Poor Girl Gourmet

Feast of the Seven Fishes

2011-12-30T16:46:00.000-05:00

Anchovy crostini. Oddly, not the overwhelming hit I had expected them to be. Shocking.

"You have to post the menu," my sister-in-law informed me on Christmas day. "I mean, that was totally redonk."

You know it's redonk, too, when mid-brunch - mid giant smorgasbord of choices brunch on Christmas day, your family is reviewing their favorite of the seven fishes.

"The scallops. The scallops were my favorite," my brother said, "Well, the scallops and the salmon."

"I liked the lobster dish best," my mother chimed in.

"How 'bout the anchovies? Anchovies aren't topping anyone's list?" I asked, mock incredulously, because, despite my wanting to believe otherwise, apparently no one in my family loves anchovies as much as I love anchovies.

Then I reminded them of the tuna dip.

"Oh, yes, yes, the tuna dip. We wiped out the tuna dip. That was good."

My family has traditionally been a very red sauce Christmas Eve kind of clan. We like our charcuterie and cheese plate for a little sophistication, but our typical Christmas Eve centered around meatballs, sausage, lasagne, calzone - you know, red saucy things.

But this year, a change was in order. The challenge of serving seven fishes beckoned me. It had to be done.

I did some research. I read an article. Well, okay, two. That certainly doesn't make me an expert, but generally, it sounded like a do-as-you-like kind of fish fest. So long as there are seven, you've done it correctly.

Easy, right?

Well, that depends. As is my usual holiday denial way, I left most of the menu planning to the last possible minute. Or at least to the day before the 24th.

At the fishmonger's on the 23rd with nary a plan, I ordered little neck clams (a bargain at $3.99 per pound), scallops (18 pieces, enough for 3 for each person), beautiful strips of salmon, salt cod from Canada, then debated langoustines or lobster. After a quick look at the langoustines, which were a less expensive option (trying to work the thrifty even at the holidays, I am), I went with a live local lobster.

Next stop, my favorite Italian market, where the charcuterie and cheese plate purchases were made (it's not like we could do a wholesale reversal of family tradition, after all), as well as olive oil marinated anchovies.

By the time I arrived home, the menu looked like this. In my head, anyway:

Orange-marinated anchovy crostini with goat cheese, raisins, and toasted pine nuts
Lemony Tuna-Artichoke dip
Scallops with homemade bacon (thank you, Charcutepalooza)
Butter-sauteed lobster frittata
Butter-poached salmon with Meyer lemons
Clams in spicy tomato sauce with garlic toasts (doh! red sauce!)
Salt cod fish and chips (the idea to do "Italian-style" fish and chips is one that I robbed from a restaurant menu in Florence. I haven't had their version, and the one we made here was decent, but could use a little more work.)

Despite this plan, the lobster frittata was causing me fits. I was concerned about overcooking the lobster as the frittata baked, and serving rubbery, stringy lobster, which could lead to protests and a call for a return to red sauce on the part of my guinea pigs - um, family. After all, they hadn't requested a radical change to our Christmas Eve menu.

At about 2am on December 24th, after mulling over all of my possible egg and lobster options, I settled upon shirred eggs on toasted brioche, topped with lobster.

By 8am, I had changed course slightly, and could be found stuffing brioche into the bottom of 12 muffin tins, topping the brioche with minced shallot and fresh thyme, pouring in lightly beaten eggs, then baking this concoction until the eggs had puffed up (like muffins, even), and had become golden brown at the edges. My mother thought they looked like popovers, which they did, but we'll call them:

Butter-sauteed lobster on eggy brioche pudding with creme fraiche and green onions

How's that sound? I'm still not 100% sold on it, but they have to be named something, right?

Yep. Just like a popover.

Most of these dishes need another testing before they can be posted here, but the tuna dip is a variation on the artichoke-lemon dip found here, yet fished up for the holiday. It takes about 10 minutes to assemble, another 30 minutes to bake until bubbly.

Store brands! Lemon!

Lemony Tuna-Artichoke dip:

butter for greasing the baking dish
(1) 5-ounce can tuna packed in water, drained (Whole Foods carries canned tuna that is pole and troll caught, which is the most sustainable method of fishing according to Monterey Bay Aquarium)
(1) 14-ounce can artichoke hearts, packed in water, drained, chopped coarsely
1 medium shallot, finely chopped
the zest and juice of 1 lemon
1/8 teaspoon crushed red pepper flakes
1/4 cup mayonnaise
2 tablespoons freshly grated Pecorino-Romano
kosher salt
freshly ground black pepper

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees Fahrenheit. Lightly grease a small baking dish with butter.

Combine the tuna, chopped artichokes, shallot, lemon zest, lemon juice, red pepper flakes, and mayonnaise in the baking dish and stir well to combine, being sure that all of the ingredients are coated with mayonnaise.

Season with salt and pepper, then sprinkle the Pecorino-Romano over the top of the mixture.

Bake the dip until it is beginning to bubble, and the top is golden brown, approximately 30 minutes. Serve it forth with buttery crackers or crispy toasts.

Shutterfly Photo Book Giveaway

2011-12-02T12:02:00.000-05:00

one of the recipes in my Shutterfly photo book: Lemon-Blueberry Muffins

One   Christmas, many, many years ago (way back when everyone shot film -   remember that?), I had wanted to make a recipe book for my sister as a   Christmas gift. 

Of   course, I wanted the recipe book to have photos, and with my usual  poor  holiday planning leaving just a few weeks until the big day, that  meant  quickly making the food, shooting photos, having those photos   developed, scanning them, creating a layout in Photoshop, and then   finding a way to print and bind the book that wasn't going to be   cheesy. 

I know that this will shock you, but despite my best intentions, no homemade recipe book did my sister receive.

To continue reading, click here. 

Apple-Cinnamon Crostata

2011-11-23T12:47:00.000-05:00

We're all down to the last hours of preparation for the big Thanksgiving feast, so I'll keep this quick and to the point. Crostata, the Italian relative of the French galette, is a rustic tart that provides all of the flakiness of a good pie, only without the blind baking process.

From the time you start mixing the dough until the moment the crostata emerges from the oven, it will take around an hour and 45 minutes. Twenty minutes or so to make the dough and get the apples sliced up, 30 minutes while the dough rests and apples macerate, another 10 minutes to roll out the dough and fill it, and 40 to 45 minutes for baking. 

To speed things up further, you could use frozen puff pastry dough, and keep the crostata more rectangular than oval in shape.

See? Very flaky.

Apple-Cinnamon Crostata, serves 12 to 16

Dough: 

2 cups unbleached all-purpose flour 

1 cup whole wheat pastry flour 

2 tablespoons sugar

1 teaspoon baking powder

1 teaspoon salt

8 tablespoons (1 stick) cold unsalted butter, cut into pea-sized pieces

8 tablespoons (1/2 cup) cold shortening, cut into pea-sized pieces

3/4 cup to 1 cup cold water

Apple filling:

6 medium apples (approximately 2 pounds), peeled, cored, and cut lengthwise into 1/4-inch slices 

1/4 cup granulated sugar

1 tablespoon ground cinnamon

1/4 cup raisins (optional), soaked in warm water for 10 minutes and drained before being added to the apple mixture 

Cream wash and sugar for sprinkling:

2 tablespoons light cream or milk to brush over the crust before baking

1 tablespoon turbinado sugar for dusting the crust

In a large bowl, combine the flours, sugar, baking powder, and salt, mixing well to distribute all of these dry ingredients. 

Add the butter and shortening to the flour mixture. Work the flour from the bottom of the bowl up to the top, distributing the butter and shortening pieces evenly throughout the flour mix. Gently squash any larger-than-pea-sized pieces of butter or shortening you come across. 

Using a fork, add the ice-cold water a tablespoon at a time until the dough just comes together. Form the dough into a ball.

Place a piece of plastic wrap of approximately 9-by-12 inches on your work surface. Turn the dough out onto the plastic wrap, and flatten it into a thick round. Cover the dough round with the plastic wrap and place it in the refrigerator for 30 minutes. 

In a large bowl, combine the apples, sugar, and cinnamon, and set them aside so that the apples can macerate for 30 minutes.

Preheat the oven to 400 degrees. Get out your 10-by-15 inch rimmed baking sheet. 

Roll the dough out on a lightly floured piece of parchment paper that is slightly larger than your 10-by-15 inch baking sheet. 

I typically use the plastic wrap from the refrigerator resting time to cover the top of the dough while rolling it out, as I think it works a little better than dusting the rolling pin with flour.

Working from the center of the dough round, roll out the dough to a misshapen rectangle approximately 10-by-15 inches. 

Once the dough is rolled out, remove the plastic wrap from the top of the dough, some bits of dough will stick to the plastic wrap, but our crostata is rustic, so don't fret over a little thing like that.

Slide the parchment paper with the dough onto the baking sheet, add the plumped raisins to the apple mixture, stir well, then fill the dough with the apples.

Place the apples and their accumulated juices in the middle of the misshapen dough rectangle, spreading the apples around so that there is a 1-inch apple-free border of dough. Working from the long sides first, fold the dough border back over the apples, then fold the dough border on the short ends over the apples, tucking the corners up and over the dough to seal the apples in, leaving a center of exposed apples.

Pour the cream or milk into a small bowl, then brush it over the crust. Sprinkle the crust with the turbinado sugar, and bake until the crust is golden brown and the apples are bubbling, 40 to 45 minutes. Remove the crostata from the oven and allow it to cool for 15 minutes before slicing away.

While we're talking crostatas, galettes, tarts, and desserts, if you're looking for a savory tart for the holiday (or for after the holiday), try Alison Lewis' fabulous-looking beetroot, goat cheese, and hazelnut tart, and if you're looking for something a little sweeter, perhaps with bourbon and chocolate (yowza!), check out Rebecca Lang's Chocolate Bourbon Pecan Pie. 

Happy Thanksgiving!

Sweet and Spicy Candied Butternut Squash

2011-11-20T13:52:00.000-05:00

A couple weeks ago, while prepping my wares (and foodstuffs, too) to teach a cooking class at the very lovely Hotel Providence (with an incredibly fun group of students and the amazing ladies of Hotel Providence, Trish and Sarah, assisting), I realized that I needed to gather some ingredients for our day-of-class lunch salad.

Being squash-obsessive as I am, there was plenty of butternut squash stashed in the pantry, so I peeled one, sliced it thinly, drizzled it with olive oil, coated it in honey, and added a little crushed red pepper and fresh thyme to the mix.

On the day of the class, the squash was such a hit both with and without the greens that I should have doubled the recipe (this is a warning, please heed it if you and yours also love squash).

I've made this no fewer than four times in the last week (I did say we had plenty of butternut squash on hand, you'll remember), have eaten it as a side dish, and with greens, goat cheese, dried cranberries, and walnuts in a salad. I have also eaten it as a snack before dinner, and might have had a slice after coffee the other morning.

And no, I am not sick of it. Much to the contrary, my friend. Much to the contrary.

In fact, I feel compelled to make this for our Thanksgiving turkey-in-a-hole-in-the-ground feast - a feast for which (sidenote alert, in the event that the dash after "feast" and before "a" didn't give it away) JR and I raised the turkey, all 36 pounds of him. We're a little proud of this, as he is a beauty. The owner of the slaughter facility even made a point of telling us both what a nice looking turkey we had raised after it was dressed out, fueling the flames of our homesteader geek-pride. End sidenote.

Annnnnd...back to the butternut. Let's make it, shall we? The solid pieces of squash from its neck are easier to cut thin, so be sure to look for a squash with a long neck to make your butternut slicing life less taxing.

Once you have a long-necked squash, cut the neck crosswise into smaller sections, then cut those sections in half lengthwise, so that you have half-round chunks of butternut squash. This will make the slicing safer, as you'll have a flat side of the squash to place securely down on your cutting board.

oooooh - sparkly.

Sweet and Spicy Candied Butternut Squash
Serves 4 to 6 (2 to 3 if your peeps go crazy for it, which might undermine the value aspect, but, heck, it is a holiday, after all)

(1) 3- to 4-pound squash with a long neck. Peel the bad boy, scoop out the seeds, follow the tips above about divvying up the neck, then slice the squash crosswise into 1/4-inch pieces.
2 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil
4 tablespoons honey
1 teaspoon fresh thyme leaves
1/8 teaspoon crushed red pepper flakes
freshly ground black pepper

Preheat the oven to 375 degrees Fahrenheit. Line two 9- by 13-inch rimmed baking sheets with parchment paper.

In a large mixing bowl, toss the squash, olive oil, honey, thyme, and crushed red pepper flakes together. Pour the squash onto the baking sheets so that they are in a single layer. Season the squash with pepper.

Roast until the squash cooked through and is easily pierced with a fork, and is just starting to brown at the edges, 40 to 45 minutes, turning the squash over 20 minutes into the cooking time.

Toward the end of the cooking time (35 minutes into it, or so), peek in on the squash to be sure that the pieces closest to the edge of the pan aren't over-browning. Thin slices and those at the edges can cross the line from candied to burnt and blackened, a la overcooked campfire marshmallows, quickly at the end of the cooking time, so if some slices appear to be significantly darker than other slices, move them to the middle of the pan or remove those darker slices from the oven.

Serve the butternut squash forth, either as a side dish, or as an addictive salad topping.

Estimated cost for candied butternut squash: $6.84, or $1.71 per serving for 4 people, $1.14 for six people. The butternut squash costs 79-cents per pound, so 4 pounds is $3.16. The olive oil is your everyday cooking olive oil, so that should cost no more than 12-cents per tablespoon, 24-cents for this dish. It would be great if the honey used was local honey, and at around $8.00 for 16-ounces, with 1.375 tablespoons per ounce, 4 tablespoons will cost us $2.75. If using supermarket brands, the cost will be around half of that, so $1.38. We'll use the higher cost for the tally, just to be on the safe side. The crushed red pepper flakes should cost around 3-cents, though if you like a little more heat, you could increase the measurement to 1/4 teaspoon for 6-cents. It would be great if you had bought a thyme plant and grew it in a pot that you're now keeping indoors, as the $4.00 for the plant at the beginning of the season would have more than paid off by now, but if not, you'll be using no more than a quarter of a package of fresh thyme that costs $2.49, or 63-cents.

What are You Making for Thanksgiving?

2011-11-18T17:50:00.001-05:00

Thanksgiving is, by far, my favorite holiday, and I know that I'm not alone in this. The food, the lack of pressure (well, the no-gifts pressure. there may be some pressure to provide good food), and for our family, the bonfire (!) all combine to make this the best day of the year.

Because you probably don't cook your turkey the way that we cook our turkey, which is in a hole in the ground, if you're looking for tips on how to roast a turkey, Aimee from Simple Bites has an excellent tutorial filled with hard-earned tips. She once spent a summer as a resort chef and roasted 22 turkeys over the course of 11 weeks. I think this makes her an expert on the subject, don't you?

However, if you're looking for bread, appetizers, sides, and desserts, there are more than a few options scattered throughout this site. To make it a little easier to track down some of my favorites, here they are, in handy, photographic form.

The first thing I'll be making in my Thanksgiving prep is cranberry sauce. I've tried many variations on the theme, but this is the sauce that has emerged victorious. Even die-hard jarred jellied-sauce fans like this one:

Bonus: the cranberry sauce can be made over the weekend and kept refrigerated for up to a week. It also pairs nicely with cheese - appetizer and condiment all in one. Thank you, double-duty chutney.

You may also need a breakfast option, particularly if you have house guests. I'm partial to the scones, though you really can't go wrong with pancakes (real maple syrup! butter! any excuse to have the two together!).

If you've been put in charge of bread, either focaccia (substitute dried cranberries and walnuts tucked into the dough for the potato, rosemary, and lemon juice in the posted recipe) or oatmeal bread are good choices.

If you're the designated appetizer-maker, perhaps some buttery broiled oysters would be your thing? If not, how's about some caramelized onion dip, or this super-easy-though-always-a-hit caramelized onion tart (we're on a caramelized onion roll, here, it seems)?

It's always difficult to decide what sides to make, though Mom's Stuffing (Mom's mushy stuffing. There, I said it.) is a must.

For a little change of pace - and because I'll be making a cousin to candied yams, sweet and spicy candied butternut squash, this year - sweet potato cakes are another possible side.

Speaking of candied butternut, I'll be posting the recipe for that over the weekend. It's quick and easy, and quite addictive, so if the idea of squash with a kick intrigues you, you may want to put a butternut squash on your shopping list. I'm just sayin'.

butternut about to be cooked to a candied state

If you have my book, the Roasted Carrots with Thyme, Roasted Garlic Collard Greens, Roasted Beets with Caramelized Beet Greens and Orange-Walnut Pesto, and Cider-Braised Fennel are all good veggie side-dish options, and the Israeli Cous Cous with Chickpeas and Almonds or Smashed Sugar-Roasted Sweet Potatoes are substantial sides that also pair well with turkey.

If you'd prefer to go altogether meat-free, this roasted root vegetable pot pie is a hearty, flavorful option:

And - of course - no Thanksgiving would be complete without dessert. This apple cake does double-duty as breakfast, and, well, you know - so does the pumpkin tiramisu, now that I think about it.

I haven't yet posted this recipe, but, it, too, is coming. Apple Crostata - easy and feeds a crowd. Oh, and it too doubles as a breakfast item. Hmmmmm. How about that? Now that this trend has been exposed, I have to admit that in my world, pretty much any dessert could double as breakfast. Hello, flourless chocolate cake, you'll be a perfect match for this espresso, nice to see you here this morning.

Only there isn't a flourless chocolate cake on the Thankgiving menu. Yet.

What are you making this Turkey Day? What are your family's favorites or must-haves? And are there any that you wish would go away?

Butternut Squash-Butter Sauce with Kerrygold Reduced Fat Butter

2011-11-14T12:48:00.000-05:00

About five years ago, I took a class in cheese studies. This is an actual university course (albeit continuing education), and when the course ended, those of us who passed the final exam received certificates in Cheese Studies (initial caps intended).

Probably unsurprising if you've been reading here for a while, I'm proud to say that I am a Cheese Studies certificate holder and, of course, a cheese aficionado, thank you very much. My certificate might not have any real practical application, but it does help in the appreciation of cheese, and all milk products, for that matter. And what can be wrong with that?

to continue reading, click here.

* this post is my entry into a recipe contest sponsored by Kerrygold Butter, and Kerrygold provided the butter for the contest to me free of charge.

Flour Power Class at Hotel Providence

2011-10-26T15:52:00.000-04:00

homemade focaccia

I hope that you can join me for a cooking class at Hotel Providence in Providence, RI on Saturday, November 12, from 9am-4pm, for a day of transformation: flour to bread, flour to pasta, and flour to pastry.

Focaccia, a staple of Italy's Ligurian cuisine, is one of the most simple, yet flavorful breads for the home cook to make, and can be topped simply, with salt and herbs, made into a meal with the addition of roasted vegetables and cheese, or transformed into a sweet with dried fruit and honey. All of us are familiar - and quite likely reliant upon - the pantry staple, dried pasta, but handmade pasta is easy to prepare, and elevates pasta night far beyond the box. Crostata, a rustic Italian tart, is great entertaining fare, as it's a perfect way to highlight the season's local produce - say, apples, perhaps - and can be made either sweet or savory.

In class, I'll demonstrate how to make focaccia, pasta, and crostata, then will assist the class in making their own. The day will start with coffee and sweet focaccia, followed by pasta-making, a lunch of our own handmade pasta, quick-to-prepare sauces, and salad, followed by an afternoon of crostata-making, and, of course, we'll sample our crostata handiwork before the class comes to its conclusion!

The class includes a signed copy of "Poor Girl Gourmet: Eat in Style on a Bare-bones Budget", as well as handouts of the recipes made in class. I'd love for you to join us as we make a floury mess (and good food, too!). The class costs $149 + $15 materials fee. To enroll, please contact Tricia Carter, Hotel Providence's marketing manager, at 401-490-8144 or tcarter@hotelprovidence.com

Hope to see you there!

'Tis the Season: Wordless Wednesday

2011-10-12T17:01:00.000-04:00

For seed-saving and herb drying.

fennel pollen and green fennel seed

zinnia

oregano drying

Happy Campers Eat Savory Ricotta Pancakes with Slow-Roasted Tomato Sauce

2011-09-07T20:10:00.000-04:00

the view from our couch two days after Irene

That's a somewhat misleading title. Perhaps I should have called this "Storm Stories: Moderately Disgruntled Campers Eat in the Dark for Five Nights", but I'll bet that The Weather Channel wouldn't find that amusing or worthy of a half-hour long show.

Camping really has never been my thing. Happy camping even less so. I was a moderately decent Girl Scout - I have always embraced the idea of a reward for a task accomplished, so badge-earning suited my early do-gooder self quite well (in case you are wondering, yes, I'd still like a badge, or a gold star, or some acknowledgment of a job well done - are you with me on this?), yet I was a terrible, horrible, atrocious, horrific - okay, you get the gist - camper from a young age.

If you happen to be wondering which scout in my troop left her minty green Carters underwear with the allover print of smiling turtles and daisies in the bathroom at changing time, yes, that would be me. Of course, the requisite troop leader reaction to a scout leaving her undies behind is to hold said knickers over her head, wave them around, and belt out to the chirping crowd, "Whose underwear are theeeeese? Whose underwear are theeeese?"

It's particularly nice if the crowd consists of 100 or so fellow campers, who then - as can only be expected - slowly turn their heads in unison until their eyes lock on you. And you, you are tentatively raising your hand, your face flushed purple in horror, when the realization that yes, that underwear that is being waved around in front of every girl you will ever attend school with for the next 10 years is your underwear.

At 8 years old, the emotional distress of being the forgetful-slash-slobby underwear leaving camper was only slightly worse than the physical discomfort of sleeping on the ground. Even then, I could swear that my back was sore after just one night in a tent. Bug bites were frequent and unavoidable, looking like red, rupturing skin volcanoes by the time you returned to the comfort of your own home.

And the farting?

Yes. I did just bring up farting on a food blog. And with good reason. As it relates to camping, and the despising thereof.

One of my grade school friends had such an overwhelmingly gassy night on one trip that the other 5 of us in the tent spent the entire overnight groaning at each telltale noise, Wonder Woman and Scooby Doo sleeping bags pulled up over our noses to fend off the assault. And those sleeping bags were not padded well enough for staving off stench nor to provide a comfortable sleep surface either, btw.

In the morning, our friend hung her head in shame, while we chided her, pointing at a dead fly we found on the ground of our tent, insisting that she had killed it. "You could've killed us with that gas," I believe was one of the reprimands.

And I think I was scarred. I'll bet the fly-killer doesn't think too highly of camping either.

