Okay, I know you all could figure this out yourselves. It's just tea and honey, derr. But, sometimes I like hearing about simple stuff people make that I just never think of.
I love iced tea, but commercially sold stuff 1) has too much sugar for me, and who knows what kind of chemically crap, 2) has caffeine 3) is more expensive than making it at home, and 4) is heavy to lug up my stairs along with my cases of Diet Caffeine Free Coke (pretend I didn't just complain about chemically things, haha).
The biggest issues for me are the sugar and the caffeine. As previously stated, I think I might be a supertaster, which means I taste sweetness (in addition to bitterness) pretty strongly. I do like my tea to be sweet, but pre-packed versions are just TOO sweet. Also, I'm VERY sensitive to caffeine - more than one or two beverages and I start getting heart palpitations. Plus, it obviously interferes with sleep, and I'm a rough sleeper anyway. So, I make my own iced tea at home using different caffeine-free teas and honey. This is just one version, and I think it's my favorite
3 mint tea bags (I really like Trader Joe's Mint Melange)
2 lemon ginger tea bags (there are a bajillion versions, but I'm using Stash at the moment)
2-3 tbsp honey
2 liters water (or like, you know, however much fits in your pitcher)
1. Boil the water. Obvi.
2. Put about 2 tbsp of honey at the bottom of the pitcher. (Note - you can measure if you want, but measuring honey is a pain in the ass. Dipping the measuring spoon in vegetable oil first helps, but honestly, just eyeball it.)
3. Pour the boiling water into the pitcher and stir to combine with the honey.
4. Add the teabags and clip to the side of the pitcher with a chip clip or clothes pin (or a C-47, if you're trying to sneak it into your production budget). Let infuse for about 20 minutes.
5. Remove the teabags and discard. Add about another tbsp of honey, or however much you want, and stir to combine. Refrigerate until cool (will take a couple hours).
And that, my friends, is the super complicated haute thé recipe.
MEDIA PAIRING
My undergraduate professor, E. Patrick Johnson, discussing his book and one-man show, Sweet Tea: Black Gay Men of the South, in which he presents oral histories he collected over an extensive series of interviews. He also explains the significance of sweet tea, both the beverage and the term, in the South. Clips of the show included.
So, I really effing love gnocchi. They're little pillows of awesome. Unfortunately, I don't see them on menus all that often out here in LA - probably because there's not a lot of great Italian food in this city (someone - please prove me wrong!). In any case, I have to get my gnocchi fix at home, so here's one of my go-to recipes.
The regular caveat - I usually don't measure when I make this, but this time I did. This is the kind of thing that you really just have to feel as you go because there aren't that many ingredients. For example, different brands of parmesan make different tasting pesto, so you'll want to adjust proportions to your taste. Also, I normally just use however much basil I get out of one bunch and then adjust the other ingredients accordingly. Whatever, you're not morons. You can figure it out. This is how I made it today.
Note - this makes a bit more pesto than you'll need, so I usually just keep the remaining pesto in the fridge and add it to chicken or pasta for another meal. My godmother makes a big batch and freezes it in ice cube trays, and then she can just pop out a cube and add it to soups, sauces, etc. whenever she wants. I only have a mini food processor, so I only make a bit at a time, but if you have a full-sized one, it's worth making a bunch of pesto and freezing it or canning it.
INGREDIENTS:
1 bunch basil (usually yields about a loose cup) 2 cloves garlic 1/4 cup grated parmesan 3 tbsp pine nuts (or somewhere btw 1/8 cup and 1/4 cup - depends on your taste) 1/4 cup olive oil (give or take)
5 slices pancetta 3/4 cup heavy cream
1 pound gnocchi (or however much comes in the package you buy) (Note - I much prefer the frozen ones to the boxed dried ones, but either is fine. I used the dried ones today because I had a box in the cabinet.) Salt for boiling water
Special equipment - food processor
1. Start some water boiling for the gnocchi.
2. Wash and pat dry basil. Pick leaves and discard stems.
3. Give the garlic cloves a quick chop. Add basil, garlic, and about half of the olive oil to the food processor.
4. Pulse until roughly processed. Add parmesan and pine nuts. Pulse while slowly adding remaining olive oil. Consistency will be like wet sand. (Note - I leave the pesto this consistency for this recipe, since we'll be adding cream later. If you want to use the pesto on its own, you'll want to add more olive oil and maybe process a bit longer.)
