shortbread with cacao nibs & toffeeMay 23rd, 2013 | 3 Comments »My beloved baking mentor, my Mom, had this recipe she made a lot when we were kids called Coffee Toffee Bars. Although they did have coffee in them, there wasn’t one snippet of toffee at all. It was a shortbread type cookie, dense and rich, glazed with a thin, crackly almond glaze and we would gobble this treat up shamelessly whenever she made them. These bars, however, are not my Mother’s Coffee Toffee Bars.
peanut butter quinoa blondiesMay 10th, 2013 | 3 Comments »With chocolate chips- as if they need anything else. It’s a creamy, dreamy taste overload and entirely gluten-free, if you need or want that sort of thing.
momofuku corn cookiesMarch 14th, 2013 | 1 Comment »A sweet cookie, a fresh burst of corn flavor; this unique treat was an eye-opening experience, with unbelievable flavor.
roasted orange marmalade for late winterMarch 7th, 2013 | 9 Comments »Late Winter brings it’s own melancholy, with a longing anticipation of Spring as the weary trudge over a landscape white as the eye can see.
sugar plums…. a christmas revelationDecember 6th, 2012 | 2 Comments »
A few years ago, I had a bit of a revelation in the kitchen. I learned about Sugar Plums. Yes! THOSE Sugar Plums… as in ‘visions of sugar plums danced in their head’; the stuff of lore and childhood wonder on Christmas Eve, the giddy anticipation of morning and a stocking stuffed with toys. I remember the day quite well; it was a blindingly sunny, brilliantly blue-sky day in December, but the air was frigid with cold, the cold that seems like you could break it with one swift punch. Inside the house, as the furnace hummed, the sunshine on my back so warm that I’d shed my sweater, but kept it close at hand for that magical moment when the sun slips low enough to return the chill to the air. I was gathering ingredients together to make these little gems; dried apricots, figs, and dates, almonds, pecans, pistachios…. it was a heavenly spread laying on the countertop in my kitchen. I had a few round, fat oranges for zest and juice, a jar of honey that caught the sunshine just right, reflecting a golden cast. Everything was measured in to the food processor and I pushed a button. In moments, the mix was reduced to a fine mince and when I popped off the cover, the flood of aromas that swept up to my nose sent chills through me. The hair on my arms stood tall. It was fresh, citrus-y and nutty all at once, and rich with some ancient memory loaded in my mind, far too remote to ever recall correctly. I scraped it all in a bowl, and with a small cup of warm water at hand, I began to form them in to balls. Miles Davis blew his sweet notes on the radio, filling the kitchen with melodious sound, the sun gave the room a drowsy feel, Christmas crept ever closer and in my own two hands, a little Christmas miracle occurred.
Once the entire mass was formed, dredged in coconut or powdered sugar and set in the refrigerator, I felt like I’d stepped in to another dimension in time. Years and years of hearing the same Christmas story, thinking of my own childhood Christmas Eve, laying in bed thinking I will never! sleep! due to all the excitement and waking up with a start, shot through with the thrill of Christmas morning, I never even imagined that such a thing existed as a Sugar Plum. Ages before the Internet could bring anything in your head to reality, I just figured it was a treat of bygone days that no one had any clue how to make. If my Mom didn’t know (because you ALL remember when your Mom knew everything) then it couldn’t possibly be real. But real they are. And that little treat, passed around to wide eyes as Christmas drew nearer that year, brought exclamations of the same; “These are real?” as eager fingers held one for examination. I nodded. “I know!” and with one bite, a burst of sweet fruit and crunchy nut, with the hint of orange juice and I could see the idea settling in everyone who tried them. At some point, ancient in time I imagine the Sugar Plum was likely something else all together, that slipped from our collective understanding, lost forever. But these are a worthy replacement, ready to be placed front and center in your holiday celebrations. “I wish I’d known about this years ago.” someone said to me then, biting in to the fragrant mass. “I would have added these to our holiday baking every year.” “Well,” I said to her, ” now you can.”