Which brings us to the food. Beans were to blame for the fly-killer's gas. Camping food was limited in my Girl Scout days, I'm sure in large part by the troop leaders' desire to keep meal times simple and easily cleaned up after. Yet, for those meals, we shall use mess kits to make easily cleaned up after dishes.

Really, the mess kit itself was the best thing about meal time. It was fascinating, in a "wow-check-out-how-all-this-shit-locks-together" kind of way. But the food? Well, any time an 8-year old girl is accused of killing bugs with her stink, it just can't be that good. Remember, little girls generally smell of jasmine and roses. Just naturally.

The appealing parts of camping - the storytelling, the campfire, the singing (which I am wont to do, and loudly, though I am woefully tone deaf) - well, those things, I figured out early on - like, by the time I had walked to the front of the crowd of giggling, whispering girls and had ripped my minty green undies out of the troop leader's clutches, those things could be had without any of the discomfort of camping. Without the lack of electricity, without the unforgiving hardpan ground-slash-bed, without the mushy, crappy food. Without the farting, even.

Now, especially during the summer, we frequently spend nights around the fire pit in our backyard, with good food, good music, storytelling, and friends. That's the good stuff of camping culled from the stuff that gets a thumbs down (from me, anyway), and all with the added benefit of electricity, running water (a proper toilet!), and our comfortable bed.

I have not camped since the early 1980s. And I am ever thankful for that. However, when Irene rolled into town, felling trees, and ripping down power lines along the east coast, we began a little game of Frontier People here in our neighborhood, as did so many others from North Carolina on up to Maine.

This Frontier People game isn't a terrible game, as you know, for it has just been mentioned, we do have a comfortable bed, but the lack of running water (no proper toilet! We have well water here at our house, as does everyone in our town), and the fact of it being dark inside before it became dark outside made for a tedious time after about Day Three without electricity.

However, in the early, isn't-this-a-fun-adventure stage of the storm, when power had only been out for a few hours, we were thrilled at this stove-top meal option. Giddy, in fact. Heck. I'll even go so far as to say that we were indeed happy campers.

These savory pancakes helped us use up the fresh ricotta before it expired in the warming fridge, as well as a batch of slow-roasted lemon drop tomatoes that would surely have gone south before the power came back on. One hundred and seven hours and 12 minutes later. Not that I was counting or anything.

And, added bonus - though I might have liked to have busted out with my old mess kit - these were easily cooked on our gas-fueled cooktop. Camping meal success!

To slow roast cherry tomatoes, preheat the oven to 250 degrees Fahrenheit. Slice the tomatoes in half, place them in a single layer on a baking sheet, sprinkle with kosher salt, freshly ground black pepper, and an herb of your choosing (we have an abundance of oregano, so that's usually the herb of choice here), then drizzle with olive oil, and bake for 2 hours, until the tomatoes are starting to brown. Be sure to check on the tomatoes occasionally to be sure they aren't roasting too quickly, resulting in burnt edges.

Savory Ricotta Pancakes with Slow-Roasted Tomato Sauce
Serves 4

Pancakes:
1 cup unbleached all-purpose flour
1/3 cup whole wheat flour
2 tablespoons grated Pecorino Romano cheese
2 teaspoons baking powder
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
1 tablespoon fresh oregano, finely chopped
1/4 teaspoon kosher salt
freshly ground black pepper

1 cup milk
1 cup fresh ricotta
3 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted
1 large egg

2 tablespoons butter for cooking the pancakes

Sauce:
2 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil
4 ounces pancetta, cut into 1/4-inch cubes
1 medium shallot, diced
1/8 teaspoon crushed red pepper flakes (more if you like a bit more heat)
1 cup slow-roasted tomatoes
1 tablespoon fresh oregano, finely chopped
kosher salt
freshly ground black pepper

Extra goodness:
4 large eggs and butter or olive oil for frying

Garnish:
2 green onions, white and light green parts, coarsely chopped

In a large mixing bowl, stir together the flours, Pecorino Romano, baking powder, baking soda, oregano, salt, and black pepper.

In another mixing bowl, mix the milk, ricotta, butter, and egg until they are well blended.

Add the milk and ricotta mixture to the flour mixture, and stir together until you have a thick batter.

Before you begin the pancake cooking process, start the sauce. First, heat the olive oil over medium heat in a large saute pan. Add the pancetta, and cook until its fat is starting to render and brown slightly, 3 to 5 minutes. Then add the shallot and crushed red pepper flakes, and cook until the shallot is translucent, 2 to 3 minutes. Add the tomatoes and simmer, stirring frequently, 7 to 10 minutes.

Melt a tablespoon of butter in a large non-stick saute pan over medium heat.

Using a ladle, spoon the batter into the center of the saute pan so that it is approximately 1/2-inch thick, and roughly 6-inches in diameter. Cook over medium heat until the bottom is golden brown, and air bubbles are bursting all over the top side of the pancake. Flip the pancake, and cook until this side is also golden brown.

Transfer the pancake to a plate and cover with aluminum foil while you cook the remaining pancakes in the same fashion. If you have power, and can use your oven, go ahead and keep the pancakes warm in an ovenproof dish with the oven set to 200 degrees Fahrenheit.

If you are feeling in need of extra goodness - and really, who isn't? - heat a pad of butter or a tablespoon of olive oil in the pancake cooking pan, and fry up an egg for each of those partaking of pancakes.

Place one pancake on each plate, top with the egg, then spoon out 1/4 of the sauce onto each plate. Season with salt and pepper, sprinkle with green onion if you so desire, and serve them forth.

Estimated cost for pancakes, eggs, and sauce: $12.63 for four servings, or just under $3.16 per person - so we'll round up to make it easier on our math brains. The flour for the pancakes costs 26-cents per cup, therefore 35-cents for 1 1/3 cups. The baking powder and baking soda are in the range of a penny or less, so we'll add 2 cents. The Pecorino Romano costs around 30-cents for 2 tablespoons. The oregano should cost no more than $1.50 per bunch during the summer, and we'll estimate that you're using half of a bunch for this dish, to be on the safe, rounding up side, so that's 75-cents. The milk costs 32-cents per cup, the ricotta costs $5.99 for a 2-cup container, so that's $3.00. The egg is one of 12 that costs $3.00 a dozen, so that's 25-cents. If you're adding eggs to the dish, that will bring the tally up another $1.00 for 4 people. The butter for the dish should cost around 33-cents (figuring $3.49 for 32 tablespoons of Whole Foods 365 Everyday Value store brand butter). Likewise, the oil we're using is Whole Foods 365 and costs $5.99 for 33 ounces, so 2 tablespoons for the sauce is around 18-cents. The pancetta we used cost $2.00 for a homestyle round made in Brooklyn (and sold at my favorite Italian market). The shallot costs around 30-cents, and the crushed red pepper flakes around 6-cents. The tomatoes were from the garden, so nearly free, but to purchase tomatoes at the farm stand, we're looking at anywhere from $2.50 to $3.00 per pound. Let's go with $3.00 per pound, and figure that between oil, oregano, and tomatoes, it cost us $4.00. Add a green onion for garnish - 1 of about 15 in a bunch costing $1.50, and that's an additional 10-cents.

Despite all this moaning and groaning I've done, the lack of power here paled in comparison to what residents of the Catskills and Vermont are dealing with post-flooding - loss of electricity like what we had is a mere inconvenience, and one that can be worked around when necessary, but those folks, they have a serious disaster on their hands.

If you're interested in helping people in New York State and Vermont recover from Irene, please consider donating to the Red Cross or Vermont Food Bank. Thank you!

BBQ Bonanza at The Leather District Gourmet

2011-08-30T15:00:00.000-04:00

All summer long, my friend Jackie has been hosting a BBQ Bonanza on her site, The Leather District Gourmet.

She's had fabulous chefs and writers share their recipes for the grill, with a focus on sustainability. I hope that you'll check out all of the posts, as there's a lot to learn, and so many approaches to sustainability - all of which have my mouth watering.

Today, my post, Block Island Swordfish with Grilled Fennel and Tomatoes is featured. I hope that you'll check it out, and while you're there, be sure to leave a comment on any August BBQ Bonanza post for a chance to win great grilling prizes.

Happy reading, and happy sustainable grilling!

A Pie for Mikey and a Fund for Jennie

2011-08-24T12:44:00.000-04:00

Nearly three weeks ago, Jennie, of In Jennie's Kitchen, lost her husband, Mikey, and their girls their father when he was stricken by a heart attack.

Even before Jennie asked for this pie to be made in his honor, I knew that I wouldn't be able to write a thing here without writing of her loss. It was the second loss in less than a week that had hit far too close to home for us, and while I haven't met Jennie in person, I have known her through her lovely blog and Twitter for nearly as long as I've been writing here.

Jennie and Mikey took family vacations to Cape Cod each summer. I know this from Twitter, and also from Jennie's posts about the fare they'd eat on their vacations. A couple of years ago, I tweeted an invitation to stop by our house for a beer (yep. a beer.) on their way to the Cape, as we don't live so far from Route 195, which Jennie and Mikey were traveling along on their way to their holiday.

I remember standing in the back yard, telling JR that one of my Twitter friends might be stopping by with her family for a beer. I also remember the what-the-hell look he cast at me in response.

Twitter was a brand-new phenomenon in my life, and JR sure as heck wasn't (and still isn't) on Twitter, so it was a bit of a stretch. I went on to describe Jennie, and what I knew of her, and how I knew from her tweets that she was as in love with Mikey as I am with JR. This seemed to alleviate the concern on JR's part, and he quickly got over the "what is Twitter and why does it bring people to our house?" attitude.

However, as anyone traveling to their vacation destination knows, a pit stop, no matter how appealing it might sound during the planning stage, isn't all that practical when the vacation destination is only another 40 minutes or so away. Jennie and Mikey didn't stop by, that they had a wonderful vacation was clear from Jennie's tweets.

This post, originally meant to be about a pie for Mikey, has been hard for me to write, not least because of JR's accident, and the knowing that life is but fleeting and can be changed in an instant is no longer just a saying for us.

Many times, I have sat here at my computer, trying to finish this up, and have only managed to change the first line of this post to reflect the current passage of time (a week ago, a week and a half ago, nearly two weeks ago...), so inadequate were words to express my concern for Jennie and her girls.

Part of this inability to finish this post has been the wondering about how Jennie and her daughters will fare without Mikey in their lives -without the emotional support, and the bond that was so clearly evident in Jennie's writing about Mikey and her family.

I had hoped that there wouldn't be financial stress in addition to the emotional loss, but sadly, there is. Health insurance for Jennie and the girls is more than the mortgage payment on their home. The mortgage could prove to be another issue, as it was solely in Mikey's name, and Jennie may have to pay it off in one lump sum (I certainly hope that there is ONE banker out there who can find a way to do the right thing, but nonetheless).

This week, #afundforjennie was started by Bloggers without Borders to help her as best we all can. She should be able to grieve the loss of her husband and the love of her life, without the added weight of financial stress.

If you'd like, you can donate directly to Jennie at Bloggers without Borders. Even one dollar would make a difference, so please don't think any contribution too small.

In addition, many bloggers are participating in auctions to raise money for Jennie and her family, so please take a look at what's being offered here.

In honor of their annual family beach vacation, I'm auctioning off this print, my Polaroid transfer, "Adirondacks".

It is framed in a black gallery frame, and measures 14 inches by 15.5 inches. The image is printed on archival watercolor paper. The image size is approximately 8 inches by 6 inches. I will also include a signed copy (customized to whomever you like) of my cookbook, "Poor Girl Gourmet: Eat in Style on a Bare-Bones Budget".

Bidding starts at $75, and bids will be taken in the comments section below.

The auction will close on Wednesday, August 31, at 11:59pm.

I will cover shipping costs out of pocket, and the entire winning bid will go to help Jennie and her family. Thank you for your help - it is truly, deeply, greatly appreciated.

Thank you

2011-08-02T08:00:00.027-04:00

I am always grateful for the friends I have - for my friends here, and from all of my experiences: travels, jobs, schools, what-have-you.

We both are so thankful for all of the well-wishes we've received over the last four weeks - thank you thank you thank you for the kind words, the positive thoughts, and the acts of kindness you've sent our way - it's made a world of difference.

It's hard to believe it's been four weeks since JR's car accident. In some ways, it seems longer, and in others, shorter. But it is firmly in the past. We are traveling away from it, occasionally glancing back at it - it will always be there, but still, we are moving forward, for he is recovering well - each day brings incremental improvement, both in his health, and in our moods.

I'm sure that I don't have to tell you that this accident was the most frightening experience either of us has ever had. And once the fright had subsided, finding the balance between recuperation (JR's very important job), minding the recuperation (my role, of course) and household chores (the chickens! the turkeys! the bees! the garden!) left very little free time - very little time to share with you here. And I cannot thank you enough for your patience with the long lull.

But we have been eating, of course. And raising poultry (I do need to find more coop-worthy footwear than my ratty, worn flip flops, though. And soon.). And kind-of, sort-of gardening. So there are stories, and recipes, and general silliness that must be shared.

This weekend marked a milestone: we ate the first meal since the accident that we actually cared about, that we actually tasted, and ate with enthusiasm. With glee, even. It was simple - grilled rib eye (heck, we deserve a splurge after all this, right?), local potatoes, mashed with loads of butter (what would a splurge be without butter?), and grilled corn on the cob.

You don't need me to share a recipe for that dinner with you, I know, but our enjoyment of it signifies to us that JR really is on the mend, and also that we're ready for me to start writing again, to start sharing again. I'm thrilled. He's thrilled. And most of all, we are thankful. Thankful for his health, thankful for our luck, and thankful for your support.

xoxo,
Amy

On Chicks Becoming Chickens...On BlogHer Food

2011-07-07T19:41:00.000-04:00

This is kind of a wacky day, as you may know, but then, if you know that, you probably also know that JR and I like raising our own food as much as possible.

BlogHer Food is featuring my post about raising chickens, and then killing chickens in order to eat them, over on their site - please head on over and join the conversation.

Lucky.

2011-07-07T09:10:00.002-04:00

At our wedding, a little over 8 years ago.

Though this initially has the look of a sappy anniversary-type post, I can assure you, it is not. Well, at least not a typical sappy-love-of-my-life-type post.

I am married to an amazing man.

I don't think that this is just my opinion, because he has a slew of friends who think he's pretty cool, too, but how it plays out for me is as such: I have a whim, he executes it. This may mean tilling a potato patch by hand. Or getting married in Italy. Or building a new turkey coop. Or supporting my dream to write a cookbook, even when pursuing that dream meant not looking for better-paying work when we desperately needed me to have better-paying work.

He is a master of wordplay, a slapstick-style comedian, and a sensitive, caring friend. He can be lighthearted and fun when you need that, and deep and insightful when that's what you require.

There is a list of reasons why I love him, which I repeat to him frequently, but not frequently enough. He is industrious, he is a laugh-riot, he cares first about the people around him, he is a thinker, yet he can be base (and this, might I add, fools people into thinking he is not a thinker. Genius.). He drinks Budweiser. From cans. And Barolo. But only if it's been decanted first. He gets just as geeked out as I do about Brockton beans, Marina di Chioggia squash, and Boothby Blonde cucumbers. He loves animals. He loves the ocean. He loves the outdoors, our garden, the Baltimore Orioles - the actual birds, not the baseball team, he is a Red Sox fan, of course - in their nest next to the garden, the barn swallows that fly so close to his head that they fluff his hair when they dive-bomb him while attempting to protect their babies in our barn, and the hummingbirds who have been rather scarce since the wisteria blooms faded.

Today, he and I are both very lucky that he continues to be all these things, embrace all these things, and, when he leaves the hospital, hopefully soon, enjoy all these things.

It's nearly 1am. JR is asleep in the trauma ward in his light blue slightly funkier than standard-issue johnny - with an attempt at artiness, there are varying sizes of askew darker blue triangles printed all over it. His breath flows in and out, fluffing his mustache, and each breath makes me a little more weepy.

Driving down the highway this afternoon, returning from a job north of Boston, his truck was hit by an 18-wheeler. He hit another car, then the guardrail. His truck was so mangled, they used the Jaws of Life to extract him. Judging from the amount of dried blood that I washed off his face, arms, hands, and chest earlier tonight - this, after someone here at the hospital had done at least a cursory wash to be sure he was presentable to family - he must have been a very scary sight at the scene.

There are quite a few staples in the back of his head (I can't count them, as he isn't allowed to lift his head), his ribs are broken, and he has what the doctor called a "small" brain bleed. They tell me that this will heal in time, and I know that it will. Know that it will.

When I arrived here, the first thing he wanted to know is if everyone else was okay. That no one else was hurt, or killed. It took a few hours, but finally we learned that a med flight had been called for the accident. And that it had been called off. Because JR, the only injury in the accident, was alert, and stable enough to be transported by ambulance*.

With the relief of that news, he moved on. "They cut off my clothes," he said. "Yeah, I can see that." "Those were my favorite work pants." "The blue polyester fake Dickies?" "Yep. Those ones. My favorite polyesters."

So, like I said, I know that he'll be fine. Because he's still here, he's still a smart-ass, and he is resilient.

And we, together, are very very lucky, indeed.

___________________________________________________________________________

I wrote this two nights ago. It's been a scary time since Tuesday afternoon. No one prepares you for what happens after an accident, and the process of discovery about what happened to your loved one - my husband and best friend, in this case - is disjointed and stressful in the aftermath of an accident.

JR doesn't remember what happened either, but what we do know is that he was driving on the highway in the low speed lane. He drives a utility pick-up truck for work, the sturdiness of the vehicle and the fact that he was wearing his seat belt probably saved him. As he came over the crest of a hill, he saw that the traffic in front of him was stopped. He jammed on the brakes, and the next thing he remembers, he was in the hospital.

He was hit squarely in the back end of his truck by that 18-wheeler, he ended up in the median. Having now seen the wreckage of his truck, I know it had to have been a horrific scene on the side of the highway, which was closed for 2 hours afterward.

He regained consciousness in the ambulance and has been alert since. He does have some memory issues, but is doing very well cognitively overall. He has 10 staples in his scalp (the doctor counted them yesterday afternoon), and the broken ribs. We really are lucky that he's alive - and while I don't want to understate his injuries, because he is most definitely injured, and will be recovering for a long time to come - given the severity of the accident, I consider him as good as having walked away unscathed.

We are home now. Yesterday, the doctor told us that ten years ago, JR's brain bleed would have been called a concussion. Now, they have the tools to identify it more precisely, so brain bleed is what it is. As the doctor said, ten years from now, what we currently identify as concussions will probably be called something else because the technology will have evolved.

As I lay upstairs last night, with JR on the couch downstairs (he is relegated to the first floor to avoid climbing stairs for a while - to avoid dizziness and a possible fall), I realized that one reason (and possibly the only humanistic one at that) that people are sent home so early from the hospital - when you are sure - absolutely, one-hundred percent certain that you should be staying at least another night - is that there is nothing, really nothing in the world at all, more comforting than seeing your loved one at home. In your world. Injured, hurting, exhausted - but home.

Lucky, indeed.

*we determined, with the help of JR's brother, who is an EMT, that he must have been conscious at the accident scene for them to transport him by ambulance, rather than med flight. However, with the head injury, he doesn't remember being awake until the staples were being put into his scalp at the hospital.

Baked Potato Potato Salad

2011-06-23T15:04:00.003-04:00

Or should I say, baked potato-style potato salad. Regardless, it is just as decadent as it sounds. And the thing is, it can be made even more so if you like. Add some blue cheese - or perhaps shredded cheddar. Hey, maybe once corn is in season, grill some up and shave an ear or two into the mix. How's about a dollop of sour cream? Or creme fraiche? Sounds good to me.

Please be aware, though, I'm not responsible for starch (and bacon fat) overload anywhere but at my own house, okay?

Baked Potato-Style Potato Salad:
Serves 4-6

2 pounds medium-sized red bliss or new potatoes (red, white, blue, what-have-you), well-scrubbed
4 slices of good-quality bacon, such as Black Forest, cooked to your desired doneness and crumbled, bacon fat cooled slightly and reserved (yes. you read that correctly.)
1/2 cup mayonnaise
1 tablespoon coarse-grain (deli style) mustard
1 medium shallot, finely chopped
2 green onions (sometimes also called rareripes), coarsely chopped, white and light green parts only
kosher salt
freshly ground black pepper

Bring a large pot of salted water to a boil over medium-high heat. Add the potatoes, and cook at a low boil for 25 to 30 minutes, or until the potatoes are easily pierced with a fork. If you're using smaller potatoes, boil for less time, employing the fork test around 15 minutes or so into the cooking time.

While the potatoes are boiling away, I like to get the bacon cooking done. Thought I'd share.

Pour the potatoes (and their cooking water) into a colander, then rinse with cold water. Allow the potatoes to drain completely of water, then transfer them to a large bowl.

Give each potato one good smash in the center with a fork to break the skin and flatten it slightly. Pour in the reserved bacon fat, then add the mayonnaise and mustard, and give it all a good stir. Your smashed potatoes are very likely now approaching mashed. This is all good.

Toss in the shallot, green onions, and bacon pieces, and give the potatoes another good spin of the mixing spoon. Add salt and pepper to taste, then serve it forth.

The four slices of bacon I used yielded just over 1 tablespoon of fat. If this idea disgusts you, feel free to use mayo or sour cream to make up the moisture difference.

Estimated cost for one batch of potato salad: $8.43. That's $2.10 per person if four of you chow the whole batch, $1.40 per person if you share with two additional friends. The new potatoes at my favorite farm stand cost $1.49 per pound, so that's $2.98. Black Forest bacon has gone up in price by around 30% over the course of a year, so it now costs $8.49 per pound. Four slices of bacon is nearly 1/2 pound, so we'll call that $4.25 (gah!). Mayo costs around $3.49 for 64 tablespoons. We're using 8 tablespoons, so that's around 44-cents. Blissfully, the mustard I used has not gone up in price (prepare for deep-fried mustard recipes galore. Capitalizing on both the deep-fried and budget-conscious trends here. That's what I'm doing.), so one tablespoon costs 8-cents. The shallot cost around 30-cents, and the rareripes/green onions were $1.50 for a bunch containing 8 rareripes, so that adds 38-cents or so to the total.

On Chicks Becoming Chickens. And Chickens Becoming Dinner.

2011-06-14T17:14:00.003-04:00

I feel completely out of touch with our chicks.

It may have something to do with being away from home for a few days immediately after they arrived, though I suspect it may be more, well, more deliberate than that.