5. Chop the pancetta - the easiest way is to roll all the slices together into a tube and then slice and chop.
6. On medium-high heat, brown the pancetta in until crispy. Add the gnocchi to the boiling water. (Note - if you want, you can reserve some of the crispy pancetta for garnishing later.)
7. Lower the heat on the skillet to low. Add about 2 heaping tbsp of the pesto to the pan. Add about half of the cream and continue to stir until slightly thickened. Slowly add remaining cream and continue to stir frequently for about 2 minutes.
8. By this time the gnocchi should be ready. Remove them from the water with a spider or slotted spoon and add them to the pesto sauce. Toss to coat.
9. Plate and garnish with chiffonade basil or reserved crispy pancetta.
10. Enjoy the eff out of this stuff.
MEDIA PAIRING
I couldn't decide, so there are 2.
1. Spice Girl Emma Bunton cooking gnocchi and setting things on fire on Gordon Ramsey's "The F Word."
2. This clip from "The Ronnie Johns Half Hour," an Australian sketch comedy show.
Aiken, South Carolina is one of the horsey capitals of the world, or at least of the Southeastern United States, especially if you're an eventer. I used to be an eventer, and therefore, I used to go to Aiken a lot: Sporting Days and later Paradise in February, Jumping Branch in March, Hopeland over Labor Day weekend (this is where I was when Princess Di died, Hopeland), Sporting Days again in November.
For a town its size, Aiken has a surprisingly vibrant restaurant scene - or it did the last time I was there, which was in 2001. There was this one Caribbean place that had the most amazing crab ravioli...I think that one went out of business, or at least I only remember being there once, the Year It Was Cold at Jumping Branch. Every visit, though, our barn would make it a point to stop by a little Greek/Italian place called the Acropolis, conveniently located across the street from our usual hotel. Despite the fact that we lived three hours away, the owner seemed to consider us regulars, since we tended to be there at least once every four months, and sometimes multiple times in a weekend.
Why the Acropolis? Why, because of the Greek pizza, of course.
Eventually, barn friend Amanda moved into my house (my parents moved out; long story) and we had an epiphany: we could recreate the Greek pizza from the Acropolis. Armed only with taste memories, we hit up the local Kroger. Repeatedly. Over the next few months, we tinkered with the Greek pizza, trying obsessively to get the exact version from the Acropolis. Finally, we nailed it...or so we thought. The next time we went to Aiken and ordered the pizza, we realized that our Greek pizza was nothing like the original.
That was about ten years ago. I've been making the Greek pizza ever since, tinkering endlessly with the recipe (because I can), and it never gets old. There are only two hard-and-fast rules: one, the pizza may only have vegetables (although, as we realized on our return visit to the Acropolis, the original is topped with gyro meat), and two, it requires ample amounts of feta cheese.
Look, if you ever find yourself in Aiken, you should totally go to the Acropolis and order the Greek pizza. However--and I'm not just saying this because I'm an egomaniac--my version is better. A few weeks ago, I posted a step-by-step guide to my new specialty pizza (roasted red pepper and goat cheese) on Facebook, and Amanda requested a similar treatment for the Greek pizza. So here's the classic version. I'll call it "The Classic."
I'll start off by saying that as long as you follow the Two Rules, the pizza will be delicious no matter what else you do to it. Seriously. But this is my recommended treatment. And since I've been doing this for ten years, I'm probably right.
1. You want a whole wheat crust. I use the recipe from the Joy of Cooking, but with 2 cups whole wheat flour and the rest white. You might want to prebake the crust for about five minutes.
You never, ever want to use marinara sauce on this pizza. (Although the Acropolis uses marinara.) For the Classic, I recommend spreading about two tablespoons of olive oil, then sprinkling with granulated garlic, granulated onion, pepper, oregano, and basil. Tasty and approved alternatives: Browse through the premade bruschetta-type spreads at the grocery store. Sundried tomato spread is always good - or you can use the excess oil from a regular jar of sundried tomatoes. Eggplant spread is good too.
