker. I poured the by now double-eggy-eggnog on top and let it sit in the fridge for about an hour after squashing the panettone down into the liquid with a fork. Just before popping it into a 375 degree oven, I poured the remaining Umma's sauce over it, covered it with foil and put it in a roasting pan. I then poured boiling water into the roasting pan about half-way up the sides of the dish. Voila bain marie!
Happy New Year!
Okay, this is the last thing I’m going to say on the subject of cookies for the immediate future, and I wouldn’t even be discussing this, except I just ate two lemon pecan cookies and, even though they are a twelfth night old, my goodness they are DELICIOUS! In fact, I have to say I can’t imagine anything more perfect than a tumble of these gems and a good cup of tea. Unprepossessing in appearance perhaps, but so fresh and lemony, so explosively good….well, suffice it to say, I may survive January just knowing where these darlings are stowed. Honestly, if you have it in you to bake one more cookie, or if it snows, or if you just want to make something, anything--make these. And a touch of Jane Austen wouldn’t hurt either, now that I think about it.
I realize that as I’m making each one of my Christmas cookies, I proclaim it to be THE BEST ONE OF ALL! Okay, so here’s today’s BEST ONE OF ALL…..I have to say, it was originally Martha’s recipe, but, as you can imagine, it was WAY too fussy for my taste, so here it is, easy as can be, Christmas on a plate. And FYI, I think Santa is particularly fond of these too.
You know that hideous feeling where you've let something go so long, you're too mortified to know how to address it? Well, that's me, somehow finding the gumption to write this.
I've just had lunch with a beloved friend, in which we discussed this very quandary. Well, actually, not this very quandary, but yet another thing that I've let get hideously awry. Anyway, I'll attack the other thing in a minute after I've gotten this post taken care of, but I thought her solution was ingenious and I don't know why I didn't think of it before: just tell the truth.