Deliberate, yet subconscious. As though my superego is encouraging me to keep my distance. Perhaps I'll have a strange dream about chicken avoidance, similar, in strangeness, at least, to the one I had two nights ago about my mother driving us right up alongside a black bear while I screamed for her to gun it. The gas, not the bear. I don't know how they're connected either, but this at least gives a reference point for my strange animal dreams (which, by the way, are completely different from my strange action-adventure dreams).

As I type this, JR is in his workshop, the chicks' temporary home, communing with them. Sure, I've fed and watered them a few times, but I'm not involved in these chicks like I have been with others that have come to live here. In the past, I'd been known to sit for hours, mesmerized by their jerky motions, the mad dashes across their pen, the pig-piling (I'm not sure why this shouldn't be species-specific. Chick-piling is what these guys do.), and the one or two chicks that take more than a passing interest in we humans.

Our first shipment of chickens arrived nearly seven years ago. We had ordered all hens - 25 in all - and Murray McMurray threw in (well, I'm sure they gently placed in) one exotic chick, later named - most creatively, might I add - E.B. That's short for Exotic Bird.

Two of the Rhode Island Reds in that flock turned out to be roosters. One, the Beta, we sent to live on a friend's farm where he would have the benefit of being the Alpha, and the (no, not the Omega) Casanova to a medium-sized hen harem. The rooster that stayed behind was a mean bastard. I still have the talon scars on my calf to prove it, and I'll never forget what a ruddy-colored rooster with iridescent green tail feathers looks like as it flies through the air at you sideways, feet first. Here's a hint: the scare doesn't come from the prehistoric feet aimed squarely at you. You know those are going to hurt. It's the absolute hatred in the rooster's eyes as he sails toward you, in super slo-mo, that will frighten you for years, long after the talon tears in your leg have scabbed over and the scabs have fallen off. Leaving, of course, purple talon-tear scars.

Nonetheless, it was a sad day when I pulled into my spot in the driveway just before Christmas three years ago to the sight of what I thought were leaves strewn all across the yard. Only the leaves were ruddy on the wide end, lighter on the thin end. And we had already raked up all the leaves that had fallen. Neighborhood pit bulls had played tug of war with our mean-ass rooster, leaving only his feathers in clumps on the lawn as evidence that he had existed.

This year, our remaining hens, nearly seven years old, stared laying eggs again in the spring. They take a winter hiatus, which, if you're interested in the fine art of chicken hypnosis and/or absurd first-time chicken-keeper stories, you can read about here.

We were grateful for the return to production, though our original flock of 26 had been culled to just seven over the years.

E.B. had long ago flown the coop. I say that not as a cliche, but as what E.B. actually did. Birds of a feather do truly flock together - I mean it - and E.B. had roosted nightly on her own, up on a perch three feet above the other hens. One day, she finally decided she had had enough.

After days passing without an E.B. sighting, we sat in our every-night-sit-and-chat chairs in the garden. The topic turned to chickens, and JR asked me whether I had seen E.B. lately. Like synchronized swimmers, only without the flowery rubber caps, we turned our heads simultaneously in the direction of a movement just beyond our coop, in the neighbor's yard.

Looking back at us - with just one eye, of course, as they can only give side-eye, being chickens and all - was E.B. She locked her singular eye with ours, then turned abruptly, and waddled away toward the creek and the treeline there, where we imagined she roosted high in the branches each night, unaware of the coyotes in the neighborhood.

We never saw her again.

Over the years, many of the other hens met their maker through less-traumatizing (for us, the chicken-keepers) events, though - quite horrifically - the last seven disappeared quickly this May, over the course of just two weeks.

One morning, I awoke to the shiny black feathers of our Black Australorp in piles around our back deck. Evidence of a dog or coyote attack, I thought. The next day, two Buff Orpingtons were also missing. And within another day, another Black Australorp and a Barred Rock were gone. We were down to two Silver Laced Wyandottes. We barricaded them into the coop. We arranged for caretaking. We went on vacation. And when we returned, they, too, were gone. Without a trace. No piles of feathers, no holes in the coop, nor digging under the run, and all of the eggs in the nest boxes had been gnawed on.

Just before the disappearance of what remained of our flock, we had heard a fisher cat, angrily answering the call of the coyotes - a strange, wild predator opera of sorts, the cat screeching from up in the tree where the coyotes had sent it, the coyotes shrieking at the cat from the ground. However, we'd been told that while fisher cats can kill multiple chickens during one coop raid, they aren't known to carry their victims away. We knew that coyotes would tear the birds to shreds, leaving only those horrible piles of feathers, so, for now, we've settled on the possibility of a raccoon being the chicken murderer and egg thief.

Day-old chicks. In motion. They are always in motion.

This new flock of chickens will be very well-protected, yet 30 or so will never see their six-month birthday. And that is because we plan to eat them.

Only 12 of the birds that we ordered are hens. They will be spared, as they'll provide us rich, orange-yolked eggs. Hopefully for many years to come.

We received 42 chicks in total, and 5 of them have died since we received them. The remaining chicks are healthy - very healthy - and will move to the completely raccoon- (and other vermin-) proof, palatial chicken mansion in 5 or 6 weeks. I've said it before, and I'll say it again: the coop is bigger than our kitchen. And it's almost as big as our kitchen and living room combined. But then, we do live in a tiny farmhouse.

At around 14 weeks, we'll begin to slaughter the roosters, freezing most of them for future eating, though I'm sure that at least two will be devoured during week one. For a meat eater, there isn't anything quite as satisfying as a fresh chicken you've raised yourself, cooked on the grill. Enthusiastic eaters that we are, it's unlikely that we'll be content with just one grilled chicken that first week that the chickens go off to slaughter.

I know that this idea of eating chickens - or any animal - that one knows is disturbing to many people, but JR and I eat meat, and I'd rather know that the meat we're eating comes from animals who have had a happy existence. That they are well cared for, are fed organic food and the occasional garden slug (they do love slugs, those chickens do). To know that they're allowed to leave the palatial chicken mansion to roam the yard - when the danger of raccoons, fisher cats, and coyotes isn't a factor, of course - and generally have a good, arsenic-, antibiotic-, and added-hormone-free life makes me feel better. Selfish, sure. But you can't get more clear about knowing where your meat comes from than you can by raising it yourself.

Our plan, after week one, is to eat one chicken per week. If we adhere to this plan, we'll have enough chickens to get through until the first week of April 2012. If, let's say, we decide to eat two chickens per week, we'll be eating chickens we raised through the end of this year.

Of course, this doesn't factor in the turkeys. Fifteen turkeys arrive later this week, and only one of them will be eaten by our family at Thanksgiving. We've sold two others for Thanksgiving meals, but that leaves us with 12 turkeys, most of which will find their way into the freezer alongside the chickens.

Last night, needing to soothing my frayed nerves, I brought a chair into JR's workshop. JR sat on the floor, and I in my folding chair, watching the chicks. A Buff Orpington, the golden wing feathers of a mature hen just beginning to replace her downy baby feathers, burrowed into the sawdust, rolling around as though she wanted to create a sawdust blanket and pillow. When she's older, she'll use this same method of rolling around, only then it will be in dirt, to clean herself. Counter intuitive, I know. But adorable when they're only as big as a robin, and it's sawdust, rather than dirt, flying.

A diminutive Araucana hen jumped up into the galvanized steel feeders that JR had carefully affixed to the wall, causing JR to fret - rightfully, it turns out - about chick poop in their food, as she scratched to the bottom of the well, looking for the most choice bits of feed. By the end of the year, she'll be laying colored eggs in shades of green and blue, the spectacle of which will hopefully erase that of the shiny, molten chocolate blob that JR removed from atop their food last night.

A Speckled Sussex rooster stretched his neck out beyond the chicken wire, his body nestled in among the other chicks, his head peering around in the chick equivalent of the clouds for flies with a bad sense of navigation - chickens are quite good at yanking wayward insects out of the air. He never did get his prize. At least not while we sat there.

Already, an alpha male has emerged. Larger than the rest, and quite curious about we humans, he is commanding, but not aggressive. We watched him, he watched us back. Finally, JR said, "Does he have feathered feet?" Yes. He does have feathered feet. He's a Light Brama, an Asian breed that is thought to have come to the United States via India sometime around 1850.

"You got chickens with feathered feet, and you think we're going to kill them?"

There was a long pause, then, in case I hadn't heard him the first time, he repeated, "I mean, do you really think we're going to kill them?"

"Well, okay, maybe not the ones with the feathered feet, then," I responded.

JR looked relieved.

Already, it seems we won't eat quite as much chicken this year as we had thought. And it seems I'm not so disconnected from our chicks after all.

P. Allen Smith's Blackberry Pork Chops: Recipe and Giveaway

2011-06-05T18:41:00.007-04:00

Please do read all about P. Allen Smith's fabulous book here, however, the giveaway is closed. Congratulations to City Girl, the winner of a signed copy of P. Allen Smith's Seasonal Recipes from the Garden, and a $50 gift certificate to Monticello.

The very first meal that I made for JR was for his birthday. I was 26, and was living in an apartment with sloping walls, extra-long windows, and antique woodwork, all evidence of the apartment building's 1800's origin.

At the time, I was also in my first year as a broadcast producer, and was producing a show open for a show that was to air on Discovery Channel. I remember the designer wanted to evoke the Spanish artist Joan Miro's paintings in the animations, no small feat in the late 90's, as the technology wasn't nearly as advanced as that which we now take for granted. Heck, we laid stuff off to tape and shipped it, in fact.

One would think that, just starting out in my career as I was, I'd be completely focused on that show open project. Oh, but no. On the Friday before JR's birthday, all I was concerned with was the birthday dinner menu, all the way down to the cloth napkins (blue and white checks), and napkin rings (yes. you heard that correctly. And they were rustic red metal tulips, to celebrate the season, as it was the end of April. While it may be hard to believe, they were actually nicer than they sound.).

The main course was a pan-seared pork chop with raspberry sauce - tangy and sweet - served with mashed sweet potatoes, and - in a clear I-don't-know-how-to-match-food moment - mushrooms in cream sauce.

Regardless of the palate-pummeling combination, the pork chops were a huge hit. And I have never made them again.

When I received P. Allen Smith's Seasonal Recipes from the Garden cookbook in the mail, I did as I always do with new cookbooks: I began pouring through, looking for what I'd make first. Would it be the Smoked Blue Cat Pate (that's catfish, of course, not Felix)? Maybe the Bacon-Thyme Biscuits with Orange Marmalade Butter, then? I knew that the Savory Grit Cakes with Oven-Smoked Tomatoes would have to wait for August - as would the Fresh Peach Punch (and that's punch with a kick, mind you), so I worked my way through from Spring to Summer to Fall, and stopped on the page that said, "Blackberry Pork Chops".

I read the recipe through, and announced to JR, "remember those pork chops I made for your birthday?" "Yes." "Well, check this out." His eyes lit up.

You should know that 14 years have passed since that birthday, and yet, "remember those pork chops I made for your birthday?" gets an immediate "yes" and happy feed-me-that-now-please eyes.

P. Allen's recipe is more finessed, and less sugary, than the one I made all those years ago. As with the rest of the book, the approach is generally straightforward. He knows, as do most gardeners, that fresh ingredients make the best meals, so no need for too much fuss if you're using the best ingredients available to you. If he's inviting you - and believe me you, it will feel like he's inviting you as you read along - to make a more complicated dish, he's kind enough to inform you that it's more involved. And who doesn't like to know what to expect?

Though it was spring here when I made the chops, it felt an awful lot more like fall - most like early November, to be exact, so I made his Spiced Red Cabbage with Apples and Thyme for the side. As we took our first bites, JR blurted out, "holy cow - this is good. Really, really good." Between the two dishes, the flavors were alternately savory, sweet, and piquant.

I plan to make the cabbage for Thanksgiving this year - it's easy, as it's an assemblage of the ingredients that bakes in the oven, and it has such a contrast of flavor and texture, it's sure to be a hit with the rest of our clan.

As a side note, but one that I can't really pass up, cabbage and apples aren't expensive, and the only ingredient in the list that might cause you to spend a few bucks is red wine (which you probably already know you can freeze leftovers of and use down the line), so it happens to be a piggy bank-friendly dish, too.

Since making the pork chops, I've made the blackberry sauce multiple times to serve with chicken, and have also made Allen's corn bread, which is savory, not sweet. We northerners tend to like sweet corn bread, so I was shamed into embracing the savory by Allen quoting his grandmother, who was discussing cornbread with a sweet-corn bread advocate: "Listen, Lois, you've got to decide if you want cornbread or cake!"

I'm a convert. I'll take cornbread with blue cheese, caramelized onions, and bacon in it, thankyouverymuch.

This conversational tone permeates the book, making you feel as though you know Allen - as though you spent time sipping a strawberry lemonade on his front porch with him, getting gardening tips, and learning what to do with all that in-season produce.

You'll also feel as though you know his friends and relations, many of whom have endearingly colorful names. Buckland Leesberg Farnour III, more commonly referred to as Bucky, shared his apricot cake recipe, so now you and I can make Bucky's Apricot Cake with dried apricots this upcoming winter.

Allen also occasionally quotes Thomas Jefferson, whose gardens at Monticello I have a particular weakness for, and proudly (as he should) lets his biodiversity and food history geekdom shine throughout the book. Which I can totally relate to. And get geeked out about myself.

Of course, P. Allen Smith is a gardening expert, so there are helpful gardening and produce preparation and storage tips scattered amongst the recipes. I now know how best to store kale in the refrigerator, and know what variety of apple is the oldest heritage variety (Calville Blanc d'Hiver, dating back to the 1500s) and that it was grown by Louis XIII, as well as by Thomas Jefferson.

The list of recipes I have yet to make is long - and, to be perfectly honest, it's more a series of dog-eared pages, and a torn-up orange envelope serving as page markers. The dill is coming up like a wispy forest in the herb patch, so maybe Oven-Fried Catfish with Fresh Dill Tartar Sauce is next. I know that I'm soon to make the Speckled Strawberry Ice Cream, as well as that Strawberry Lemonade we're all going to be sipping on Allen's front porch together, and if the okra I seeded ever comes up, Okra Fritters are a must.

I think that you need a copy of this book, too. And Allen has graciously agreed to sign a copy for the winner of this giveaway.

Just to sweeten the pot - or the tea - as we're talking about a very southern-flavored cookbook here, the winner will also receive a $50 gift certificate to Thomas Jefferson's Monticello shop, which can be used for whatever you please, but they do sell heritage apple trees (which should be planted in the spring, so plan to order early next year), and seeds (keep an eye out for the decorative, and huge, Horminum Sage - it is a stunner if you can order the seed before it sells out), as well as seed starts.

The contest will run through Monday, June 13 at midnight. The winner will be drawn at random and will be announced on Tuesday, June 14 at noon. The contest is open to residents of the USA and Canada only.

To enter, please leave a comment here about your favorite seasonal recipe from the garden (or farmers market, farm stand, or CSA), and no need to limit yourself to the season we're in - if roasted parsnips make you weep with joy each winter, let us know.

If your contact information isn't linked to your comment, please provide a way to contact you in your comment.

For an additional entry, please tweet your favorite seasonal dishes to @poorgirlgourmet and @PAllenSmith.

Allen was kind enough to share his Blackberry Pork Chops recipe with us here. I know you'll enjoy it.

From P. Allen Smith's Seasonal Recipes from the Garden:

These days it is rare to find people who raise their own meat for the table, but it hasn't been that many generations since most Americans lived on farms and grew all their own food. Prior to refrigeration, meat such as pork was served fresh in the fall and winter. Farmers would wait until the temperatures cooled, so the pork would keep throughout the winter. Around Thanksgiving, or soon afterward, my grandparents would process their meat, but it had to wait until the corn had been put up in the crib, the apples were picked, all the canning was done, and the fall plowing was finished.

They had preferences on how they cut their meat, and they always had nice, thick pork chops. I remember how good those were back then, and I still like them that way. When you cook a thick chop, it's important to go slow so you don't overcook it, or it will be dry. Letting the chops simmer in their own juices helps keep the meat moist. The crowning glory of this recipe is the sweet tang of the blackberry gastrique, a thick sauce made with a reduction of vinegar, sugar, and blackberries. It adds just the right accent to the flavor of the chops.

Ingredients:
cooking spray
6 thick center-cut pork chops (about 2 pounds total, trimmed of fat)
freshly ground black pepper

For the Blackberry Gastrique:
1 tablespoon light brown sugar
2 tablespoons water
1/4 cup fresh or frozen blackberries
4 1/2 teaspoons balsamic vinegar
1/2 teaspoon sea salt

1/4 teaspoon cracked black pepper

1/2 cup fresh blackberries, for garnish

Spray a wide nonreactive skillet with nonstick cooking spray and set it over medium-high heat. Arrange the pork chops in the skillet and sprinkle them generously with pepper. Brown the meat well on both sides, 8 to 10 minutes total.

Reduce the heat to medium-low, cover the skillet, and cook until the chops are moist and look slightly pink in the center, 6 to 8 minutes. Lift the chops onto a platter and keep warm.

Over medium heat, add the brown sugar and water to the fat and drippings left in the skillet. Stir, allowing the mixture to caramelize, 3 to 4 minutes. Then add the blackberries, vinegar, sea salt, and pepper, and cook, stirring, until the consistency becomes syrup-like, 5 to 7 minutes.

Transfer the pork chops to a serving platter, and pour the blackberry gastrique over them. Garnish with fresh blackberries and serve.

Reprinted from the book P. Allen Smith’s Seasonal Recipes from the Garden by P. Allen Smith. Copyright © 2010 by P. Allen Smith. Published by Clarkson Potter, a division of Random House, Inc.

You can see why I've geeked out over this book, right? I mean, he's talking about family farming, the seasonality of meat, growing (and raising) your own, and then follows it with a savory-sweet-tart meal. I love it.

The fine print: I received a complimentary copy of P. Allen Smith's book from P. Allen Smith's Garden Home. They will be providing the winner's book. I will be purchasing the gift certificate to Thomas Jefferson's Monticello for the winner.

So, How About A Stomach Sandwich to Fill Your Stomach? Eating in Florence, Part II

2011-05-29T19:40:00.001-04:00

I've made a conscious decision to keep with the pretty part of Florence, the churches and monuments, and avoid the offal. For the moment.

After all, at this point in the recap, we've only been there for just over 12 hours taking in all that is lovely about Firenze. And as far as food goes, the biggest question is whether we'll have gelato from Cantina del Gelato for breakfast, right?

The answer to that cliffhanger is no. Over breakfast at the hotel - JR's consisting of cured meats, and mine consisting of yogurt and chocolate cake - nothing wrong with that, right? - we laid out our plan for the day. Sadly, it did not include gelato for breakfast or otherwise.

First, we had to, had to, had to go to the Brancacci Chapel, to see the frescoes on its walls, masterpieces of Renaissance painting that revolutionized painting with their use of color and perspective - plus realistic figures and backgrounds, which was entirely new in the 1400s (prior to this, religious paintings used gold leaf or 2-dimensional backgrounds, rather than realistic environments).

On each of our previous trips, we had been shut out - literally, one time the priest shut the door and told us that we had to come back at 3pm, only we were leaving Florence on a 2pm train. This time, I was determined that we would finally see the chapel.

Second, we had to go to the Mercato Centrale, Florence's Central Market, where one can find everything from sundried tomatoes and packages of dried herbs, to tripe, to prosciutto, to fava beans, fish, and fresh pasta. It's a bit overwhelming, primarily, I'm sure, because I don't shop there on a regular basis, and I admit that I prefer the smaller Sant'Ambrogio market, which seems to have more actual farmers in attendance, but the Mercato Centrale would suit our needs, as we planned to pick up dinner ingredients for our arrival at the apartment that we had rented. The market closes at 2pm, which worked perfectly with our plan to hit the road by 3pm to arrive in southeastern Tuscany by 4:30.

Wherever we were on this trip to Italy, it seemed to be a lot about churches, and there is no shortage of churches in Florence. I apologize if churches weird you out in any way. Whatever your position on Catholicism, or religion in general, the Catholic church in Italy owns some of the most incredible art in the world, and we had to see at least some of it while there.

Just down the street from our hotel stood the small, 10th century church of SS Apostoli, which, according to an inscription near the door, was founded by Charlemagne. The piazza on which it sits is tiny, and is known as Piazza del Limbo, because it once housed a cemetery for unbaptized children. Now it houses a shop dedicated entirely to olives. Much more pleasant than limbo, that's for sure.

The interior of the church was quiet, with time- and shoe-worn marble tombs on the floor, the pointed caps and flowing robes of this bishop or that archbishop burnished smooth and shiny, the Latin inscriptions for the most part still legible. Andrea della Robbia, the ceramics master whose influence is still felt in Italian ceramics today, created a tabernacle for the church, which resides on the left-hand aisle near the entrance.

A tour group shuffled into the church as JR and I made our exit, heading across the Arno to take in the Brancacci beauty. Oh, but first, we ended up at Santo Spirito, designed by Brunelleschi, and arrived there just in time to see Michelangelo's wooden Jesus on the Crucifix before it was closed to the public for the day.

As you might imagine, we were falling a bit behind schedule with all this church-visiting and art-ogling, and then managed to get a bit confused as to where Santa Maria del Carmine, the church in which the Brancacci Chapel is located, is relative to Santo Spirito. It's only about 2 minutes away, through the piazza where the Santo Spirito market is held, and then off to the right, which we finally figured out with a little help from iPhone maps. It's an unimpressive facade, the exterior of Santa Maria del Carmine is, having been nearly completely destroyed by a fire in 1771 and rebuilt. Luckily for all of us, the chapel was spared.

The chapel is more stunning in person than in any photographs I had seen. The colors were bold, facial expressions intense, and the landscape and architecture fascinating. "Look, honey, THAT's why in Italy the first floor is called the ground floor," I said, pointing at the sealed-up first floors of the palazzi in the paintings. Back in the 1400s, the nobility and upper classes were worried, and rightfully so, it seems, about being attacked by their enemies, so for security reasons, the entrance to one's house - or palace - was often on the second floor - which Italians call the first floor.

Boy, am I glad I didn't live back then, I mean, I'd like to have been around to see the Renaissance unfold, but I am a disaster on a ladder, and really, really hate heights. Oh, but then, I guess I could have been a peasant, which would eliminate the whole climbing-to-safety-in-my-palace problem. That'd work.

Once JR was able to pull me away from the chapel - which I had photographed, recorded video of, and stood slack-jawed in front of, it was 1pm - T-minus 1 hour until the Mercato Centrale closed and left us without supplies for dinner.

Fava beans were in season in Italy, hence they were a must-get. We entered the market, I continued with my incessant photography, iPhonephotography, and videoography, until the clock was ticking down to the last fifteen.