KATE’S NOTES: I used two cups equivalent of nuts, utilizing pistachios and pecans as well as almonds. It’s my holy trifecta of nutty favorites. Or you could use other nuts like peanuts, walnuts, brazil nuts. The possibilities are endless for dried fruit substitutions; raisins both black or gold, cranberries, cherries, currants, pineapple, mango. . Try it with lemon juice and zest for a different flavor, or maple syrup in place of the honey. Use cardamom instead of nutmeg and cinnamon. I added a bit more honey and orange juice, as the amount in the recipe didn’t seem to be enough to make the mixture as sticky as it needed to hold together. Adjust it according to your taste preferences. These improve, and deepen in flavor the longer they sit in the refrigerator. For optimum flavor, make them a week ahead of time. REMINDER!! simply sugar cookiesNovember 26th, 2012 | 4 Comments »
This is one of my ‘tried and true’ recipes; the one to turn to for comfort and understanding that you know will never let you down. Not that I can’t find a million cookie recipes at the touch of my fingers, for cookies that look amazingly thick, decadent, and pillowy, with that perfect blend of crisp edges and soft interiors and I’m certain that they would be delightful and all, but there’s this thing about cookies and my taste for them; I don’t like to stretch myself all that much. I don’t need fancy in a cookie; I crave basic and and elementary. I might sub in a fancy ingredient, like good quality chocolate chunks for a bag of chocolate chips, but there’s a ceiling of cookie indulgence above me and it’s solidly in place. Give me a straightforward cookie, please. These Sugar Cookies are perfect. They’re quietly uncomplicated, yet worthy in flavor of bringing back memories of a Sugar Cookie I loved as a child. I’ve passed this recipe on to many people and all the feedback I’ve had has been nothing short of glowing. Stellar all on their own, they accept decorative toppings in any form, making them a must for holiday cookie-making. You can scoop the dough or roll it out and use cookie cutters too. It freezes beautifully too, as do the finished cookies themselves.
KATE’S NOTES: I find that the super fine bakers sugar elevates the texture of these cookies quite a bit. You can mix up white and wheat flour if you wish, the end result will be darker though. I have substituted 1/2 c. of honey for the white sugar and love how tender it makes them. date and nut oat barsNovember 5th, 2012 | 3 Comments »I’m a total rebel. It’s November, and everywhere you look is pumpkin. In everything. Or butternut squash. In everything. There’s sweet potatoes lurking over there; an acorn squash holding an adorable filling, perfectly browned edge glinting just so. It’s the season for all things roots and orange. People are already gearing up for Thanksgiving, too. Decorations for Christmas have come out in certain stores. WHAT!!? Gah. And here I am, dreaming of gooey dates and a crumbly oat bar.