A kindly, stout, and silver-haired produce vendor sold me the last of his (slightly sorry-looking) fava beans at a discount, donated two free tomatoes in addition to the three I requested, and handed me two giant heads of pungent - as in, you can smell it the second you remove a clove, peeled or no - garlic, all for 4 euro.

We then marched on to Pasta Fresca, where I lost my concept of a kilo, and proceeded to order 1 kilo (more than 2 pounds) of pici pasta, a pasta unique to Tuscany that resembles bucatini, only without the straw-like hole, and, then, defying logic as I had seen the ridiculous quantity of pici on the scale, I added a half kilo of pear and pecorino ravioli to the order. This loot ensured us at least 4 meals at home, and cost 9 euro.

I now had a recipe in mind from an old issue of Bon Appetit, which had been provided to them by a chef whose family lives in Orvieto. We needed sausage to round out the deal, and the sausage stand put us right next to Fratelli Perini, a for-real Charcutepalooza (I almost hashtagged that, btw).

In their small section of the market, they had more salumi, cured meats, cheeses, preserved, marinated, and brined foods than even my favorite (and big) Italian market at home. A veritable festival of Italian specialties, it was. We were hungry - it was nearly two o'clock, after all. There was a line of people ordering panini from the Brothers Perini. We did the sensible thing, and placed our order for a prosciutto panino (this is the one that was the counterman's religion, you might recall from Part I of Amy and JR's 24-hour Florentine Odessey).

It was delicious. It was enough for two. We were sated, it was time to get the car and head south. We walked out of the food market and into the goods market, a cacophony of "buena sera, signora", even though it was daytime (which is giorno, not sera) from the aggressive vendors trying to foist their University of Florence sweatshirts, faux designer bags, and China-made Venetian masks upon everyone strolling down the aisle.

Oh, but wait. What's that? A food cart - not a food truck - this was a bright red cart bearing the Slow Food emblem, and a decal indicating that Dario, the World's Most Famous Tuscan Butcher, had provided them their meat? As if I would pass that up.

JR made some sort of a "for real?" face at me, then stood off to the side while I stood in line, looking at the list of panino, then at the woman preparing the panino. JR also looked at the list, and announced, "I am NOT having tripe. Anything but tripe."

Tripe is a local specialty in Florence, as evidenced by how much of it is for sale in the Mercato Centrale. We saw no fewer than 3 trippa vendors, one of whom was also selling cow faces - yes, cow faces. Another tourist and I postured to get the best shot of the cow snout through the glass case, in fact, before JR reminded me that we had grocery shopping to do.

I apologize if you happen to be squeamish, but I felt I had to prove it. There it is. A cow face. At Florence's Central Market.

So I'm standing in line at the cart, looking at my options. Basically, the choice is trippa or lampredotto. And most everyone in line, including the family of four who cut the line in front of me (not atypical Italian behavior. Lines are tedious, after all, and they have la vita to make dolce asap - there is nothing sweet about waiting patiently in line.), ordered lampredotto. And so I settled on lampredotto. I wasn't quite sure what it was, but it wasn't tripe, so I knew JR would be good with it.

A strange chill passed through my bones. While that family of four waited for their sandwiches, a nagging thought began to develop. I had heard of lampredotto before. I had. And my brain was slowly recalling that lampredotto might - just might - be brain.

I glanced at JR, who had set up camp at the corner of a building diagonally across from the bright red food cart. He was whistling to himself, looking skyward. He looked pretty happy, in fact. I started to sweat. Shit! What if lampredotto is brain? I dug through my giant pocketbook to try to find the silly little phrase book I keep with me for just this sort of occasion. Well, okay, not for this exact type of situation, but for minor, non brain-eating quandaries. Lampredotto was not an entry. I fidgeted, and sweated, and fidgeted some more. JR still looked very content, though now he appeared to be eyeballing University of Florence sweatshirts from afar. More to worry about. "Maybe he wants one." "No, he can't possibly want a tacky sweatshirt." The little voices - there are two of them - in my brain had switched from worrying about eating brain for a moment. It was a welcome relief.

But then, my time was up. The family of four sauntered off with lampredotto and bottles of beer. I stepped up to the window, and placed my order. Un panino lampredotto, per favore. She asked if I wanted hot sauce (that'll kill bacteria and mad cow, right?). Yes, I did. Lots of it, too. Parsley? Sure. Salt and pepper? Hell, every brain needs salt and pepper, doesn't it? She then asked me if I was Americana. Si. Living here? No. Grandparents from here? Si, nonna's family. Where? Napoli. She then made some very funny - to her, and to the guy standing on the short side of the cart enjoying his brain sandwich - comment about my Neapolitan bloodline, which I presume was something along the lines of, "You Americans with relatives from Naples are so clueless. Look at you, inadvertently ordering brains. Dumbass."

I smiled broadly and walked away, hot-sauced, salted-and-peppered sandwich in hand.

Oh, yes, pepper will definitely help me sell JR on this brain sandwich. Sure it will.

JR still looked happy, all the more so because I had chatted up the brain-seller in Italian. "What did she say?" he asked. "Hell if I know," I paused, "do you want to know what this is?" I held it up to his face, "does it look familiar?" This cow brain sandwich sure did look an awful lot like human brain - not that I've spent any time carving anyone's skull to partake of brain a la Hannibal Lechter - but you know, from diagrams and shiz I've seen depicting the brain - still, I don't think that JR was expecting the non-tripe option to be brain. The happy drained from his face, and he became very serious, "what is that?" "Do you remember the cow snout?" "Yes." "Do you remember what was next to the cow snout?" "Awww, come on - brain?" "Yep. Brain," another pause while he winced, and when the wince was over, I added flatly, "you said you didn't want tripe."

JR bravely tried a bite. And we agreed, it tastes like eggs. Only chewier. A lot, lot chewier.

As we strolled back to the car, I managed to eat most of the sandwich, the entire time wondering if small holes would develop in my brain, eventually resulting in madness. Or maybe it was too late for that. And who would care, anyway? If I died in Tuscany, maybe JR could convince them - who "them" is, I'm not sure, but JR is very persuasive when he wants to be, "they" will stand no chance - to bury me in Santa Maria del Carmine next to the Brancacci Chapel. Might be a little much to ask for a peasant, but you never know.

So now we flash forward a couple of weeks. We're home, I'm working on posts about Florence. I haven't died, and don't appear to have mad cow symptoms. So far, so good, right?

Well, for those of you who are not lampredotto aficionados - and you enthusiasts know who you are, your collective groaning over my ignorance identifies you and binds you together - it is important that you know that lampredotto is not brain.

I repeat: Is. Not. Brain.

In typical over dramatic (and maybe more than slightly moronic) fashion, I had believed that lampredotto was brain based upon my bad memory of a (possibly imaginary) phrase book definition, and the fact that the creasing of the raw lampredotto - placed next to the cow snout in the market, no less - conjured up thoughts of brain. Boy, was I ever self-satisfied with my culinary daring, eating brain like that!

Well, the daring eater bubble burst when I located a book on Florentine food on our bookshelves with a lampredotto reference.

It is, like the tripe on the little red cart's menu, cow stomach. The difference from tripe is that lampredotto comes from the cow's fourth stomach, rather than the first, tripe's stomach of origin.

My head hung in shame, I confessed to JR.

"You know, I thought it had more of a tripe texture. Still, you won't catch me eating that again. If I want to taste eggs, I'll make eggs."

Whether she said it or not, the woman at the cart was right - dumbass, indeed.


Raw Lampredotto. See what I'm sayin'?

Three Days in Florence. Or Was That Just 24 Hours? Either Way, This is Part One

2011-05-23T16:11:00.003-04:00

One of the things I love most about vacation is how sometimes, you're able to have what feels like three days' worth of adventures in just one.

Driving from Milan to Florence was a bit of a bear, as we knew it would be. Our original goal had been to get to Parma, sleep there, then get up on Saturday and truck down to Chianciano Terme in southeastern Tuscany where we had rented an apartment. However, the closer the vacation became, the more absurd it seemed to just drive by Florence and pay her no mind. So marathon drive with little to no sleep we (ahem. JR.) did.

The streets of Florence are slick and jewel-like in the rain, yet traffic still continues at a good clip. With the occasional indignant honking and the somewhat frequent occurrence of a car passing us in quick, jerky motions (with a bit of stink-eye cast in our direction for good measure), we traversed the city finally arriving on the northern side of the Arno.

The hotel directions instructed us to come in from the south, then to head north via Porta Romana, the gate that leads in and out of the city on the road to Rome.

After annoying hopefully only a handful of Florentine drivers, we arrived in good shape for sleep-deprived, autostrada-fatigued humans, and idled the car next to the Salvatore Ferragamo boutique, at the end of the street where Hotel Torre Guelfa, is located.

There was a bit of a downpour as we unloaded our two backpacks - we're classy adult travelers, we are - though the gentleman who checked us into the hotel informed us that rain had not been predicted for the day, and that the hotel's tower wine bar would be open at 5:30pm.

Hotel Torre Guelfa is a Rick Steves' suggestion from 2002 (and possibly prior to 2002, though I didn't read Rick Steves before then), which we decided to go with after we found ourselves in a very American-style hotel down the river on our first trip to Florence in 2001. The 2001-trip hotel was a little boring and like what we'd expect at home, and we wanted more a little Florentine character from our lodging. Live and learn. The torre - or tower - of Torre Guelfa is the tallest privately owned tower in Florence, and perched atop the tower is, yes, a wine bar.

We have had a number of drinks on the top of that tower, the tower being what has drawn us back to the hotel for this, our fifth stay. It wasn't the charming conversation from the wine bartender (winetender? I'm going with it. Look out.) that had drawn us there in years past, and heck, with views like this, who would care?

Palazzo Vecchio as seen from Hotel Torre Guelfa's tower-top wine bar

This year, however, there were two surprises for us. First, the skies, while remaining ominous-looking, cleared of rain just the moment we finished settling into our room. And second was Christina, the enthusiastic - and chatty (a plus in my book - I think she knew it would be) - proprietor of the bar.

The wine list was short, but high-quality, with a 100% Cabernet Savignon San Jacopo Rosato calling my name. It turns out that Christina is the co-hab (those are her words, not mine. But partner, life partner, wife, what-have-you - those were all failing me here) of one of the owners, Carlo, and she works in the wine business when she isn't lending a hand at the hotel: leading wine tours in Chianti, denouncing wine snobs (my kind of wine expert!), or hosting very reasonably priced wine tastings at the hotel.

There was, actually, a third surprise as well: the hotel had recently been reacquired by Carlo and his cousin from a former partner to whom they had sold the hotel in 2007, and room prices had dropped, which only endeared the hotel to me further. As you might imagine.

Once our wine glasses were empty, we said our goodbyes to Christina, and we made our way from the tower to the grey cobblestone street, just one block back from the Arno, and a couple blocks from Ponte Vecchio.

We headed to a wine bar for which JR has great affection, Enoteca Fuori Porta (fuori porta means "outside the gate", and it sits on the southern side of the river, just outside the fortress walls of medieval Florence.

In 2001, after our first visit to Florence, I too, shared his affection for the place. We had gotten lost (well, as lost as one can become in a small city), meandered into the joint, and found an absurdly long wine list with all manner of local wines from Tuscany, and wines from farther afield.

Like Piedmont.

I know it ruins the funny if you have to explain, but here I go: that's a joke. If you aren't familiar with Italian regions, which are similar to US states, Piedmont is about 4 hours away from Tuscany. There's a lot of wine in that there Italy.

That first visit to Enoteca Fuori Porta, might, in fact, have been the first time I realized just how very local drink - and food - could be. And the winetender (hurrah!) was friendly, humored me my crap Italian, and helped me pick out a wine that I surely couldn't find at home. That was the criteria, in fact. Please help me find a wine that not only have I never heard of before, but that I most likely won't find at home.

And she did that. With a glass of wine, the varietal now forgotten, but not the expected Chianti. A wine that helped me branch out and learn more about regional wines. If I were making it up, I'd guess it was still a Sangiovese, perhaps a Rosso di Montepulciano, but until I find that (very) lost 2001 travel journal of mine, I can't verify.

It was magical, that first visit was. But never again since. Despite our persistence at raising a glass at Fuori Porta on all subsequent trips, there has never again been friendly service or a sense of welcome for us.

I attribute this to Fuori Porta having also been discovered by writers who loved it as much as we did, right around that same time, and it then being included in must-visits for the traveler to Florence in American food and travel magazines, for I did see it mentioned in more than one magazine shortly after our return home that year. Or, perhaps, this was the food person's version of New Car Syndrome. I hadn't known about Fuori Porta before, but once I did know, it seemed that every magazine I read also knew about it.

Regardless of the cause, for me, the magic of Fuori Porta was fleeting. Pretty much just that one Saturday in April of 2001 held the charm, though I do, and will always, appreciate having my eyes opened to regional food and wine by Fuori Porta.

On this trip, I've finally made my peace with Fuori Porta. It's time to move on. I loved it then, I appreciate the speedy inculcation regarding one of the primary tenets of Slow Food - unique, place-based food, but, alas, she has changed. And maybe I have, too. Changed or not, I do consistently like friendly (like Christina. Christina was friendly. You should do a tour with her, I'm telling you.).

On the plus side for Fuori Porta was not the mushroom crostini that I ordered, but instead, was the shaved pecorino fresco with balsamic vinegar. Now, that shiz was good. It didn't matter that it wasn't served with a smile. Noitdidnot.

Those mushrooms look good, don't they? Unfortunately, they were a bit cold. Not the contrast you're looking for against warm bread.

On the plus side for the neighborhood overall, wine bars now seem like the commodity crop of the area. We counted no fewer than four just inside the porta, and not one named Enoteca Dentro Porta (inside the gate - you knew that from the contextual clues, though, right?).

One sleek wine bar looked sadly neglected, while the chef stood in the doorway, looking somewhat longingly at the crowds in the neighboring bars. "We should eat at her place," I said to JR. Only I said it when we were about a half-mile away from it, back in the direction of the hotel. "Really?" "Well, I feel bad for her. It looks like a nice place - why is no one eating there?" *

Good intentions, only. Instead, we ate at the most un-Italian of all places we could possibly choose. A hamburger bar.

You're incredulous, I know. So was JR. "Seriously, you want to eat at the hamburger place? Who eats hamburgers in Italy?"

I had a feeling it would be better than just a hamburger bar. It happens sometimes, this sense of something good inside something, well, seemingly wrong.

It was 8:30 or so, with only one party of four seated at a table inside, and one couple seated outside. Otherwise, the place was empty. This did not inspire trust in JR. "Really? I mean, no one is even eating here," he loud-whispered at me. I walked in and asked for a table.

"Completo," the head server responded.

"Completo?"

Completo means full. And this place was definitely not full. Vuoto was more like it. Tutti vuoto. All empty. I was now as incredulous as you are reading about us eating hamburgers for dinner in the (cliche alert) cradle of the Renaissance.

Turned out, the restaurant was fully reserved for inside dining. We were welcome to sit outside. Apparently, Florentines found this 60-something degree weather cold. Ah, yeah, not so much for the New Englanders, and so outside we did sit.

Over the years, my Italian has veered between kindergarten-level, third-grade level, and restaurant-appropriate only (this being the least fluent state), with the exception of that one beer-influenced time in the Amalfi coast where I was completely, 100%, adult-fluent - which is the same time that JR and I met the pharmacist in town - at the bar - and it turned out that he had lived in our little town in southeastern Massachusetts with his girlfriend and her grandmother while he attended pharmacy school in Boston. More on this another time, as I was beginning to believe he had stolen our passports while I was slugging back my yippee-we're-at-the-beach beers.

However, I am a Latin honor student from waaaayyyy back, so I can read a fair amount of Italian and decipher what's up - for real. Both the Latin honor student and the reading comprehension.

This burger bar that had so compelled me to eat there, presumably on vibe alone, that burger bar turns out to be owned by four friends who decided that they needed to educate people about the endangered Chianina cattle, which are large, white cattle indigenous to Tuscany. Oh, hells, yeah - they just happen to be indigenous to the area nearby where JR and I would be staying for the rest of the week.

All of the burgers at the burger joint, LungArno 23 is it's proper name, are made with Chianina beef, as are a handful of other dishes, including carpaccio, roast beef, and a platter of Chianina specialties.

As we had already had one disappointing mushroom crostini and one blessedly wonderful pecorino and balsamic crostini, we skipped apps, and moved straight on to burgers. About 15 minutes after we were seated, the entire restaurant, indoors and out, was completo.

Chianina Hamburger with Truffles by Candlelight. Romantic, no? Oh, and the tomato was also delicious. Like late-summer tomatoes at home.

Though we ordered hamburger specials; for JR, asparagus and cheese, for me, truffles and cheese, there's no need to go this far. The beef is slightly gamy, in a more pronounced way than the grass-fed beef I've had at home is, and doesn't require embellishment of any kind, not truffles, not cheese, not even a hamburger bun, though LungArno 23 does serve a side plate of very American condiments, bright red ketchup - Heinz, I think - mustard, and mayonnaise. And the fries? Well, the fries were the best I've had since The Back Eddy last summer, and The Back Eddy fries a mean potato, let me tell you.

And for dessert? JR had spotted a gelateria on our walk to Fuori Porta, so dessert at LungArno 23 was out.

Cantina del Gelato is run by two young men, one who was minding the store on the night we were in, and the other is the artisan in charge of gelato-making. His family has been making gelato since the 1930's, and all that familial knowledge has paid off. Their gelato is the lightest, creamiest, most ethereal gelato that I have ever had. And I've eaten at a few of the other lauded gelaterias in Florence before.

I became entirely too giddy after my first taste of Nutella gelato in the shop, and told the proprietor that we'd be back the next day for breakfast. He informed me that we'd have to wait until noon, which would be just fine, I thought, as we were sure to be jetlagged and just pulling our sleepy selves out of bed at 11am. But no, the excitement of being in Florence, and my desire to not get hosed on seeing the Brancacci Chapel for the fifth time got us out of bed at a very respectable 8am.

Do we stave off the next morning's hunger with nothing but an espresso until the noontime opening of Cantina del Gelato? Or do we cave and start eating early and often? The answers to these questions and more in the upcoming post, Florence, Part Two.

Hey, at least I didn't try to go for back to back World's Longest Posts Ever, right?

Hotel Torre Guelfa

Borgo SS Apostoli, 8

50123 Firenze

039.055.239.63.38

Doubles from 140 euro, though online there is a 10% pre-paid rate (126 euro) for a one-night stay, and 15% off for 3 nights.

Dolce Chianti

Wine tours with Christina Wespi

booking@dolcechianti.com

039.333.378.96.96

*Tours in Chianti for a maximum of 6 participants: 129 euro per person for a 1-day tour (10am-5pm)

*Wine tasting classes at Hotel Torre Guelfa: 30 euro per person for 1.5 hours (3:30pm-5pm), generally offered on Saturday. Available Monday, Tuesday, Thursday, and Friday by request.

Enoteca Fuori Porta

Via Monte alla Croci, 10r

Firenze

039.055.234.24.83

LungArno 23

Lungarno Torrigiani 23

50125 Firenze

039.055.234.59.57

Cantina del Gelato

Via de Bardi, 31

50125 Firenze

039.055.050.16.17

Boy, do I love that Duomo.

*I realized only much, much later that her wine bar/restaurant was likely to have followed in the footsteps of LungArno 23. Empty at cocktail hour, but jam packed once it was time to sit and eat. I sure hope so.

Wordless Wednesday

2011-05-17T14:38:00.000-04:00

one week ago:

view from Canneto winery

the, um, "back" lawn of Chiarentana at La Foce, where we stayed (they have so much property, it's almost absurd to refer to front/back/side). This side faces one of their many olive groves, as well as a stunning view into the Val d'Orcia.

our very favorite bar in the entire world: Il Casello, Pienza, Italy. Sorry Spring House Hotel (Block Island) and dive favorite The Hot Club (Providence, RI). Yes, I do go there, fellow RI-area peeps. Just not for a 10pm start (anymore).

a cut-through to the street below in the medieval hill town of Montepulciano, Italy. You need all the short cuts you can get in those hill towns, let me tell you.

Flowers were on display throughout Pienza, Italy during our visit as part of Pienza e Fiori (Pienza and Flowers). These are outside of a restaurant, and pale in comparison to the elaborate formal garden (complete with boxwood hedges) installed in front of the church in the main square. Yes. I will post a photo of that later. It's unfair not to, right?

Focaccia di Patate e Rosmarino (Potato and Rosemary Focaccia)

2011-05-17T13:56:00.010-04:00

The subtitle for this post should be: The World's Longest Post Ever About a Slice of Bread. I'm just sayin'.

You may wonder - aloud, even - how a self-proclaimed poor girl could afford to take vacation to Italy. And that curiosity is well-founded. After three years without a vacation, and a major birthday for JR in April, I became obsessed with going away. About as obsessed as I am wont to become with ingredients, like, say, pumpkin. Or oatmeal.

I stalked Kayak daily for fares that fit our window of opportunity, but that didn't cost a minimum of $900 round trip like all the others I had seen, and, one fateful Tuesday, I found the fare. $612 round trip from Boston to Milan on Aer Lingus.

It was actually more expensive to fly from Boston to Dublin than it was to fly from Boston to Milan via Dublin. Upon our return, I read an article in the New York Times Magazine about buying flights that connect through your desired destination, but that are less expensive than booking a direct flight. Smart thinking, right? Here's the link. The author of that article meant it more for domestic travel, as there are a boatload of security regulations for getting back into the US from overseas, but it's an interesting concept.

Even with the bargain basement airfare, I was on the fence. Was this really a good idea? Austerity had been our first name these last few years. Yes, our first name. It had not been relegated to an unacknowledged, unused middle name. Despite the fact that our situation had improved dramatically over the last two years (damn that 2009!), it seemed odd to spend the money, quite honestly. We were just plain old out of the practice of leisure spending. I had, however, worked a lot of weekends over the winter, so we had hoarded that overtime money for just such an occasion. It's not as though we were unprepared, it just felt a bit strange, is all.

I emailed the coordinator at the agriturismo where we had stayed for our wedding. "Just checking: do you happen to have a two-person apartment available for April 30 through May 7?" Those dates happened to be four weeks away at the time that I made the request. An hour later, she responded. They did. There had been a cancellation. For the apartment we stayed in for our wedding. And they could offer 10% off the rental rate. Thirty seconds later (okay, I exaggerate, but quite quickly - as quickly as the interwebs would allow), the flight and apartment were booked.

You might imagine that staying in an apartment helps with the budget, versus staying in a hotel for a week. We cooked in 5 of 7 nights while we were at the apartment, and worked the 3 euro panino* (or, in the case of our last full day in Italy, the 3 euro focaccia) to our advantage for lunches. Occasionally, the panino involved offal, though this is a story for another day. And another post.

While remaining in the mainstream of foods for this here post, rather than floating the idea of trippa or lampredotto sandwiches (you can Google, if you like Googling offal, that is.), in Florence's Mercato Centrale, we had panino from Fratelli Perini, which, the counterman informed me, contained his religion (he really said this), prosciutto di Parma. It was a quasi-religious experience, actually, fragrant and sweet on crusty, unsalted Tuscan bread.

Then there was the food truck parked nearby an exit ramp off the Autostrada close to Lago Trasimeno in Umbria. The husband and wife proprietors, both looking to be in their late 60's, carved out thinly-sliced portions of porchetta from the fennel seed and rosemary-laden roasted trunk of a pig, and served them on soft rolls - still, for just 3 euro. We became masters of the 3 euro sandwich (take THAT five dollar foot-long!).

even though we were staying here, I'm pretty sure I heard people signing "Closing Time" in Italian in hopes of getting us off of the lawn before 2am.

We hadn't planned the last night of the vacation before returning to Milan very well, and were fortunate that our friends Matteo and Carla had room for us in their hotel in Monterosso al Mare. "It seems only right that after this amazing week, we should get to the ocean, doesn't it," I asked JR as we sipped yet another glass of wine looking out at the olive groves, Val d'Orcia, and Monte Amiata in the distance from chairs on our apartment-fortress' lawn (I would have said "apartment complex", but how romantic is that? Not at all.). Not surprisingly, he agreed.

The Italian Riviera, in Italy's Liguria region, is home to pesto, limoncello, trofie pasta, and focaccia. Focaccia, of course, is the Ligurian answer to the 3 euro Tuscan porchetta panino. And, so, we availed ourselves of it, as you might expect.

this is the actual lunch portion of the vacation focaccia, my half, so 1.50 euro-worth.

The focaccia we had in Monterosso al Mare, while wonderful, and quite economical at 3 euro for two pieces, was a bit too firm and dry for my tastes - at least for my at-home, make-it-how-you-like tastes. My hang-out-near-the-Mediterranean-in-Italy tastes were 100% good with it, especially given the other option, which was to skip vacation altogether, actively call one another Austerity (which is clearly weird), and hang out at home during a bleak, rain-soaked May.

yes, thank you. I WILL eat slightly drier than I'd like focaccia to stay here.

The usual go-to focaccia recipe at our house is from Fine Cooking's Real Italian, though that recipe, while very tasty, also wasn't quite what I was after for the post-vacation focaccia fest. For those of you near Boston, the incomparable Iggy's Bread of the World focaccia was more what I had in mind, only not quite as poofy as that (I will find a photo. I will share it, so that those of you who do not live in the dreary northeastern US can see super-tall focaccia for yourselves).

I modified the Fine Cooking recipe, reducing the amount of flour overall, substituting some of the all-purpose flour with semolina flour, which is high-gluten and lends a bit of give to the bread - a mini-poof to Iggy's grande-poof, if you will, increased the amount of yeast, sugar, and salt, and, lastly, changed the pre-heating method, as well as reduced the cooking time to keep from creating a super-crusty exterior of the bread.

With these changes, I was striving for a focaccia that if you were no taller than 12-inches, you could comfortably lay atop and take a nap. With a tiny focaccia pillow, of course. And I guess the clean kitchen towel used for covering the dough during rising could serve as your blanket, while we're playing Lilliputian breadmakers here.

And, in fact, we have just that sort of focaccia with this recipe. We need only to find a way to shrink ourselves down in order to lie in repose upon it.

One quick note: this is not a rise-in-two-hours bread - you'll need to plan ahead, either making the dough first thing in the morning to have at dinner that night, or the dough should be made at night and allowed to rise overnight for baking the next day. It's a 10-hour total rise time.

Focaccia with Potatoes and Rosemary

Serves 85.

Oh, okay, I exaggerate, but it does make a 9x13 sheet pan of bread, which is an awful lot of focaccia if you aren't eating it as a meal. Please expect a focaccia panzanella post soon. Also makes great croutons. I'd have written that last sentence as a full sentence, if only I hadn't been so busy stuffing my face with focaccia.

4 1/4 cups unbleached all-purpose flour

1 cup semolina flour (such as Bob's Red Mill brand)

1 tablespoon instant yeast (or 1 tablespoon plus 3/4 teaspoons active dry yeast)

1 tablespoon kosher salt

3 tablespoons granulated sugar (in one test, I used turbinado sugar, also with fine results)

2 1/2 cups cold water (I used water from the tap)

8 tablespoons olive oil, divided - 2 tablespoons to coat the bowl and dough while dough rises, 4 tablespoons to pour into your 9x13-inch rimmed baking sheet before placing dough in, 2 tablespoons to drizzle over the dough once situated in your baking sheet.

Here's the really tough part (she says, facetiously), combine the all-purpose flour, the semolina flour, the yeast, salt, and sugar in a large mixing bowl. I use the paddle attachment on my stand mixer to do the heavy lifting part of this task: add the water in a steady stream while mixing on low speed. Once the water has all been added, increase the mixer speed to medium (4), and mix for 1 minute. Stop the mixing, let the dough rest for 2 minutes, then mix again on medium speed for another two minutes. You will have a gloopy mess on your hands.

Pour 2 tablespoons of olive oil into a clean bowl large enough to hold the dough when it doubles in size. Now pour the gloopy dough from the mixing bowl to the bowl for rising, and lift the dough from the bottom and sides, folding it over itself, until it is completely coated in olive oil.

Cover the bowl with a clean kitchen towel or plastic wrap that has been lightly greased with olive oil, and set the bowl into the refrigerator to let rise overnight, or, if you'd prefer the focaccia with dinner, make the dough first thing in the morning, and allow it to rise 8 hours in the refrigerator.

Ligurian lemons

You can make the focaccia with a topping other than potatoes and rosemary if you like - really, anything that suits your fancy - but if you're going to replicate the Monterosso al Mare patate e rosmarino focaccia, you'll also need:

1 medium Yukon Gold potato, peeled, and cut crosswise into 1/4-inch slices

1 stem fresh rosemary, leaves removed from the stem and coarsely chopped

the juice of one lemon - yes. the juice of one lemon. Liguria is the land of limoncello, after all, and they do not spare the use of lemons in their cuisine.

kosher salt

freshly ground black pepper

Blanch the potato slices in boiling, salted water until they are translucent, 1 to 2 minutes. Strain the potato slices, then shock them in a bowl of ice water to stop the cooking. Pat them dry before placing them into your focaccia dough.

Pour 4 tablespoons (1/4 cup) of olive oil into your baking sheet, then gently turn the dough out of the bowl into the pan. The dough will have a spider web quality to it as it pulls off the side of the bowl, and you'll need either a spoon or your hands to aid its progression out of the bowl. A messy endeavor, this focaccia-making is. But so, so worth it.

Starting in the middle of your dough blob, press your fingers into the dough to help spread it evenly across the pan. The Fine Cooking folks pointed out that if at first the dough does not spread across the pan, leave it alone for 15 to 20 minutes, then poke away again. At that point, it will spread more easily.

If the dough does not fully fill the corners, not to worry, it will fill them during the next 2 hours of rising time.

Once the dough is covering the bottom of the baking sheet, add your toppings. First, drizzle the lemon juice. Next, place the potato slices into the dough, tucking them in slightly as you go. Follow those with the rosemary, also tucking those herby bits in slightly. Finally, drizzle the remaining 2 tablespoons of olive oil over the top of the bread. Then cover the dough with plastic wrap or a clean kitchen towel, and place it in a draft-free spot so that it can rise for 2 hours.

Preheat the oven to 450 degrees. Once pre-heated, wait 15 minutes before placing the dough into the oven. Just before baking, add salt and pepper.

Bake the focaccia on the middle rack for 17 to 18 minutes, until the dough is golden brown, with occasional darker spots (such as on air bubbles on the surface of the bread), rotating the baking sheet 180-degrees midway through the baking process (approximately 9 minutes into the baking).

Remove from the oven, allow to cool slightly in the pan, then transfer the bread from the pan to a cooling rack until it has cooled sufficiently to handle. Slice into your desired portion size, and serve it forth. Feeling frugal, yet worldly as you do so, I hope.

Estimated cost of one sheet of potato and rosemary focaccia (which technically could be 8 lunch-sized portions if you were eating on the cheap in Italy): $4.55. The all-purpose flour costs just over a dollar ($4.49 for 19 cups, using 4.25 cups), the semolina flour costs $1.98, the yeast is pennies, as I buy it in bulk, the sugar is less than a penny, the salt is also less than a penny, and the water is from the tap. The potato cost $1.49 per pound, and it weighed around a half-pound, so that's 75-cents. The rosemary was possibly snuck into the country from a plant in the Val d'Orcia, but if it wasn't - and didn't come from that rosemary plant you're growing at home - it would cost a dollar or so. The lemon cost 79-cents, and the olive oil total is 96-cents. That's about 56-cents per lunch-sized slice. Not too shabby, you breadmaker of the world, you.

*(3 euro is approximately $4.50)

The Strawberries Cometh. Eventually.

2011-04-27T14:27:00.008-04:00

For the last four months, I've been commuting to Boston, grateful for the gainful (freelance) employment, but not so thrilled at the travel time. Wah. I know. We can't have it all, right? But with a drive in each direction of an hour or more (in this year's frequent snow, sometimes more than 2 hours), the luster fades rather quickly. Particularly when one would rather be cooking, and writing, and shooting photographs, and generally chatting with you. A conundrum, to say the least. And, of course, we have to go back to the gainful employment thing. Surely it's better to be employed rather than underemployed, even if it means sacrificing some of what you love. Right? Yeah, that sentence couldn't avoid being a question in my mind.

I know that I'm not alone in this, as many of my other food- and creative-centric friends struggle with the balance: how to make a living doing what one loves, versus compartmentalizing the day job, keeping the avocation or passion separate. I'm hopeful that with a little more self-analysis, the answer will come to all of us - as was just said to me the other day, and which you have also heard time and time again, "the money will follow." I'm an optimist, so I choose to believe that one can make a proper living doing what one loves.

So while I am certainly grateful for the income provided by the freelance gig, the tedium of sitting at a computer, scheduling, budgeting, answering frantic client requests, feeling as though the work could never possibly be completed - and working a few weekends and late nights to make an attempt at completion - that sense of drudgery of performing a "day job" really got to me in those four short months.

"Filled with dread," is how I summarized another friend's Sundaynightaphobia. "Yes! Yes! That's it!" she exclaimed, "I am filled with dread. Thank you." I'm not sure that being thanked for coming up with a dread-filled phrase is the proper response, but there we are. One friend cries every Sunday night and every Monday morning on the way to work. We all do the same job. Hmmmm. Kind of telling, right?

So, fortunately - really, this is how I think of it, while my conscience tells me that I should think otherwise - darned conscience - it appears that I'm back to more of a freelance schedule - meaning only the occasional thrash, one hopes, as opposed to the daily thrash and filled-with-dread syndrome. This also means that I'm less gainfully employed, though I won't go so far as to call myself underemployed a la 2009. The upside is, with a bit of time to spend working at it, the farmette (yep. you've all convinced me that farmette isn't a terrible word after all) and I are able to reconnect.

An hour or so yesterday was dedicated to weeding out an overrun garden bed near the barn, then planting bare root strawberry plants. The strawberries arrived on Monday, the day after Easter, which is quite the festa at our house, and, as such, requires quite a bit of post-festa clean-up. JR groaned at the sight of the strawberry shipping box, "how are we going to get those planted?" Part of the trade-off of being filled with dread is being able to go on vacation, and we are doing just that - very shortly, in fact.

"Well, if I plant 8 per day, I should be able to get them all done before we go," I responded. "With gardening, you don't have to do it all in a day, you know."

Of course he knows that (he did refrain from groaning at me though, which was nice). He had just planted the cherry tree, and the three antique apples ("they're awfully small for being 300 years old," he said as he tapped the sod back into place around the base of the Rhode Island Greening tree-ette. At five feet tall and with just two branches, it doesn't look like a whole lot right now, it's true.).

After four months - and snowy months at that, it's not as though I could have been planting during that time - digging in the dirt is such a welcome change from tapping away at the computer (for scheduling, budgeting, frantic client requests, et cetera. For writing, all is good, but those other things, not so much). And while the strawberries have a long way to go before they look like that photo up there, I know that eventually, they will. And I plan to be working on what I love when the time comes to harvest them.

Oh, lest you think that strawberry planting is pretty, I thought you might like this video of the new strawberry patch. And the disaster that is our yard.

I also promise to work on my sign-off for future videos. "Okay?" doesn't seem sufficient, nor professional. Um, at all. Okay?

This Week in the Garden, Early April: We've Started Nearly 100 Plants from Seed. Oh, and, It Appears, We've Started a Farm.

2011-04-03T12:11:00.003-04:00

The chicken coop in autumn. And giant, pre-historic rooster beasts free-ranging.

Or perhaps it's a farmette. If that isn't too ridiculous a word. Which, now that I've typed it, I'm thinking it is.

For years - nearly eight to be precise, since we received our first shipment of chicks in the mail - I've maintained that we are more homesteaders than farmers. Much, much more homesteaders.

We sell our eggs to a small clutch of friends and neighbors, sometimes gifting them out at the holidays, along with homemade sweet breads (the actual bread kind, not the forcemeat kind), and honey from our hives, but the allure of farming has been tugging at JR since he first worked on Gaffney's Farm as an eight-year old (clearly child labor laws weren't strictly enforced at that time), tending to the chickens and cows, and shingling the occasional barn roof. Though he might have been 10 when he was doing the shingling bit, he says.

While the idea of farming has grown upon me more than me growing up with it, it seems that now is the time to start a tiny farming operation.

The plan was hatched (yep.) on New Year's Day. We wanted to be more self-sufficient. We wanted to raise animals we couldn't necessarily purchase at the market. We started doing calculations to determine what quantity of meat we have to sell to break even. We're thinking of it as it being our training wheels year. The year we see if we like farming enough - and have stamina enough - to make a real go of it.

My squashes-of-interesting-provenance obsession had also spread - just as had their twisted, all-encompassing vines - to all that can be grown in one's garden. I wanted to see if I could grow enough produce to provide nearly all of our vegetable needs.

And, food dork that I am, the ability to grow fruits and vegetables that aren't readily available at the grocery store is most definitely part of the allure. Cardoons? Suuuuuure, I can grow those. Asti Giallo peppers? Yep, put 'em on the seed order list. More Brockton beans? Ah, well, yeah - I can't get enough of those Brockton beans, as it turns out.

More mutant roosters for your viewing pleasure.

We decided that in addition to a portion of the items on my seed wish list - a list that required actual unfurling by the time I was done wishing - we'd start with a few more animals. More hens for eggs, more roosters for meat - only this time, not the freakishly prehistoric-looking Cornish X breed we had raised a couple years ago for eating.

Instead, we'll raise Speckled Sussex, White Wyandotte, and Partridge Rock roosters, and - here's a big thing - bring them elsewhere to be slaughtered, rather than us slaughtering them ourselves. Been there. Done that. All set for a while, thanks.

Thirty-nine chicks and 15 turkeys will arrive at our house during the week of May 30th. Oh boy.

The heritage turkeys - Narragansett, Blue Slate, and Bourbon Red - will take up residence in the coop where the mutant roosters once lived, and JR will construct them a new turkey run. Right next to the garden. Nearby, but quite separate, will be the residence of a couple of pigs. I'm sad, and a bit embarrassed to admit it, but I fret over everything, and am already quite nervous about pen break-outs that lead to garden destruction.

Soon - but hopefully not so soon that we have to speed-build the pig pen - a Tamworth boar from Mack Hill Farm in New Hampshire will be schlepped here by an as-yet undetermined method. I'm hoping for a piglet - but how big the piglet is determines the method of transportation. I have a bad vision of us with a borrowed livestock trailer hitched to the back of my truck, careening down the highway, though if the gent is small enough, our plan is to use a large dog cage to bring him home in the back of my truck. That eliminates the careening worry. Which would be nice.

And then, once that imagined disaster is averted, I go back to hoping that we build the pen sturdily enough to avoid a boar gone wild amongst the squash in the garden. I mean, we'll build it in as sturdy a fashion as possible, and we'll be confident in its construction, but with livestock, you just never know.

You may be wondering about the boar's mate. You know, once he's made it here safely and finds himself unable to crack the pen lock in order to loot the garden, who's he going to hang out with?

I've been searching for pigs since early February, though only intermittently (a problem in the high-demand world of spring piglet sales), so we're currently one pig shy of a pair (does anyone have a spare female piglet? Ideally a Tamworth or Tamworth mix? Anyone? Anyone?). Our boar needs a gilt (a female pig that hasn't yet had a litter), darn it. Once we find her, JR's next task will be to try to dissuade me from adding sheep to our menagerie.

Please wish him luck with that, okay?

As you might imagine, there will be much chatter about the new additions to our tiny farm (out, out darned spot that is the word "farmette"), very likely starting next week, when the Roxbury Russet, Rhode Island Greening, and Seek-No-Further apple trees arrive.

And remember, we haven't even begun to discuss those 100 or so seedlings that are busting through the soil in their yogurt-cup planters (why spend money on plastic seedling pots when a well-washed yogurt container with holes punched through the bottom for drainage works just as well, right?). Oh, so much to talk about. So, so much.

Happy spring! I hope that yours is off to a great start!

Charcutepalooza: Corned Beef

2011-03-16T13:15:00.007-04:00

It's a little difficult to make corned beef look sexy, but, man, please do take a look at those potatoes. Those potatoes make everything on the platter look hot. Of course, that could have to do with just having been pulled from a pot of boiling water, I suppose.

On Sunday night, we had our friends Mike and Anne over for boiled dinner.

"Wow. This is really good," Anne said between bites.

"Yeah, the corned beef is really tasty," Mike chimed in.

"Amy made it herself," JR said.

They chuckled. Of course I made it myself, they saw the whole operation, right?

"No. Really. Amy made the corned beef herself. She brined it and everything."

"What?"

After a brief description of the process - all 5 minutes of active time that's involved in brining brisket, and a discussion about where the brisket comes from on the cow, it sounds as though Anne is going to make her own corned beef, too.

brisket in brine

And why not? The Charcutepalooza projects to date have been easy, but none as easy as corning you some beef. Combine salt, sugar, pink salt (the special curing type, not the fancy Himalayan type), and pickling spices in water, bring the mixture to a boil, allow the brine to cool, then add the brisket, sink it to the bottom of the pot or container by placing a plate on top of it, and refrigerate it for 5 days.

if you need evidence of the plate used to submerge the beef, well, there it is.

At the end of Day Five, remove the beef from the brine, rinse it, and prepare for your boiled dinner. At our house, we keep it simple: corned beef, a couple of onions that we've quartered, a teaspoon of black peppercorns, a teaspoon of coriander seed, and enough water to cover it all by a couple of inches.

Simmer the beef for a couple of hours, then add one head of cabbage that you've quartered, as many carrots as you like, cut into 2-3 inch lengths, and cook for another hour, being sure to add the potatoes during the last 15 to 20 minutes, lest you end up with potato soup broth in your boiled dinner, as my brother-in-law once did, and now recounts the tale to pity and laughter each year around this time.

"The potatoes, they just disappeared," he wails.

And who can blame him? You have to have potatoes with boiled dinner. Have to.

Though I suppose that if you brine your own beef, you could maybe get by without potatoes and instead fill yourself with homemade corned beef and the glow of Charcutepaloozaing. Which is a made-up verb from a made-up word.

slab o' beef

Frosting for the Cause

2011-03-13T15:55:00.005-04:00

My post for today, about my nana and my great aunt who both lost their battles with cancer, is over at the amazing Frosting for the Cause.

You really have read all the stories there, though I'll be honest (as I implore you to go read), it is quite overwhelming, particularly if you're quick to cry, like I am. Even still, it's inspirational to see so many talented writers and bakers working together to raise money for cancer research, so please do head on over there.

If you're able to, please donate to cancer research, links to charities can be found here, and every dollar helps. Thank you for your support!

Charcutepalooza: Pancetta

2011-03-06T17:20:00.000-05:00

I haven't any idea how I'm going to break it to my friend Tiziano, from whom I normally purchase pancetta, that I will no longer include it in my standard order. Or any order, ever again, for that matter.

How standard is this order, you may ask? Well, the last time I was at my favorite Italian market - where Tiziano works - interspersed with chatter about career, school, and his wife's soon-to-be-bestowed degree, he gathered up my order, and just as I turned to walk away, my "grazie" half-formed and out into the air, he glanced at the deli case, then quickly back at me, and said, "Pancetta?"

I was a bit surprised. I looked into my basket, Tiziano was right. There was no pancetta in my stack of deli items. Then I looked at my shopping list, and was reminded. "Oh, no. No thanks. I have some in the freezer."

And I did have some in the freezer. Some that I had purchased from Tiziano. But well over a month later - perhaps it's even two now - this pancetta still sits in my freezer, wrapped in quarter-pound packages, neglected. And I'm afraid that it will remain so, as I started the cure for our second homemade pancetta over this past weekend.

The recipe is, of course, from Michael Ruhlman's Charcuterie (and if you've been reading about this Charcutepalooza thing, and wondering, where are the recipes?, we've all agreed not to publish them on our sites. However, if you're interested in charcuterie, it's worth checking the book out from your local library and/or making the purchase).

In my typical fashion for this winter, as I have been commuting to Boston for work and seem never to have the time to become organized for cooking, much less curing, our maiden voyage into pancetta involved some modifications to Mr. Ruhlman's recipe, most notably, the substitution of fennel seed for the called-for juniper berries.

I'm not sure if it's the fennel seed alone that is responsible, but JR and I are enamored of the pancetta. Truly enamored. The fat is silky, and a pristine white. I could admit to caressing the fat, but that would just seem weird. So, no, I do not caress the fat. At least not as far as anyone outside of our house knows.

We cut thick rounds, then carve them smaller, into cubes, and rectangles, and sometimes odd triangular shapes with thin tails of pork (should I name them? They're a little pet-like a la Ugly Dolls.), then saute them with shallots and crushed red pepper flakes - the pancetta hitting the pan first, then a few minutes into it, the shallots and crushed red pepper flakes are added. Sometimes we add peas, sometimes we toss the mix with pasta carbonara. Sometimes with potatoes. And this is all in the course of a week and a half. Ahhh, there are so many more foodstuffs that would benefit from the addition of our homemade pancetta. So, so many.

I've cooked a lot of pancetta in my time. It's one of the items that I always have in the kitchen (please note the mention of the now lonely and neglected pancetta parcels in our freezer. There is always a pancetta stash here to help with lazy weeknight dinners), and this - this is the most aromatic pancetta that I have ever had the pleasure of smelling. This is part of the allure - part of what keeps us reaching for the rolled belly, and adding it to every dinner.