Sarah at The Yellow House recently wrote a post about her Mother’s recipe box, and a particular recipe memory she was seeking, in the stumbling way that a motherless daughter tries to find answers to the questions that can never be solved. Sarah’s post, even in it’s despair and sadness, triggered something in me because I know all about that bitter walk after your Mother dies, the questions you wish you could ask, the reassurance like an anchor, that a Mother brings. She sought answers about a particular barbecue sauce recipe, and for me, the always unattainable answer I sought from my Mom’s spirit was for a treasured Date Bar recipe. I’m pretty biased towards these iconic baked goods as they’ve been a favorite ever since I could remember stepping up to a kitchen counter, reaching up to place my hands on the worn edge and leaning hard around my Mom’s arm to see what she was doing. A recipe box open, the mass of dates simmering on the stove, the bowl of oats and sugar standing silently, waiting. The small pan ready. A kitchen warmed by an oven. But then in a flash, I’m grown up, and my childhood kitchen dissipates. I’m a parent now, too. When my tiny boy reached his own chubby fingers towards that kitchen counter, I pulled up a chair and got him situated. We stirred together. We mixed and measured, my hand over his as his blue eyes watched closely. I gave him a knife and he carefully trimmed vegetables. He pushed his luck against my stern warning that yes, indeed that stovetop is still hot even though the burners are no longer red. I dried those tears and soothed the burns. We soldiered on. Pans of Brownies and chocolate cake came and went. Chocolate chip cookies- of course!- and Oatmeal Raisin, Snickerdoodles and Dark Chocolate Drops; Oatmeal Scotchies and Applesauce Cake, cookies every Christmas. Full bellies and full hearts, him and I. His interest wavered, waned and often, he was absent as he grew too cool to stand by my side. Then, in some great moment of clarity, he returned to the kitchen again, a young man. Now he cooks his own food. Experiments. Expands. Still, if he said to me ‘Can you please make ______ ?’ I would likely tell him ‘Yes.’ and reach for the flour canister. Because when I would sidle up next to my Mom as she thumbed through a cookbook, or pulled out her recipe card file for inspiration, often she would turn to me and say ‘Got any requests?’ and in my little girl, eager way, I would say “Please make those Date Bars!” And she would, smiling as she pulled the corner piece out of the pan to hand to me, it’s edges chewy and firm and we’d eat ’til our bellies were full, her and I. Eighteen years after her passing, her words still ring strong in my mind, for her baking was her love language, her moment to tell us how much she adored our faces, upturned and eager towards her as she pulled down worn metal tins of flour and sugar, turned the knob on the stove and sought out the warped, old cookie sheets, the favorite baking pan, drawing the aging cookie tin from the cupboard, the big round one with the roses on the top. I still have her recipe box, and I’ve poured over her it in vain, searching for that Date Bar recipe that she made for me, the one that was always just perfect, but I never found it. I poured pan after pan of warm date puree over an oat crust, trying to replicate the taste, seeking her smile in my memory and the love from a chewy corner piece but every time I bit down, the past wasn’t there. I wanted it to be, so badly. I reach for a container of flour, a sack of sugar, thinking it will restore the dull ache in me that still echoes after nearly two decades. Sometimes the very act of baking will quiet the roar; other times, those first bites just make it more acute. Then I find this one, a perfect Date Bar with a crunchy oat crust that browns and crisps in the oven, snapping apart to shower on the plate, crumbs falling in your lap that you happily pick up on moist fingertip, the rich dates cooked to a tender chew, gooey edge and all.
And the taste, smell and memory all come together in a tiny piece of cookie, too undeserving to be saddled with the burden of answering the questions of our past, but when I shut my eyes and bite, it’s all there. She’s all there. It’s swift and sharp, a nick of knife metal, barbed hooks caught against the heart. A moment meshes between child and adult, past and painful present wrapped in one oat crust, me as Mom and then, my Mother, with so many similarities between.
{{adapted from an original recipe, author unknown}} coming home to the familiar (with spiced molasses cake)October 3rd, 2012 | 2 Comments »Fall began while I was away, on Mountain Time, amidst soaring majestic peaks and deep pine canyons. The Summer season passed in our initiation to a storied national park, and Autumn came on a cliff, crossing steep trails worn down by hooves and hiking shoes; it came through the sunrises over a new sky, shrouded with wildfire smoke, on a white water rafting excursion, over 3,000 miles and 9 days straight with my two most favorite guys. It was the longest vacation I’ve ever taken and it felt strange to clean up the house for the cat sitter, pack a container of veggie chili in the freezer to welcome us home, go over the lists again (and again and AGAIN) making sure that we had good snacks for the car, and lunch on the road (hello peanut butter), packing items like hand wipes and paper towels and extra plastic bags for trash, searching for good audio books to keep us occupied for the 10+ hour drive, and trying to remember all the quirky little things we should tell our cousin about caring for our silly cats. Among all the final frenzy of planning and packing, I kept running the whole thing over in my head, thinking “Can we really DO this? Can we drive across three states and explore the West and be sane enough to still say ‘I love you!’ every day and mean it while cramped inside a 4-door sedan?” Truth is, yes. We can. And we did. I was never more excited to drive away from home on that glorious Sunday morning while most of our neighborhood still slept, nor was I more thrilled to return home as the sun set on the following Tuesday. To everything familiar and easy, to my bed and my home and my cats. Even as all the unfamiliar became easy, the roads that I started to learn around my Uncle’s home, their wonderful hospitality, to the pines and peaks I stared at in awe, cementing them in my soul, even with everything that was so perfect about the entire trip, coming home felt better than I could have ever imagined. I couldn’t wait to get away and the anticipation was so richly rewarded, but I yearned for home the moment we turned our car Eastward and headed over the Interstate. Re-entry was simple; familiar, easy, calm, happy. It’s nice to come home. {{psssst….. I’m giving away cookbooks. Go check it out!}} It wouldn’t take much beyond scrolling through my blog reader to know that Fall has most definitively arrived. Soups, stews, braises, pumpkin, squash, brussels sprouts and potatoes adorn the photos and fill the pages, hearty fare to shore ourselves up for the cold, the snow and the darker months to come. For me, Autumn needs two things: color blazed Maples and dark Molasses Cake.
Gingerbread. Molasses Cake. Whatever you refer it as, what name you prefer to call the dense moist crumb of such a perfect Autumn flavor, this recipe is the bees knees for anyone who loves molasses, deep and dark. It’s evokes the perfect memory of past seasons, where the deep reds and oranges of Maple burned bright against the rich blue sky, the crunch of leaves underfoot, the chill in the air as the sun drops it’s golden curve low on the horizon. The whiff of memory is bittersweet; of Gingersnap cookies that my Mom loved, the recipe that came out after school began for everyone, a welcome home with cold milk. I still love those cookies, and all things ginger and bread and molasses. This cake has made a few other appearances in our kitchen and home, always against that perfect Fall backdrop of blaze and blue. Even with our warm days, bright sunshine and comfortable nights, after a few frosty mornings and finding the familiar in old and cozy sweaters and jeans, it welcomes you home whether you’ve been away, or just greatly anticipating Autumn. We all love Autumn; it’s universal in it’s daily changes of color, of temperatures and air and the gradual slide to Winter.
“be fearless…. and above all, have fun!”August 15th, 2012 | 2 Comments »Happy birthday Julia Child!! The culinary icon and towering personality would have been 100 years old today. And if she was alive, she no doubt would stick to her mantra in the kitchen, regardless of whom she was talking to:
And the thing is, this being fearless aspect of cooking, this devil-may-care mindset and learning from every mistake I make is how I approach each day in my kitchen. I’m not perfect by any means; I make a ton of mistakes still, even with the advanced skills I have. I still am full of anxiety when I try something new, but I keep trying, I keep figuring it out as I go and I keep entering that kitchen, day after day with fresh eyes and an eagerness that propels me forward. I’ll never tire of trying. Never in the history of our culture has there been a time that is so saturated with every aspect of food. Our culture is obsessed with it’s food, some in a good, good way and others, not so much. There is more awareness now about food, from the way it’s grown and raised to the means of acquisition to the method it’s prepared; it’s on the minds and tongues of everyone and never before has there been such a desire for making and sharing good food. Julia Child was one of the pioneer who started Americans out on this food adventure. The warbling, funny and iconic host of PBS’ The French Chef gave us permission to explore and expand our palates, to try out new foods and recipes. Her seminal work, Mastering the Art of French Cooking was first published in 1961 to critical acclaim, and is still in print today. She was a prolific cookbook author, as well as host of several other television shows. Her entire kitchen is on display at the Smithsonian National Museum of American History. Julia paved the way for so many other chefs through her inspiration, her urging people to just get in the kitchen and start somewhere, anywhere. Nobody could have imagined in the 1970′s, an era of bland, boring and uninspired eating that if we could consider ourselves fast-forward three decades that we’d be deeply embedded in a cultural revolution that embraces fresh, seasonal and sustainably sourced food. Julia herself likely could never have anticipated that, but here we are, and there she was, unknowingly a forerunner in a movement that’s spanned decades and shows no sign of slowing down. So let’s pour an Angosoda, Julia’s favorite drink.