For my 36th birthday, JR and I went to Italy. It rained on The Day, and between espresso macchiato in the morning and an overwrought and overly expensive birthday dinner at 8pm (more on this another time), we stopped in the medieval hill town of Pienza to grab lunch. A lunch of porchetta sandwiches, eaten under the arch of what I presume was the employee entrance door for the Museo Sinese - the doorbell of which I kept ringing with my shoulder as I leaned back to dodge the raindrops while chewing on the slow-roasted pork.

The smells from the surroundings of that circa 1458 street, the rain on the cobblestones, the porchetta, the warm bread, and the salumi and pecorino cheese ubiquitous to the gaggle of tourist-centric storefronts on Corso Il Rossellino, every one intertwined, as I chewed, intermittently - and accidentally - harassing visitors and museum workers alike with the ringing bell. This combination of scents has been, to this point, the most appealingly porky aroma I have ever encountered.

When you are obsessed with food, things like appealingly porky aromas take on special significance. As I'm sure you know. Maybe for you, it isn't pork. Or it isn't Italy. And the special day that a favorite aroma invokes isn't your not-quite-a-major-milestone birthday. For me, that smell conjures up my favorite place, with the love of my life, on a less than monumental birthday, with less than ideal weather, but still, a perfect, singular day.

And now, now I can have its equal. Its counterpart. An evocative, happy-memories porky aroma in our home. Any time that we desire it. And for that, I am forever grateful. Thank you, Charcutepalooza.

And thank you, Cathy and Kim for dreaming it up.

Sing it with me, won't you? Using our best choir of angels voices, now: "Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhh!"

Lemon-Blueberry Muffins, or How to Beat Down that Late-Winter Funk with Baked Goods

2011-02-27T14:38:00.025-05:00

This morning, JR caught me glancing out the kitchen window at him as he returned to the house, having finished shoveling a path to the barn, then to the cars, then down the driveway for the - ahhh, one thousandth time this year. Okay, fine. You're right. One thousand shovel-outs are not possible, as winter is technically only 89 days in length, and we're still 22 days away from its merciful (oh, please, I beg of you, Mother Nature, do be merciful, won't you?) end.

Answering my glance, he threw down the shovel, threw up his hands, and said, "I am DONE. DONE with this. All of this," waving his arms around to be sure that I understand that every last flake on the planet had rankled him this Sunday morning.

"You and every other person in the northeast," I replied.

"But me first. I want to be done first."

It occurred to me that the only thing to help lessen the sting of another 3 inches of snow was something decidedly bright - tangy, and citrus-y, yet sweet and with some forbidden - or, more accurately, completely out of season - fruit.

Ideally, this forbidden fruit would come to you as mine had, from the neighbor's blueberry bushes, frozen for just this sort of late-winter mood-enhancing emergency, but if not - while we're using lemons that don't exactly grow wild in Massachusetts - a bag of frozen blueberries from your market's freezer case will do. I know, I know. Sacrilege. But maybe next year we'll all plan ahead and have a couple bags of local blueberries in our freezers for just this sort of emergency.

With this plan for next year now in mind, we still need to act to alleviate our winter doldrums. And act now. So let's move quickly to the pantry, gather up the flour and sugar, then get ourselves to our respective fridges for butter, eggs, cream cheese, and a lemon, and finally pull that bag of berries out of the freezer, and get to work on these bad boys. Twelve muffins being just enough to inspire glee for a few days as we roar into March.

Lemon-blueberry Muffins:
Makes 12 muffins

1 1/2 cups granulated sugar
8 tablespoons (1 stick) unsalted butter, softened
6 ounces cream cheese, softened
2 large eggs
the zest and juice of one lemon (approximately 1/4 cup of juice)

1 1/2 cups unbleached all-purpose flour
1 /2 teaspoons baking powder
1/4 teaspoon kosher salt

1 1/2 cups frozen blueberries (one 10-ounce bag if using frozen berries)

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees Fahrenheit. Line a standard muffin tin with paper liners.

In a large mixing bowl, mix the sugar and butter until it is creamed. Add the cream cheese until it is completely blended with the sugar and butter mixture. Add the eggs, one at a time, until they are incorporated into the batter, then add the zest and pour in the lemon juice. Mix until zest and juice are also incorporated.

Meanwhile, stir together the flour, baking powder, and salt in a medium mixing bowl so that the baking powder and salt are evenly distributed, then add the dry ingredients to the wet. Mix until the flour mixture has just been incorporated into the wet, then gently fold in the frozen blueberries. Folding in is just as it sounds: pour the berries into the mixing bowl, then, using a spoon or a spatula, move batter from the bottom of the mixing bowl to the top to cover the berries, mixing those batter-covered berries into the rest of the batter, and repeat until the berries are evenly distributed throughout the batter.

Using two spoons - one to scoop from the mixing bowl, and one to scrape into the muffin liners (as we have ourselves a very sticky batter) - transfer approximately equal amounts of batter to each of the 12 muffin liners.

Bake until the muffins are golden brown, and a toothpick inserted into the center of a muffin emerges batter-free, 32 to 35 minutes. Allow the muffins to cool in the muffin pan for 10 minutes, then transfer them to a cooling rack until they are completely cooled.

These muffins are good warm, but their true lemony character shines most brightly once they've cooled completely. No harm in trying 'em both ways just to be sure, though.

Estimated cost for 12 muffins: $7.05. A bargain for a winter bright spot and reminder that berry-growing days will be soon be upon us. Hey, JR and I even spotted a daffodil shoot against the chicken coop this afternoon, so it really is right around the corner, this warm weather of which we've been so cruelly deprived (I know, I know. I live in the northeast. It's not exactly news that winter is cold and, yeah, brutal here. But I don't want to let the truthful expectation of what winter is like get in the way of a good, overly dramatic moment. Thank you for indulging me).

Okay, now back to the pricing: The sugar costs 16-cents for 1 1/2 cup. The butter has gone up in price recently, and is now 83-cents per stick for Whole Foods 365 Everyday Value store brand. The 365 cream cheese has also increased in price, and is now $1.69 (up 40 cents!) for 8 ounces, so our 6 ounces cost $1.28. I used a lemon from a bag of 8 that cost $3.99, so roughly 50-cents each, but if you were to buy one lone organic lemon, it's going to cost you around 99-cents, so I went with that for this math. The flour costs $4.49 for 19 cups, so 28.5-cents for our lemon-blueberry muffins - we'll call it 29-cents (I did see King Arthur Flour for $3.44 at Target this week, fyi, but we'll go with the higher price to be on the safe side). Baking powder costs less than 1-cent for the quantity used here, but we'll call it 1-cent, and the blueberries that I bought from my neighbor cost $3.50. 365 brand wild blueberries cost $2.99, so you can save 51-cents if you go that route. Not too shabby for a baked treat that (possibly) staves off the last round of winter depression for 59-cents per each citrusy, sweet, forbidden-fruit laden muffin.

See? Kind of looks like summer.

Charcutepalooza: Homage to Bacon

2011-02-15T11:00:00.001-05:00

Gauguin's painting The Ham has hung on our refrigerator for years. Seven years, 6 months, and 10 days to be precise, as it was a souvenir from our honeymoon sojourn to the great master's studio on a hill overlooking Aix-en-Provence.

Aix's noble lineage is clear as one walks its shade- and cafe-lined streets; stylish and chic, yet casual and relaxed all at once. After a leisurely lunch at one of those cafes, the specifics of our meal sadly now forgotten - but certainly consisting, at least in part, of a glass of rosé - JR and I began the walk to Gaguin's studio. A fabulous idea if the new bride isn't wearing borrowed flip flops (borrowed from JR's niece, so no need to "ewwww", but borrowed nonetheless).

The walk is a bit of a challenge for the flip-flop clad, as it is entirely uphill. At least, this is the borrowed flip-flop wearing bride's memory of the trek seven years, six months, and 10-plus days later.

That summer, 2003, was the summer of the deadly European heatwave, discouraging all but a dozen or so tourists from visiting Gauguin's studio that afternoon. His studio, the brochure informed us, was just as he had left it. His easel, the furnishings, his palette and brushes, even a cape and a hat - as though he had just vacated the premises.

The oranges used for his many still life paintings also appeared to be just as he had left them, as their skins were quite shriveled, and alas (or thankfully) there was no ham, 100-plus years old or otherwise.

Thanks to the dearth of visitors that June day, JR and I were able to spend a quiet 15 minutes in Gauguin's atelier, imagining the artist setting up the then plump fruit, rearranging, until finally, it was just right, then settling in to paint.

I wonder if Gauguin loved fruit, or if it was simply the practice of painting the sphere that led him to paint it so frequently.

Today, while shooting bacon and pancetta for this post, JR called out from the living room, "You don't need to shoot every nuance of the bacon, you know." There was a pause and then, "No bacon is safe around you."

It was true, no slab, no slice, no crisped bit of bacon was spared a look through the lens. Not one.

The bacon-making process is, just as the duck prosciutto process was, as simple as simple can be. Once we received our pink salt from sausagemaker.com, we spent 15 or so minutes making the cure for both pork bellies - one to become bacon and one to become pancetta - sealed each of them up in their own gallon storage bags, and each night, JR flipped them to distribute the cure.

Wednesday morning before work, I rinsed and patted dry the soon-to-be-bacon slab o' pork, then placed it back in the refrigerator in a clean storage bag. We had 3 days before which we had to roast the bacon (it can be done immediately upon rinsing if you have the time, or have properly scheduled your Charcutepalooza activities. If not, you have a 3-day grace period. For which I was quite thankful.), so on Saturday morning, I arose, set the oven to 200, placed the pork belly into the oven on a roasting rack set on a sheet pan, and let it slowly roast for 2 hours.

As Michael Ruhlman instructs in Charcuterie, the pig skin was sliced off while the bacon was still warm. I sliced a bit of the warm bacon to taste test (as Mr. Ruhlman also instructs. I am so very by-the-letter, I am), then left the bacon slab alone (as in, did not eat any additional warm slab bacon) to cool.

Late Saturday afternoon, once the cooling was complete, I fried four slices. Four slices of the best bacon I have ever had.

The fat from those four afternoon bacon slices was upcycled (yep. I think that's a pretty appropriate use of "upcycled") to roast our potatoes and carrots for dinner. Then, not content with rendered bacon fat alone, we diced four more slices of bacon to add to the potato-carrot mix.

When the last bit of crisp bacon was gone (oh, and the potatoes and carrots, too. They were a part of the dish after all), I began planning Sunday breakfast. Bacon and egg sandwiches on wheat. And when the breakfast sandwiches had been devoured, I plotted out the fennel, potato, and bacon pizza we'd have for dinner.

The two pounds of bacon we made is unlikely to last very long at this rate, so pork belly is back on the grocery list. And perhaps the obsessive photography sessions will eventually lose their luster. Odds are against it, though. I sure do love me some bacon.

(Oh, and I'd be on the lookout for obsessively photographed pancetta in the near future, too. Just sayin'.)

Turkey-Squash Chili

2011-02-06T14:20:00.007-05:00

There was, I must admit, a bit of a shock and disbelief for us after the Patriots lost to the Jets in the NFL playoffs this year. We're big football fans here, and both remember when the Patriots weren't reviled around the country for being a dominant team.

No, no. Not reviled in the least. In fact, they were generally scoffed at as the perpetual joke of the league, yet that didn't keep both JR and I from loving our hometown team.

During the 80's, including the 1985-1986 football season, JR and his brother held season's tickets for games in the old, grungy Sullivan Stadium, so they sure as heck weren't going to miss out on their opportunity to head to New Orleans for the Superbowl contest with the Bears. (For the record, I was busy crafting alternate lyrics for the Superbowl Shuffle, in order to teach and then lead my Attleboro High School Junior Class Powderpuff squad in a very mid-1980's dance-off pep rally rendition. Go ahead. Let your imagination run wild.)

On any occasion during which the Superbowl is mentioned - in its generic form, it does not need to be the 1986 Superbowl - JR leans back, takes a deep breath, looks directly into my expectant eyes (for I know what is coming) and says, "Ahhhh, yes. The Superbowl. That reminds me of the time my plane was hijacked."

Pausing, he looks deeper into my widened eyes, my fear - of hearing the story again - unmistakable.

"Have I ever told you about the hijacking?"

(Also for the record, he does not usually repeat the story, he simply likes to fill me with dread that the story could possibly be recounted once more.)

If you are able, please flash back to 1986. A time of Madonna in fishnet shirts and five hundred rubber bracelets up each arm. A time of Purple Rain, and bad supergroups, and actual music on MTV (clearly my focus is very high school-centric here). The Berlin Wall still stood, Ronnie Reagan was only 75 years old (ahhh, youth.), however, there had been a spate of hijackings around the globe during 1985, and as such, when one drunken, belligerent football fan on a New Orleans to Boston flight yelled, "I've got a bomb!" after being chastised by the flight crew, well, you can pretty much play out the movie of what happens next in your head, right? And, please, be sure that every man on that plane is wearing a wide-collared Patriots logo golf shirt in your film, okay? It's important that we get the period costumes right in this rough-and-tumble faux hijacking film of ours.

JR has sour memories of New Orleans as a result, and he and his brother let the season's tickets slide after that Superbowl run. It sounds like a sad tale, but, on the upside, he won't have to wait 16 hours on the tarmac after the game is over this, or any year.

As chili seems to be the Official Dish of the NFL - or perhaps just the Official Dish of the Big Game, I thought I'd share this turkey-squash chili with which I am currently quite enamored. Please feel free to use dry beans if you have them (Over the last two years, it appears that I've become quite particular about my dried beans, and, therefore, I'd like to warn you that I'm trying to determine how to become the Brockton Bean supplier for my area; they'd work well in this or any chili, so if there's another variety of bean that you love more than is probably acceptable to tell your friends about, it's worth throwing into the turkey-squash chili pot in place of the canned beans that are called for.).

Turkey-Squash Chili
Makes 6 to 8 servings

3 tablespoons olive oil
1 medium onion

1 pound ground turkey (we use dark meat, feel free to use white meat)
(2) 15-ounce adobo-seasoned diced tomatoes (such as Muir Glen - see note below if you aren't able to find the adobo-seasoned variety)
(1) 15-ounce can kidney beans, drained and rinsed
(1) 15-ounce can pinto beans, drained and rinsed
2 cups puréed butternut squash, or one 15 oz can pumpkin purée (no spices added - be sure it's plain pumpkin)

Note Number One: If you're unable to find those adobo-seasoned tomatoes, use regular diced tomatoes, and add chiles in adobo, in small amounts, until you've reached your desired heat level. Be careful, though, if you do use the chiles in adobo - unless you are a spicy-heat freak, you definitely don't need to use the whole can (I've heard more than one tale of mistakenly using the entire can, and so felt it wise to make mention).

Note Number Two: We tend to have pureed squash or pumpkin in the house (in the freezer) throughout the winter, so it's still a convenience food for us, however, if you don't stash squash puree in your freezer, a can of pumpkin will do. For tips on how to process winter squash, head on over here (the post is about sugar pumpkin, though the whole boiling and pureeing applies to butternut and other winter squash varieties as well).

Heat the oil in a medium soup or stock pot over medium heat. Add the onion and saute until it's softened and translucent, 3 to 5 minutes.

Add the ground turkey, and cook it until it is lightly browned, 5 to 7 minutes.

Add the tomatoes, beans, and squash, stir well to combine, and simmer gently for 20 minutes before serving it forth with a dollop of sour cream (and chopped green onion and/or chopped cilantro).

Estimated cost for a batch of chili: $14.85. The olive oil costs 36-cents. The onion should cost no more than 75-cents. The turkey costs $4.99 per pound, and, as you can see in that there photo of the ingredients, my latest pack o' turkey cost $5.24. The tomatoes cost $2.39 each, and the beans cost $1.09 each. The squash was grown in our garden, so for us, it's free, but for purchasing this time of year, it's 79-cents per pound, and a 2-pound butternut squash will yield around 2 cups once processed, so that's $1.59, and sans garnish, we've got $2.48-per bowl chili. Super, indeed.

2011 Restaurant Resolutions: Part I

2011-01-18T13:00:00.002-05:00

Bacon-wrapped Blackbird Farm meatloaf at Nick's on Broadway

During New Year's week, while catching up on Twitter post-holiday rush, a tweet from Jackie, aka The Diva that Ate New York, caught my eye:

"Can my New Year resolutions just be list of restaurants I resolve to eat in the next year?"

Man, talk about a way to make New Year's resolutions fun and not-so-daunting. (I also noticed on Twitter that Jakie is already chipping away at her list, having already had dinner at Fatty 'Cue.) Not that my other resolutions are drudgery or daunting, but you know what I'm saying. Jackie has tapped into entertainment as resolutions. Genius.

It was difficult to keep my list to 10, so I've employed two categories, both of which are in no particular order: Restaurants Worth a Return Visit (posted here), and Restaurants I'd Like to Try (to be continued. This was shaping up to be an enormously long post.).

Restaurants Worth a Return Visit:

Nick's on Broadway, Providence, Rhode Island: Chef Derek Wagner's food is pure and simple, and yet mind-blowing. Everything tastes exactly as it is supposed to taste (this sentence really does have meaning: eggs are rich and yolky, beef tastes beefy, tomatoes are perfectly ripe, juicy, and sweet). We wanted to get a jump on our resolutions, so JR and I have already checked this one of the list. It's going to be a good 2011 at this rate. Mmmmm...white bean cassoulet.

La Laiterie at Farmstead, Providence, Rhode Island: Chef-owners Matt and Kate Jennings transformed their cheese shop into a cheese shop-slash-comfort food haven. From pork belly (Matt is the reigning Prince of Porc), to house-cured meats, to unusual beer and wine offerings, to the cheese selection extraordinaire, I'm looking forward to hunkering down with a winter brew, charcuterie (did someone say "charcuterie"?), and cheese platter one snowy afternoon. Soon.

Persimmon, Bristol, Rhode Island: A few years ago, I was at a trade show at the Javits Center in New York, speaking with a gift shop owner from Bristol, Rhode Island. One particular raved-about Bristol restaurant came up in conversation, and she lowered her voice to share another find, just about cooing, "you have to try Persimmon. It's incredible." It is incredible. From service, to food, to ambiance, Persimmon is worth the splurge. JR and I are also looking forward to visiting their newly opened butcher shop, Persimmon Provisions, in Barrington, Rhode Island. Hopefully by the end of this week.

Ten Tables: Jamaica Plain and Cambridge, Massachusetts: When last I visited the tiny JP location (I seem to like a tiny restaurant with outstanding food, like Frankie's Spuntino), two friends and I partook of the prix fixe menu, which was incredible - a la everything-tasted-as-it-should. JR really needs to check this place out, as he has been deprived, and so on the list it goes.

Trattoria della Nonna: Mansfield, Massachusetts: Once, during a more prosperous time, on a flight home from Italy, I got to chatting with the woman sitting next to me. Invariably, the topic turned to restaurants in the Boston-Providence area, and it was only the shortest of times before Kenny and Yvonne DiFazio's Trattoria della Nonna came up. "Oh, Kenny," my airplane row companion said, wistfully, "I love Kenny's food."

Now, Mansfield may seem out of the way for Bostonians and Providencians alike, but Kenny is extremely talented, and if you can get there for a wine tasting dinner, his creativity is in full force. Visit their recently added bar and pizza oven in the back, where you can sample small bites (and save a little over the full menu in the dining room). As an added bonus, the wine list describes the individual wines by flavor profile ("earthy, with hints of barnyard and blackberry"), giving the diner/imbiber a better shot at finding a wine he or she will like.

Evangeline, Portland, Maine: This is merely a pipe dream, as Chef Erik Desjarais closed the restaurant in November 2010 to be a stay-at-home dad. I feel fortunate that JR and I were able to eat here with Matt Jennings (of the aforementioned Farmstead/La Laiterie) in October and were treated to a Chef's tasting menu ranging from escargot, to deep-fried calf's brain (yep, I go there), to silken lamb chops. It was all so good, I had hoped to go back as soon as the spring thaw is on, but, alas, no.

Heirloom Market BBQ's sides. Don't let those tin bowls fool you. These are serious, figure-out-how-to-make-them-like-that-at-home sides.

Heirloom Market BBQ, Atlanta, Georgia: In November, I was invited to the Doubletree Marietta Northwest to speak at a client dinner. There's a lot to write about regarding this trip, including that the chef at the Doubletree, Chris Effa, is incredibly inspiring, and a true student of food. He had just returned from a sourcing trip through the Southeast that led him to Benton's and Polyface Farm, among other places. All of the food that he sourced on that trip was then featured at the hotel dinner (the one at which I spoke) to promote the hotel's seasonal, local menu.

Chef Effa was just as at ease discussing French technique as he was barbecue (though he confided that he's not qualified to judge bbq, however, I imagine that this is probably next on his extensive list of food-student things to do), and Heirloom Market BBQ was a newly-opened joint (really, a joint - there's a booze store next door to this one-level, small - almost tiny - barbecue resto, which, being a Northerner, perhaps I have no right to make the call, but I think it qualifies as a barbecue joint.).

Only one-week old at the time I was there, the line snaked out the door, and Chef Effa and I managed to be the last ones to leave lunch service. Chef-owners Cody Taylor and Jiyeon Lee serve up barbecue that keeps flavors clean and pure; the smoked meats are just smoky enough (and they have very fancy smokers to do the work, though smoking requires them to be there at 5am each morning to get the fires started), and the sides - well, I'm waiting for peach season here in Massachusetts so I can make a version of their Carrots n' Peaches, and the okra and collards were also imitation-worthy.

Tipsy Parson, New York City: JR and I ate here last January during a quick NYC getaway. I could have eaten at Tipsy Parson for all 3 daily meals, though we were only able to get one dinner in on that trip. If you go, please do order the chicken-fried chicken livers with green tomato chutney and be sure that your dining companion gets the beef short ribs. You'll both be eating short ribs for lunch the next day, as the serving is huge (this is not normally a plus in my mind), and, more importantly, tender and tasty.

The view at the bar where you wait for your table at Latte di Luna to be ready. Tough place to wait, right?