A shot of Perrier sparkling water and a few dashes of Angostura Bitters make up Julia’s favorite pick-me-up; Angosoda. The spritely bubbles give a sense of celebration. And the Bitters are well known for helping soothe a full belly. And how about cake?? There can’t be a celebration without cake, can there?
This Honey Spice Cake, or Pain d’Épices is a lovely cross between cake and bread. Rich and moist from the honey, lush with spice and flavor, it’s perfect for a celebration with decadent whipped cream or rich gelato, wonderful with a cup of coffee in the morning or tea in the afternoon. And it ages beautifully, wrapped in plastic and forgotten in the freezer for a month, or even left on the countertop for a few days if you can muster up the courage to leave it alone. I can’t. We can’t. Quick breads such as this are my most favorite item to bake. This dense cake was fragrant and dark, bidding me ‘Good morning!!’ when I rose the day after baking it. A thick slice, a steaming rich cup of coffee and a rainy morning were a fine trifecta of celebration for a most beloved woman. Thanks Julia, for paving our path on this delicious road, for urging us to be fearless, for teaching us to laugh off our mistakes, for continually inspiring us to try something new. For everything you’ve done, and continue to do with your lilting spirit, we raise a glass on your birthday in thanks and celebration. BON APPETIT!!!
DISCLAIMER: ginger nectarine cake, take 2June 24th, 2012 | 4 Comments »I’ve been blogging at this site for six years now. I KNOW! What the heck?!!! I’m either crazy, stubborn or irritatingly persistent, or maybe a combination of all three. At any rate, it’s like a child I’ve raised; I vacillate back and forth between utter frustration with it, and phenomenal pride. SIX YEARS! And this here blog has seen some pretty major input of amazing recipes, many of which most of my readers have never, ever seen because, really, who looks through the Recipe Index? Does anyone? And in being a part of the blog world for six years, it’s been amazing to watch foods change and swell with time, going from something obscure and strange to being mainstream and freaking everywhere. Are whole grains all that new? It seems so, if you pay attention to the blog posts out there, but four years ago I was playing with grains, having to trek all over the city in search of quinoa, red rice, millet and farro. Now every supermarket has them, thankfully. And I love that people have embraced them. Three years ago I made a cake with olive oil in it and was all over myself at how odd that felt, and also jumping up and down a little bit with each bite because, whoa….. it was GOOD. Nowadays, there are olive oil cakes popping up in every season, with every fruit imagineable. No one bats an eye at olive oil in a cake. But three years ago? It seemed new, fresh and different. And I clearly recall feeling rather odd pouring all that oil in to the batter. But the result was stunning. That was three years ago, and I haven’t revisited that recipe once. Shame. It was pretty amazing, and now with nectarines in season, I picked up a sack of them and pulled up the recipe in my Index. And I’ll tell you; nothing makes me groan in agony, feeling like banging my head on a wall as I do when I see the way I used to photograph my food. {{Go on, take a look. I don’t mind.}} Thankfully, we’ve come a long way in that area.
In re-working this recipe, the one substitution I made was to use fresh grated ginger in place of dried and ground. I recalled that the ginger taste was just not that noticeable in the previous attempt, but with the addition of it fresh, it just popped out of the cake, dancing up front and center in my face. Balanced with the tang of lemon, and the subtle fruity nectarine pieces that literally melt inside the cake, it was a combination of tastes that are at once bold and forthright, yet clean and crisp. And that olive oil? It’s darn near perfect.
This cake recipe originated in a copy of Real Food magazine, available quarterly at Lunds/Byerly’s |