Latte di Luna, Pienza, Italy: More on the pipe-dream front, as there is no trip to Italy planned for 2011, however, despite Pienza's touristy status (I've heard the town referred to, in a most contemptuous fashion, as The Disney World of Tuscany - I believe there was a phooey at the end of the statement, as though our fellow American tourist had to spit out the nasty bits of Renaissance Disney World gristle to purge himself of it), it is one of my favorite spots in the world. There's a fabulous bar - well, it serves drinks, but wouldn't be recognizable as a bar to the vast majority of Disney World-attendees - on the fortified wall on the edge of the town, providing hours of fun gazing at the Tuscan hillside, but when you need to eat country food after an aperitivo or due, head over to Latte di Luna for roast suckling pig worth boarding a flight you can ill afford, or roasted duck with olives, or cannellini beans firm yet chewy - and the hospitality of Roberto and Antonella, both of whom have been working the front of the house for many a year, serving up those spit-roasted pigs to happy, Disney World of Tuscany-embracing tourists.

Mondo X, Cetona, Italy: This is a totally mind-blowing restaurant. Particularly if the highest end of restaurant dining is not within your typical purview (and it certainly is not within ours).

Housed in a convent founded by Saint Francis in 1212, it is now home to young men from all over Italy who are recovering from drug and alcohol addiction. At the convent, they tend to the fields, growing the fruits and vegetables and raising the livestock that ultimately are prepared and served - by these same young men - to a small group of diners at lunch and dinner. The purpose of their time at the convent: to provide them practical skills that they can use in the outside world to stay sober and be productive.

Upon arrival, JR and I were greeted at the front gate of the convent, handed a sparkling wine, also produced at the convent, then guided through candle - and torch-lit (very 1212 of them, don't you think?) - corridors to the dining room. The menu presented to us was hand-written, featuring courses of vegetables, smoked river fish, delicate pasta, and game. JR and I got to chatting with a Neopolitan couple seated nearby and as a result were, as tends to be our way, the last to leave the restaurant - a 4-hour gastronomic extravaganza. And a very pricey one, at that. But so worth it (start saving now if you're going to southeastern Tuscany this summer. You won't regret it.).

JR and I also have some serious resolutions for this year, which require their very own post, and center around self-sufficiency. It's about to get very farmy around here. Very, very farmy.

Charcutepalooza: Duck Prosciutto

2011-01-15T16:46:00.033-05:00

There's not a lot of meat there in my prosciutto. Darn you, Bargain Basement duck.

"Eee-yeah. You always go for that kind of stuff," JR's words pretty much spat out at me as he chewed - reluctantly - my first-ever duck prosciutto.

JR and I have owned Michael Ruhlman's Charcuterie for a couple of years without curing one damned thing. One week last winter, I spent nearly our entire weekly grocery budget on two pork bellies from a local farm with the intent to make pancetta. Alas, motivation was at a minimum, and eventually, both pork bellies were eaten - cooked, not cured.

It was only while reading Cathy of Mrs. Wheelbarrow's Kitchen and Kim of The Yummy Mummy's tweets about their newly-hatched Charcutepalooza plan did the motivation to cure well up inside of me once more. Finally, I had hit curing-craving critical mass.

So, a few weeks ago, on the drive home from a dingy, snow-strangled industrial side street in Boston, while mulling over their Charcutepalooza idea - and the first challenge, duck prosciutto - duck being a favorite "that kind of stuff" for me - I thought, "Why can't I join in on the curing fun? Why not me? Why not now?" I whine a lot to myself when driving home from Boston. Especially in the winter. It takes over an hour, you know. Waaaah.

I set out to find a duck. On New Year's Eve day. I found two. Two lame-ish, frozen, and small-by-duck-standards ducks. For $3.49 per pound. Bargain basement ducks of no discernible provenance.

I bought one.

This Bargain Basement duck of mine first had to defrost. And I had to continue driving back and forth to Boston. Nearly a week passed before the wee duck was unleashed from the shrink wrap.

JR pieced the duck for me so that I could start the salt cure as soon as I walked in the door on that Thursday night. He poured a glass of wine for me as I unwrapped the boned breasts from the storage bag he had placed them in, and, when I started flipping through the index of Charcuterie to locate the duck prosciutto recipe, he pointed to the dust jacket marking the space, "It's already marked. Right there." Even without such amazing assistance, curing couldn't be easier.

Basically, tuck the breasts into their own, separate (though adjacent) beds of salt. With no room in the refrigerator - even for such a tiny duck - the salt-encased breasts were placed near our garden potatoes in the basement. Then, I proceeded to forget about them for almost a day longer than I should have.

Not to worry, the breasts were firm, yet pliable when finally removed from the salt. "Holy crap, it's working," I said to JR. Now, I feel like this applies to a lot of things: seeds sprouting, pickling, jam and jelly making, cheese making - all things that are generally marveled at nowadays, even while these techniques - and a technique like salt curing - are among the most basic used for food preservation. Historically and across cultures. I annoy myself when I get caught in that "oh, wow, I did it" trap, when I know that there's a reason why these techniques have been passed down from generation to generation - you know, because they work and they aren't that difficult to execute. I mean, the results aren't instantaneous, and therefore don't fit many people's definition of convenient, but they are pretty easy to manage if you're of the mind to try.

So the next 5 minute step was to weigh the breasts and then tie them up in the flim-flam cheesecloth I bought for this purpose. Next time around, I'm going to do better in the cheesecloth department. Oh, and in the duck sourcing department, too.

It was a Saturday, JR and I had a party to attend (many thanks to my friend Chris, who came up with the idea and hosted the party, at which a bunch of our friends made recipes from my book, which we ate over the course of many, many hours. All while watching football. It might only have been better had there been a curing station, now that curing is one of my favorite things in the world.).

I have a tendency to be late to, um, everything, so JR was understandably concerned when I said that I had to get the duck breasts hung before leaving for the party. Which we had to do in 5 minutes. "We have to go, you know. It's a party for you." "I know, I know. Don't worry. It'll take two minutes. Just as soon as I gain control of this crappy cheesecloth," I said, my body contorting as I struggled to pull its flimsy layers apart from one another without unraveling the cloth. Only to then fold it back up in an attempt to somehow create a substantial wrapper of the chintzy mess.

JR transported our dish - pulled pork - to the car, while I created two duck breast bundles; one with thyme and one with a giant spring of rosemary - nearly as large as the breast, in fact (I have mentioned that this was a tiny, sad, Bargain Basement duck, haven't I?).

See what I'm saying? Rosemary as big as a duck breast. Either it's a gargantuan rosemary plant or a terribly stunted duck.

By the time JR was back in the house, the breasts were kitchen twine-sealed packages with ready-to-hang loops, and back they went to the basement, this time just to the base of the stairs (though, realistically, this space is very likely equally as cold as the potato cellar, so colder and drier than called for by Mr. Ruhlman.).

I weighed the sad sacks just before they went to the basement, and later in the week, saw a tweet from Judy of Divina Cucina that made me think I should have done what she had - her breasts and my breasts both clocked in at around 6-ounces, so she combined hers to make one larger prosciutto.

Brilliant. Me? Not so much.

This afternoon, returning from a slew of errands, JR asked what was on the menu for lunch. With only 3 hours left of real daylight, and a path needing to be shoveled through this most recent blizzard's foot of snow to the as-yet unsplit wood pile, lunch had to be quick. You see, we heat with wood, so no wood means no heat. And, yeah, it's cold here right now.

So JR had to get a move on in order to get the wood ready for the upcoming week (on a long side note, this is the last year we buy four foot lengths of wood that doesn't get delivered until December. It's a little crazy trying to split wood every other day during the winter, particularly when it seems as though it's been snowing every other day this year. Tree lengths seemed like a good, money-saving idea at the time, but, ah, yeah - you gotta get the wood delivered a little earlier than December to make it worthwhile.).

Fried eggs were the first best lunch idea I had, along with a slice or two of Seven Stars Bakery's olive loaf, when suddenly, a vision of tiny prosciutto danced through my head. "Hey, will you get the duck breasts out of the basement?"

"No."

"No," I replied, surprised. "I don't want that." "Yes you do." "No. I don't," (pause here for me to get my confused face on, please) "I don't even like duck." (wha? who doesn't like duck?) And where did this conversation end, you ask? Back at the beginning: "Eee-yeah. You always go for that kind of stuff."

"That kind of stuff" it turns out, includes "all the weird stuff". Like livers, and heart, and tongue, and lardo - cured fatback. As luck would have it, when I sliced into the prosciutto, the fatty parts reminded me of lardo, one of my favorite treats when we've traveled in Italy - and JR's least favorite, of course, because it falls into the "that kind of stuff" category.

One day, on a poorly-planned trek to Florence from southern Tuscany, we arrived in the city well after the usual lunch hour. This is a problem, because restaurants don't serve lunch all day long in Italy.

We walked to a spot where a wine bar I loved used to reside, only to find it gone. Yet inside the new restaurant that had taken the wine bar's place was the nicest man in the world - certainly on that day, perhaps every day, I can't be sure - manning the operation of the country-casual spot housed next to a high-concept, ultra-modern sister restaurant. Atop the butcher-style wooden countertop surrounding him was a leg of prosciutto (pig, not duck), country bread, and a couple wheels of the sheep's milk cheese, Pecorino di Pienza.

In broken Italian, I explained that we had planned badly, and had missed lunch. "No pranzo," he asked, a bit alarmed. "Si. No pranzo," I confirmed.

He rushed us over to the far corner of the restaurant, and seated us at a small table, surrounded by shelves of wine from floor to ceiling. Fawning over us as though we were little birds with broken wings that he intended to nurse back to health, he delivered us a glass of wine each, and then returned with a spuntino - a snack of bruschetta with lardo and honey. At the time, I was convinced that it was the best thing I had ever eaten - the lardo melted like butter over the charred bread, the honey offsetting the saltiness of the lardo. "I could eat this every meal until I die," I told JR. "I could die if I had to eat that," he responded. At least, that's how I remember it going down.

My duck prosciutto is a bit too salty - I suspect the minuscule size of my breasts (ah-hahahaha. I had to do it. I can't believe I made it this long without going there.) is to blame. Even as I sit typing this, the corners of my mouth are burning from the salt of the snacky bits I've picked at - to give me energy to write this post, of course. So I like the prosciutto, it's just a bit salty, is all.

At lunch today, as I prepared to toast the Seven Stars olive loaf in the egg-frying pan, I realized, "hey, I can make a lardo bruschetta." Or, a duck prosciutto-that-happens-to-be-mostly-duck-lardo bruschetta. Out came the honey from our hives, and into my mouth went the salty-sweet bites of nostalgia - homegrown nostalgia, at that.

"You're a real frontier woman, you are," JR said as the bruschetta came together, "curing your own meats, using your own honey. What's next?"

And what is next is the salt cure. I'm thinking I'll do both bacon and pancetta. Finally, finally, finally, I'll get to that pancetta. Thank you, Cathy and Kim for the giant nudge.

Guideposts.org's Cookbook Chronicles

2011-01-12T13:41:00.001-05:00

For those of you curious about what inspired me to start cooking, what type of dish I'd be - were I to be a dish, of course, and what ingredients I always have in my kitchen, the answers are all right here.

Polenta-stuffed Portabella Mushrooms with Pancetta and Tomato Sauce

2011-01-09T16:49:00.010-05:00

During a recent family dinner at my brother and sister-in-law's house, my sister served up a batch of very substantial stuffed portabella mushrooms with red lentils and red quinoa. And at Christmas, my mother served baby bella mushrooms with a roasted red pepper sauce, which got me to thinking about what my dream stuffed portabella would contain.

It only took a few days to come up with it, and on New Year's Eve, JR and I feasted on these bad boys, full of hearty polenta, topped with chopped pancetta, and finished off with a quick tomato sauce. That holiday eve tomato sauce cleared the fridge of the very last of our local slow-roasted tomatoes (and I highly recommend going that route if you have some stashed in your freezer), however, crushed canned tomatoes are a fine option as well.

If you don't eat meat, you could easily substitute chopped onion or mushrooms for the pancetta, or omit a topping altogether and just go with the tomato sauce once the mushrooms emerge from the oven.

Polenta-stuffed Portabella Mushrooms with Pancetta and Tomato Sauce:
Serves 4

4 portabella mushroom caps, washed, dried, and stems removed
1 tablespoon olive oil for greasing the pan

4 cups vegetable broth
1 cup uncooked polenta (grits)
1/4 cup pecorino-romano cheese

1/4 pound pancetta, cut into 1/4-inch pieces

3 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil
1 large shallot, coarsely chopped
2 large garlic cloves, coarsely chopped
1 28-ounce can crushed tomatoes
1/4 cup milk (we use 1% - feel free to use what you have in the house)
1 teaspoon dried oregano

kosher salt
freshly ground black pepper

Prepare the polenta according to the manufacturer's instructions, stirring in the pecorino-romano once you've taken the polenta pot off of the burner. Allowing the polenta to sit for five minutes or so will make the transfer to your portabella caps a bit less of a runny polenta mess.

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees Fahrenheit. Grab a rimmed baking sheet (I found that my 9 by 13-inch lasagne pan wasn't quite ample enough to fit all 4 mushroom caps), and pour a tablespoon of olive oil on the pan to coat the pan and prevent stuck mushrooms at the end of the baking time.

Place the four mushroom caps stem-side up on the pan, then top each with 1/4 of the polenta.

Scatter 1/4 of the chopped pancetta over each of the stuffed mushroom caps, then place the pan in the oven and bake until the mushrooms are releasing their juices and the pancetta is beginning to brown at the edges, 30 to 35 minutes.

Meanwhile, once the mushrooms are in the oven, heat three tablespoons of olive oil in a large skillet over medium heat. Add the shallot and garlic, and cook until the shallot is translucent, 2 to 3 minutes. Add the crushed tomato, milk, and oregano, and stir to evenly distribute the milk and oregano.

Simmer the sauce gently (we don't want spattering tomato sauce during this process) in the pan for 20 to 25 minutes, by which time, your mushrooms should be ready to serve. Season the sauce with salt and pepper, pull those portabella bad boys out of the oven, transfer one to each of your four dinner plates, top with sauce, and serve them forth.

This tomato sauce is also a good weeknight pasta dinner option, as you might have gathered from its 20 to 25 minute cook time (and 5 or so minutes max to chop the shallot and garlic, plus gather up the olive oil, tomatoes, and milk). With the amount of time that it takes for pasta water to come to a boil, you've got a quick and easy dinner on the table in 30 minutes flat if you do go the weeknight-pasta-sauce route.

the mushrooms with accoutrement prior to cooking

Estimated cost for 4 servings: $13.97. We used portabella caps for this, which are priced at $2.99 for two, so $5.98 for 4. Feel free to use whole, unpackaged portabellas for this, which we have also done, and those cost around $2.99 per pound at our local supermarket. The veggie broth for the polenta cost $2.39 for 4 cups, and the polenta cost 57-cents for 1 cup. The pecorino-romano cheese cost 25-cents for 1/4 cup. The pancetta costs $8.49 per pound, so 1/4 pound cost us $2.12. The olive oil for the entire dish costs 48-cents, the shallot cost around a quarter, and the garlic cost approximately 10-cents. The can of crushed tomatoes cost $1.67, the milk costs around 6-cents, and the oregano we used grows as it likes, which is to say out of control, in the borders of our garden, and was dried at the end of the summer. However, if you were to use purchased oregano, it would run you around 10-cents for dried. For less than $3.50 each (okay, it's just a penny less, but it's still less), you and 3 dining companions get a hearty, mushroomy meal. I'd say "sweet", but it's really more "umami". Maybe we could start using "umami" as a synonym for the colloquial "sweet"? Shall we take a vote on that? So far, I count one for making that change.

Happy New Year

2010-12-31T17:23:00.002-05:00

From the snowy hinterland that is our backyard, best wishes for a healthy, happy, and productive 2011. Be safe!

Trimming the Party Budget: On the air with FOX 25 Boston

2010-12-28T12:24:00.010-05:00

It was a pleasure, as always, to visit with my friends at FOX 25 Boston, this time to discuss strategies for a budget cocktail party with the lovely and fun Elizabeth Hopkins.

One thing that Elizabeth and I didn't have a chance to discuss on the air is embracing the potluck. Don't be afraid to assign your family or friends specific dishes ("Elizabeth, would you mind making the caramelized onion tart for the party on Friday?" "No, of course not, Amy. I was wondering what to bring." See how easy that was?).

Everyone wants to help, and divvying up the work - and expense - results in a much more manageable and fun time for you and your guests.

If you're wondering where to find the caramelized onion dip recipe, that bad boy is located here.

The tart is located here (or at the link above in my imaginary conversation with Elizabeth).

For this visit to FOX, the tart was sans ricotta forte. If you aren't able to locate ricotta forte, or don't think it's something you'd use on a regular basis, you can use goat cheese if you'd like to have cheese on your tart, or you can omit it completely.

And these lemony meatballs also make for an interesting and inexpensive app. If you'd like a vegan option, this quinoa, squash, and black bean salad is quick and easy - and also gluten-free.

Happy and safe holidays to you!

Egg Nog-Hazelnut Cupcakes with Nutella Buttercream Frosting

2010-12-22T09:34:00.002-05:00

So perhaps shopping for gifts is now out of the question, what with just a handful of shopping days to go. If that's the case, I strongly suggest that you make these cupcakes, as they surely count as a gift.

Egg nog-Hazelnut Cupcakes with Nutella Buttercream Frosting
makes 12 cupcakes (with a little leftover frosting, which you can then dole out as you see fit - you know how we're always missing the frosting once the cupcake top is gone, right?)

1 cup + 2 tablespoons unbleached all-purpose flour
1/2 cup + 2 tablespoons ground toasted hazelnuts (see note below)
1 1/2 teaspoons baking powder
1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1/4 teaspoon ground nutmeg
1/4 teaspoon kosher salt

1/2 cup (1 stick) unsalted butter, softened
1 cup dark brown sugar
1/2 cup granulated sugar
3/4 cup egg nog
2 large eggs
1 teaspoon vanilla extract

Nutella Buttercream Frosting:
4 tablespoons (1/2 stick) unsalted butter, softened
1/4 cup Nutella (which can also be measured out of the jar as 4 tablespoons if that makes it easier/leaves you with less things to clean in the end)
1/2 cup confectioner's sugar, sifted
1 tablespoon egg nog

yes, this is the runny peanut butter-looking batter mentioned below.

*This is the Big, Important Note: toast 1/2 cup of whole hazelnuts at 350 degrees for 12-15 minutes, allow them to cool, rub them between two kitchen towels to remove loose skins, then grind them just until they're coarse bits, like tiny pebbles. It's okay, too, if a portion of the ground nuts are to the point of being paste-like, so long as the majority of the bits are coarse. You'll end up with 1/2 cup plus 2 scant tablespoons of ground nuts, and that's all good. OR, if you're really pressed for time, go ahead and grind 1/2 cup of untoasted hazelnuts instead.

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees Fahrenheit. Line a standard-sized muffin tin with cupcake liners, maybe ones like these.

In a medium mixing bowl, combine the flour, ground hazelnuts, baking powder, cinnamon, nutmeg, and salt, and stir well to be sure all of these bad boys are evenly distributed.

In a large mixing bowl, mix together the butter and sugar until the sugar is well-blended into the butter. Pour in the egg nog and vanilla extract, and mix until they are combined with the butter and sugar. Add the eggs, one at a time, mixing until each egg is just combined with the egg nog concoction.

Now, add the flour-and-friends to the egg nog concoction, and mix until the dry ingredients have been incorporated into the egg noggy ingredients.

At this point, the batter looks an awful lot like runny peanut butter (yep. just like above in that there photo). In the very best possible way. However, this runny-ness makes it slightly more temperamental to move from the mixing bowl to the liners.

Use a spoon to transfer the batter to the cupcake liners, and fill each of the twelve cupcake liners almost to the top. The best method I've come up with for this batter-to-liner transfer is to scoop enough batter into the liner to fill it half-way. Then, gently, and almost as though you're about to putt to win The Masters, meaning you need to keep your eye on the ball - or, um, batter-filled liner - (for those of you non-golfers: taking your eye off the ball in golf is sure to cause some dreaded issue, such as a whiff) because if you take your eyes off of the liner while making this transfer, you could spill batter out into the cupcake tin. I know this, for I have done it. Multiple times. And recently, at that.

There. That confession is done. What causes kitchen foibles of this type is that sometimes (ahem) I get chatting while baking (or cooking) and take my eyes off the prize. If by sharing this story, one person - just one person - is spared the somersaulting cupcake liner disaster, my confession won't be for naught.

Once the cupcake liners are all filled nearly to the top (again, please see the photo of the batter above) while nestled into their tins, place the pan in the oven and bake until the muffins are golden brown and a toothpick inserted into the middle comes out clean, 22 to 25 minutes.

Cool the cupcakes in the pan on a cooling rack until they are cool enough to be handled without hurting yourself. Transfer the cupcakes to the cooling rack, and allow them to cool completely before frosting them, lest your buttercream melt.

For the buttercream:
You'll want to use an electric mixer for this task, unless you have some serious arm strength and loads of stamina. Oh, and a giant whisk.

In a large mixing bowl, combine the butter, Nutella, confectioner's sugar, and egg nog and beat at medium-high speed until you have a light, fluffy, creamed frosting. This should take somewhere in the 3 to 5 minute range.

I'm all high-class over here, so I use my store-brand storage bags to pipe frosting. Simply transfer the frosting to the storage bag, pressing it toward one corner of the bottom of the bag, then snip the corner of the bag to create an opening, and pipe the frosting out of said opening.

Estimated cost for 12 silly-good cupcakes: $8.76. The flour costs 26-cents. The hazelnuts cost $6.99 for a package containing 1 cup, so this is our splurge item at $3.50 for these 12 cupcakes. Well-worth it, though, might I add. The baking powder costs a penny. The nutmeg and cinnamon cost around 8-cents each. The butter for both the cupcakes and the frosting costs $1.23 for a stick and a half of Whole Foods 365 Everyday Value brand. The brown sugar costs 60-cents, the granulated sugar costs 18-cents. The eggnog for both the cupcakes and the frosting costs 41-cents. The vanilla costs around 22-cents, and the two eggs cost 52-cents total. The confectioner's sugar costs 17-cents, and, last, but not least, is our other big-ticket item, the Nutella, which costs $5.99 for a 500g jar. I used about a quarter of the jar (though maybe some of that was eating it off the spoon once the 4 tablespoons were measured out for the frosting. Hmmmm.), so that's $1.50. On a side note, I prefer the Italian-produced Nutella over the US-produced Nutella. Maybe it's all in my head, but it seems that the Italian version is creamier. You'll know it when you see it because the label e scritto in Italiano. It probably even has some great Italian promotion being offered as well, but none great enough to get us to Italy for free. Oh, but I digress. As usual. So, for $8.76, you either have a very thanks-worthy gift (at the last-minute, no less), or you have cupcakes that cost 73-cents each for your holiday potluck. Either scenario sounds good to me - how 'bout you?

(Last-minute) Holiday Gift-Giving: Some of My Favorite Things

2010-12-19T15:00:00.000-05:00

Anyone else out there a Last Minute Lucy when it comes to holiday shopping? Can I get a show of hands? Or at least an "amen"?

One year long ago, I think it was 1998 (that's long ago, right?), I had all of my shopping done right after Thanksgiving, and, boy, was that a great feeling. Apparently not great enough to try to replicate it again, though, and every year since, I've been baking, and canning, and, yes, shopping, right up until December 24.

If you're like me, and need a few last-minute gift options, here are a few sure to result in glee when the gift wrap is torn off.

photo courtesy of IceMilk Aprons

IceMilk Aprons:

Ashley, the founder of IceMilk Aprons, is pure genius. I don't say this because she is a friend of mine, and I don't say it solely because of the gorgeous aprons she's created (gorgeous enough, in fact, to be selected by Martha Stewart herself as a best gift of 2010 and featured on The Martha Show.), but also because she knows that people like you and me, we need last-minute gift help.

If you order an apron that is back ordered (ahhhh, yeah. Martha Stewart did promote them this year, you know. Have I mentioned that?), you'll receive a small canning jar with a photo of your apron, and the story behind it, all ready for gift wrapping. This takes my favored method of last-minute gift-giving - the gift-wrapped, cut-out photo - to a whole new level. And I love it.

But wait. There's more. You can shop up until December 22 - that's Wednesday, in case you've lost track of which day is which, too (isn't that how we get to be last-minute shoppers?) - and still receive your (un-monogrammed) order in time through the magic of overnight shipping.

Oh, but suddenly it's Thursday and you still haven't ordered your IceMilk Apron? Guess what? You can order a printable - yes, printable - gift certificate. Which means it could be Saturday and you'd still be able to pull this off. See what I mean? Ashley = pure genius. But don't take my word for it - buy an apron or a gift certificate last-minute and see for yourself.

Sunchowder's Emporia Jellies, Jams, and Chutneys. Heck, we'll just call 'em preserves.

Jamista Wendy Read is a friend, however, I don't let that influence my opinion of her preserves - they taste just like homemade, and with their pretty packaging, they're a great stocking stuffer or hostess gift. Wendy makes each batch by hand, using only natural ingredients, so you might read the label on a jar of zucchini-ginger jam, and you'll see "zucchini, cane sugar, ginger, cinnamon stick, nutmeg, lemon, orange zest". Or strawberry jam made only with strawberries, cane sugar, lemon juice, and lemon zest. Both of which are delicious on breakfast toast, by the way.

And Wendy's Peach-Lavender Jam makes a great glaze for chicken, if you weren't already aware.

For the gardener with a lot of space: Pumpkin Seeds

Pumpkins for eating. Grown by your loved one (or ones). What could be better?

I'm partial to Galeux d'Eysines and Marina di Chioggia, both of which produce large, sweet, creamy-fleshed pumpkins. In fact, the Marina di Chioggia that we recently processed is about to be turned into a pie, though it also made for an interesting sweet and savory take on pumpkin lasagne (liking sweet and savory as I do, it was perfect for my taste, though it is an 8 on a 1-to-10 pumpkin sweetness scale, so maybe not the best lasagne choice for those who prefer all savory things in their place. And free of sweet contrast.)

For the windowsill gardener: Herbs.

But of course. Thyme, rosemary, and sage will do well indoors during the winter, though even here in New England we still try to get that basil plant to produce more than one lone stem during the winter (warmth and light are key to this, of course, as basil requires full sun, which can be difficult to replicate indoors during winter - in New England - without a dedicated light source).

Find your windowsill herb assortment at your local farmers market (there should be one last market before the holiday this week, right?). If you aren't sure which markets are open this week, take a look at Local Harvest for listings all around the United States.

JR's favorite coffee: Barrington Coffee Roasters Organic Fair Trade Sumatra Aceh or New Harvest Coffee Roasters Sumatra Gayoland City Roast

Everyone has their favorite coffee, and Sumatra is definitely JR's. Both of these Sumatra coffees have a hint of chocolate, which gets our coffee vote every time. And at $11.25 to $11.50 for a 1-pound bag of whole beans (roughly 30 8-ounce cups of coffee on the low-end), it's a good way to start the day both on a budget and mindful of the people who grow the beans - as these coffees are fair trade.

Sutton Gourmet Paper cupcake liners:

A few months ago, I was contacted on Facebook by Natalie from Sutton Gourmet Paper. She sent along a photo of their very pretty cupcake liners along with the claim that they retain their color after baking. Fifty liners cost $3.95 (plus shipping, of course), so I ordered two packs - 100 liners - big spender that I am. The patterns are lovely, and the liners do live up to the promise of keeping their color. The baker in your life will be thrilled when he or she receives the liners, and even more so once that first batch of cupcakes is out of the oven and onto the cooling rack.

You'll have to order right away to have a chance of getting these by Christmas. You can also contact them about shipping times here, or call 877.601.BAKE to be sure you'll get your order. Or perhaps you can cut out a photo of the liners and place it in your IceMilk Aprons canning jar - that would be sweet!

If you live in my area and love wine: Gasbarro's Fine Wines' Table for Ten:

My family and I did the Table for Ten at Gasbarro's on Federal Hill in Providence for my fortieth birthday earlier this year. From the wine dorks (my brother Ben and me) to the less wine-obsessed (my mother and brother-in-law, for instance), everyone learned something and tasted a wide range of interesting wines.

Starting at $30 per person (the sky is the limit for you big spenders), and including snacks from the restaurant Pane e Vino next door, it's a fabulous, yet budget-friendly, night out. Mark Gasbarro perfectly balances education with time to socialize - wine is described, wine is poured, Mark walks away and lets you and yours chat amongst yourselves.

The wines we sampled ranged from Gavi ($16.99 for 750ml and purchased by nearly everyone in my family as an alternative to the ubiquitous Pinot Grigio) to Brunello ($74.99 for 750ml, yet still purchased by at least three family members). Oh, and Gasbarro's offers a 15% discount on wine purchased after the tasting, so the Gavi dropped to $14.44 and the Brunello to $63.75 - not that any of us will be buying Brunello every day, but if you have an upcoming occasion (say Valentine's Day? Or the Super Bowl?), and can get a discount after a night socializing with friends and family, why wouldn't you?

Of course, I do hope that you'll consider giving Poor Girl Gourmet: Eat in Style on a Bare-bones Budget this holiday season - for less than twenty bucks (did someone say "office gift swap" or "stocking stuffer"?), you get the occasional funny story and a whole lot of recipes to sample well into the new year.

*note: I have purchased all of these items with my very own money (including my book - you know, after those first few free copies were handed out to family), and think that they're worth it. Hence, I recommend them to you.

That Honey-Thyme Beet Soup I Was Telling You About

2010-12-15T13:43:00.013-05:00

Oh yeah. Remember that?

Things have been a little busy around here with the holiday, and book signings, and all, but I haven't forgotten this beet soup. In fact, I made it again this past weekend, and I love it even more than I did a month ago.

Has it been that long? Sheesh. I think it has.

Funny things happen over the course of a month. You might eat a warmly spiced pickled carrot in a salad at Eataly that makes you think your beets would be better pickled with cinnamon.

And you might tell an interviewer that if you were a dish, you'd be beet soup with pickled beets. (I'll leave this for you to decipher until the interview makes its way to the interwebs, and all is revealed).

And you might decide that pickled beets will make a splendid gift for your loved ones.

And you might hope that they, too, concur.

Even if they don't, they will be eating this beet soup on Christmas day. Leave out the butter (which is really a garnish), and it's vegan, which is handy, as I happen to know a beet-loving food writer whose sister is vegan. And even if your sister is not vegan, who can resist a soup so bold, yet meat-free?

Honey-Thyme Beet Soup with Beet Pickles and Honey-Thyme Butter:
Yield: (4) 1-cup servings

For the soup:
4 large beets (approximately 2 pounds, trimmed, peeled, and quartered)
3 stems fresh thyme or 1/4 teaspoon dried
2 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil
2 tablespoons honey

2 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil
1 medium sweet onion, such as Vidalia (approximately 3/4 pound), chopped coarsely
1/2 teaspoon fresh thyme or 1/4 teaspoon dried

2 cups vegetable stock
kosher salt
freshly ground black pepper

Pickles:
1 large beet, trimmed, peeled, and cut into 1/4-inch cubes
1 cup white wine vinegar
1 cup water
1/4 cup honey
1 cinnamon stick
1/2 teaspoon coriander seed
1/2 teaspoon black peppercorns
3 stems fresh thyme or 1/4 teaspoon dried

Honey-Thyme Butter:
1 stick unsalted butter, softened
1 tablespoon honey
1/2 teaspoon fresh thyme or 1/4 teaspoon dried

Garnish (optional):
whole walnuts, toasted at 350 degrees for 12-15 minutes

If you're wondering how you might schedule the preparation of these four components of the dish, everything but the walnuts can be made while the beets are roasting, otherwise, you can make the pickles up to a week in advance then store them in the refrigerator in an airtight container.

Likewise, the walnuts can be toasted a week in advance and stored in an airtight container (at room temperature), and the butter can be made a day or two in advance (and, yep, stored in an airtight container in your trusty fridge).

Preheat the oven to 375 degrees Fahrenheit. Grab a medium or large baking dish and enough foil to wrap the beets completely - we're steaming them a bit here, so we don't want any steam escaping, and we're going to add the liquid from this beet-roasting-slash-steaming process to the soup.

Toss the quartered beets with the olive oil, then transfer them to the foil-lined baking dish. Drizzle the honey over the beets, then nestle the thyme amongst the beets. Seal up the foil, and cook the beets for 55 minutes to 1 hour, until they are easily pierced with a fork.

In a large saucepan or stockpot, heat the olive oil over medium heat. Add the onion and thyme, and saute for 3 to 5 minutes, until the onion becomes translucent. Add the beets and the accumulated beet-honey juice from the baking dish, then pour in the vegetable stock. Bring the stock to a gentle simmer, cover, and cook for 20 minutes.

Allow the beet concoction to cool to room temperature, then process it in a food processor, blender, or with an immersion blender until the soup is smooth. Return the soup to the pot, season with salt and pepper, and warm to your desired serving temperature.

(this is the pickle part)
While the beets are roasting, let's make some pickles, shall we? Or, hey, let's make them a few days ahead of time, that sounds good, too.

Combine the vinegar, water, honey, cinnamon, coriander seed, peppercorns, thyme, and beet cubes in a medium saucepan. Bring the mixture to a low boil over medium-high heat, and boil until the beet cubes are easily pierced with a fork, 15 to 20 minutes.

Remove the pot from the heat, and allow the pickles to cool to room temperature. At this stage, you can transfer the beets and the pickling liquid to a storage container and refrigerate them if you're making them ahead of time.

If you'd like to can the pickles, you can go ahead and do that, filling the sterilized jars to within a quarter-inch of the rim with the pickling liquid, making certain that the mouths of the jars are clean before putting the lids on, and using a hot water bath to seal those jars of yours.

(now the butter part)
While the pickles boil away, let's make the butter. Mash the softened butter up with a fork, then pour in the honey, toss the thyme into the bowl, and get back to mashing until the honey and thyme are blended into the butter.

That was easy.

Remember to refrigerate the butter if you aren't using it right away. I know you know, but I just have to say it.

(and the walnuts - gotta toast the walnuts)
So, while the soup is being warmed to your desired serving temperature, go ahead and toast the walnuts at 350 degrees Fahrenheit until golden brown, 12 to 15 minutes. Allow the walnuts to cool slightly, then rub them between a kitchen towel to remove any loose walnut skin.

(now back to assembling and serving)
Now it's time to assemble. Ladle the soup into four individual bowls, add a dollop of butter, then place 6 or 8 beet pickle cubes around the butter to form a butter-beet pickle sun, toss a few walnuts over the magenta soup for contrast and crunch, and serve it forth.

This isn't as inexpensive as many of the dishes I share, given that there are a few preparations going on and some use of spices in the pickle mix. However, it's a new favorite, so I felt I had to share.

Estimated cost for 4 cups of beet soup with beet pickles and fancy butter: $12.87, with walnuts, approximately $13.74. The beets cost $2.49 per bunch (generally of 3 beets per bunch), so we'll spend $4.98 and end up with an extra beet. Maybe we should pickle it? Sure. Why not? There's enough liquid to do that. The olive oil for the dish costs 48-cents. The thyme costs $1.99 for a package of fresh at the grocery store. The honey costs around 25-cents per tablespoon, we're using 7 tablespoons, so that's $1.75. The onion costs around 75-cents. The veggie broth costs $2.39 for 4 cups if we're using Whole Foods 365 Everyday Value brand, so that's roughly $1.20 for the two cups we're using. The white wine vinegar costs approximately 75-cents. The cinnamon stick costs 47-cents or so. The pepper and coriander will cost us around 50-cents combined. So $3.22 per serving without walnuts, and $3.44 with. Still pretty good for earthy, sweet, colorful, nutty soup.

Egg Nog Cookies

2010-12-03T14:43:00.025-05:00

It seems that I quite often say something like, "if you've been reading along here for a while, you may have noticed that I can be a bit obsessive about (insert name of food here)." Recently, it occurred to me that to uncover this "secret" of mine, perhaps it's really not necessary to read along for a while, perhaps you only need to read along here once in a while (or have just one face-to-face encounter with good, ole, OCD me) to realize that, ah, yeah, girlfriend's a bit nutty about certain food items.

One such item is egg nog. I know, I know. This is strange to many people. I hear the eeeeewwwws and gaaaaaahs right through the internet, I do. And I'm not necessarily talking about homemade egg nog (though it is a delight, to be sure), which aids some egg nog revilers in looking past their usual derision of the nog.

No, pretty much any egg nog will do when I'm in obsessive mode, which, coincidentally, runs from the fourth Friday in November (well, maybe the fourth Saturday. I'm generally still embroiled in turkey-overload on the fourth Friday) through December 29th.

Why the 29th? Sure, the obsession could continue through New Year's Eve, but I thought I'd use 2009 as the benchmark for this particular fixation (the blog forcing me to keep records of these things as it does, and finding that holiday 2009 posting and my trusty recipe development notebook clearly indicated an egg nog infatuation). And, as it happened, my friend Artie sent me a recipe for his egg nog cookies on December 30, 2009.

I wanted to make them right away. Really, I did.

Remember, I am obsessed. And/or obsessive.

However (and please note that I am a lazy, pre-made egg nog purchaser), the dairy farm that sells exquisite egg nog at the Providence Wintertime Farmers Market was fresh out of nog, and this fact was made more painful (if there could be something more painful than a shortage of egg nog) by this cruel joke: As I approached, on that first Saturday after December 30, 2009, the farm's prominently displayed Bill of Goods still listed egg nog among their offerings. Available egg nog. And sadder still this trick became, as a crumpled napkin came out of the farmer's pocket to wipe away the dry-erase marker indicating its existence and availability, even as I spoke of the nog.

The script "Egg nog: $3.00/Qt." disappeared into the creases of his napkin, as I stood, forlorn, pointing and muttering something like, "But....buuuuuut...it says it...you haaaaave it...there."

Bill of Goods cleared of egg nog, I retreated, head slumped down, muttering still, this time at the ground.

As luck would have it, so, too, had it disappeared from the shelves of every grocery store within a 20 mile radius of my house (I'm obsessive, but I'm also a bit of a homebody, you know. Twenty miles around the pivot point of my house is the limit for grocery shopping excursions).

But the promise of soft egg nog cookies hadn't left my consciousness. Oh, no. It hadn't. So, on the fourth Saturday in November - 2010, of course - I dispatched myself to the grocery store in search of egg nog. And egg nog I shall have (and you shall, too, should you so desire it). All the way through December 29th (possibly even 30th or 31st if the nog despisers have assisted in keeping some on the shelves for us).

Artie's cookies are soft because that's the way he likes them. I know that this is the case because he worked on this recipe for a while before getting these cookies to come out exactly as he desired.

Another obsessive? How refreshing. It's so nice to not be alone in the world.

The cookies are a little cake-like, and somewhat deceptive - they seem at first simple of flavor, but then you find yourself wanting another, and realizing how well they go with coffee (dessert for breakfast? But of course.), then realizing how well they'd work with a bit of vanilla ice cream sandwiched between a pair.

Artie sprinkles his with grated nutmeg before baking, though I found I liked a crunch with these cookies, so I recommend a sprinkle of turbinado sugar (also known as Sugar in the Raw). Or you could work up a little egg nog glaze to top them off if glaze speaks to you.

Artie's Egg Nog Cookies:
Makes 3 1/2 to 4 dozen, contingent upon whether or not you are a dough eater

2 1/4 cups unbleached all-purpose flour
1 teaspoon baking powder
1 teaspoon ground nutmeg
1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1/4 teaspoon kosher salt

3/4 cup (1 and 1/2 sticks) unsalted butter, softened
3/4 cup (packed) brown sugar
1/2 cup granulated sugar
3/4 cup egg nog
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
2 large egg yolks

optional toppings:
grated nutmeg
turbinado sugar
egg nog glaze

Preheat the oven to 300 degrees Fahrenheit. Get that 10 by 15-inch rimmed baking sheet of yours out - or use your favorite cookie sheet. Line it with parchment paper, and set aside.

In a medium bowl, mix together the flour, baking powder, nutmeg, cinnamon, and salt.

In a large mixing bowl, combine the butter and sugars, and mix until the butter-sugar mixture is a light and fluffy consistency (also known as creamed). Add the egg nog and vanilla extract and mix until they are incorporated into the butter-sugar mixture, then add the egg yolks, and mix until they are just incorporated.

Add the dry ingredients to the buttery-egg noggy-sugary concoction, mixing on low speed if using a mixer, and mix just until the dry ingredients have been blended into the wet.

Scoop out a tablespoon of dough per cookie, and place it on the parchment-lined baking sheet. Place the dough mounds at least 1-inch apart from one another on the sheet, then sprinkle with nutmeg or turbinado sugar, place the cookies into the oven, and bake until the edges are golden brown, 20 to 22 minutes.

Allow the cookies to cool slightly on the baking sheet, then transfer them to a cooling rack. If continuing on to glaze, allow the cookies to cool completely before glazing, as the glaze will melt if applied to warm cookies (though it would give a good excuse to eat a cookie straight away. You know, to hide the evidence of imperfect toppings. We can't have imperfect toppings.). Just in case you don't have an eggnog glaze recipe, there's one right here.

The cookies will keep for up to 5 days if they're sealed away in an air-tight container.

Estimated cost for one batch of egg nog cookies: $4.05. The flour costs $4.49 for a bag containing 19 cups, therefore, the flour costs us 52-cents. The baking powder costs around 1 penny, the nutmeg is approximately 30-cents, and the cinnamon 15-cents. We don't count salt because it and pepper get a free pass in the math here (though it would be a fraction of a penny if counted, as it comes from a box of kosher salt that contains 1,133 1/4-teaspoons of salt and that box costs a mere $1.99). The dairy and sugar ingredients have gone up in price a touch this year, as I'm sure you bakers know, so the brown sugar costs us 45-cents, the granulated sugar costs 18-cents. Even the trusty Whole Foods 365 brand butter has gone up 50-cents per package, so 1 and 1/2 sticks now costs us $1.23 (it used to be $1.05), the egg nog is a veritable bargain, $3.99 for a half-gallon, so our 6-ounces cost 37-cents. The vanilla extract costs around 22-cents per teaspoon. The egg yolks should cost no more than 26-cents per egg, so 52-cents, and you can stash those egg whites away for future use (up to 6 months if frozen, no more than 2 days in the refrigerator), but we'll count the full expense of the eggs in case you haven't the storage space and/or the will to store. Less than 10-cents per cookie, even if you experience some loss due to (highly recommended against) dough eating.

You may be wondering what to do with the additional egg nog from our half gallon, and so was I.

So here's what happened: these cookies, and the desire to use up the remaining egg nog, begat these cupcakes (those ones. Down below there.). They need another test run or two, but they're so pretty - and so darned tasty - that I couldn't help but post a photo before the recipe hits the blog. Egg nog-hazelnut cupcakes with Nutella buttercream is what I'm talkin' about. Uh-huh. Figure 6 or 8 dozen into it, and we'll have all of our egg nog used up. I don't see this as a problem, either, mind you.

Let the Season of Nog begin.

Saving Money on Food During the Holidays and Beyond

2010-11-23T12:03:00.005-05:00

For those of you who don't live in the greater Boston-area, or who didn't have a chance to catch these money-saving tips on FOX 25 Boston this morning, here is video of Cindy Fitzgibbon and me discussing ways to save money on your holiday - and everyday - groceries.

Before we all head off to our respective kitchens to continue with our Thanksgiving preparations, here are a few other quick holiday tips that I wanted to share:

1.) Embrace the pot-luck - it cuts down on prep, stress, and cost.

2.) If you are embracing the pot-luck and you use disposable aluminum pans, take a look at your local party supply store (such as iParty). Two lasagne-sized pans are $4.99 at the local chain supermarket in my area, yet the same size pans are on sale for 44-cents - yes, CENTS - at the iParty near me. (pssst: don't forget to recycle.)

3.) Don't shun the box o' wine, or the BOX-O, as one of my dear friends has it coined. We'll be drinking Duca del Frassino Corvina-Cabernet and Duca del Frassino Garganega-Pinot Grigio this weekend (there will be more on both of these wines here, but not today, I'm afraid. Must get my pot-luck dishes started stat!).

At $18.99 (plus tax) per box - and there is the equivalent of four bottles contained within each box - our holiday wine spending has plunged significantly, and I'm pretty sure (no guarantee, though) that I'll have wine left over in those boxes - wine that will remain fresh for a couple of weeks beyond the holiday. All that for less than five buckaroos a bottle. And, as my friend who came up with BOX-O will tell you, if you didn't see the box, you would have no idea that the wine came from a box. The days of Franzia propping open our college apartment windows (to chill the wine, of course. Oh, and to let the cigarette smoke out.) are safely behind us now, and good-quality wine can be had in a box at significant savings.

If you aren't able to locate the Duca del Frassino boxes, ask your local wine merchant which boxes they stock that contain good-quality wine - there are quite a few options out there.

And with that, I'm headed back to the kitchen to start making my bargain stuffing. I hope that you have a wonderful holiday, that the day is relaxing and joyful, and that your table is full of your favorite foods, shared with your loved ones.

Dreaming of Beet Soup

2010-11-17T15:53:00.001-05:00

For real. I am. This soup is tres dreamy.

I'm in New York right now, but when I return home, we have to talk about this honey-thyme roasted beet soup with honey-thyme compound butter, pickled beets, and toasted walnuts. See what I'm saying?