2. Layer on your shredded mozzerella.
We initially didn't think the Acropolis version used mozzerella. Turns out we were wrong. This is the only significant adjustment I made after retrying their version.
3. You want a variety of appropriate vegetables.
Here we have (from blue bowl) roasted eggplant pulp, sliced mushrooms, sliced onions, roasted red peppers, sundried tomatoes, and artichoke hearts. Red onions make the pizza prettier, but normal yellow ones are fine. Not pictured: spinach, kalamata olives. I'll explain how to get the eggplant pulp in a bit.
4. You don't want to put all the vegetables on one pizza. Trust me, I've tried.
The Classic calls for mushrooms, onions, sundried tomatoes, artichoke hearts, and kalamata olives.
I have to leave mushrooms and olives off half of mine, because the weirdo boyfriend unit doesn't like them. He is a weirdo. THE ARTICHOKE HEARTS ARE NOT NEGOTIABLE. YOU MUST HAVE THE ARTICHOKE HEARTS.
5. Then you crumble excessive amounts of feta cheese over the top.
6. Bake according to pizza crust directions. Usually 10-12 minutes at 475.
You might notice that there aren't olives on this pizza. I thought I had some in the fridge. I was wrong. The next day, I remedied that situation. God bless kalamata olives in all their briny deliciousness.
My camera has this "close focus" feature, which I'm maybe enjoying a little too much.
Anyway, that's the Classic. But, as I said before, pretty much anything is delicious on this pizza. So here's another combination I like (same crust):
Roasted eggplant pulp, spinach, roasted red peppers, onion, and a little crumbled goat cheese in addition to the feta. (I had some in the fridge. I don't think you need it, though.)
To get the eggplant pulp, wash and dry your eggplant, then poke some holes in with a paring knife. Cut slivers of garlic out of your garlic cloves (you do have garlic cloves around all the time, right?) and wedge those into the holes. Put the eggplant in a pan and bake at 350 for an hour or so, until it collapses.
Let it cool off until you can handle safely. The skin should slip right off. Mash the eggplant "meat" and whatever garlic stays in it in a bowl, then move to a strainer and let the extra liquid drain off. (You can see this happening in the vegetable picture above.) You need about half an eggplant's worth for the pizza. Just put it on in little gobs.
I successfully turned the other half of my eggplant mush into pasta sauce last night with the addition of tomato paste, olive oil, white wine, various herbs and spices, and a touch of cream.
Media Pairing: Look, I call it the Greek pizza, but it's hardly authentic Greek food. So I'm not going to go with a Greek film. Toy Story 3 has been my favorite movie of the summer. Therefore, you get Pizza Planet trucks.
I’ve recently been trying to convince myself that I like Indian food. I’ve never been a fan, and I think that’s silly. There’s so much good Indian food out there, especially in LA, and it’s relatively cheap. I should be loving Indian food.
There are approximately 87 Indian restaurants within a one-mile radius of my apartment. They taunt me.
Every few months I get up the gumption to try Indian food anew. I get really excited about it. I ask friends for advice on what I should try. I am totally positive I am going to have an epiphany and love this shit. I WANT to love this shit. This never happens.
It’s not that I don’t like any Indian food. There are a few things I like very much. Samosas, obvi. Those things are mad-style tasty. I also tend to enjoy the stews, like lamb korma, etc. I could eat a metric ton of the various forms of naan and parathas. The desserts are awesome (even if I tend to find that if there are 6 desserts on the list, 5 of them will be some variation on starch-milk-cinnamon). I’ve also been known to dote upon the odd pakora or two.
However, in general, my tongue and my stomach just say no. My taste buds revolt once Indian food goes in my mouth. I think part of the problem is that I suspect that I may be one of these so-called “supertasters.” Basically, supertasters perceive bitter and sweet tastes more intensely than the average person. It’s genetic, and it’s related to the reasons why people like or hate cilantro or fennel (I hate both). Supertasters tend to prefer salty snacks, because the extra salt covers up the bitterness that exists in processed foods. Of course, maybe I’m not a supertaster and I just like potato chips. Whatever. All I know is I don’t like coriander (which is the seed of cilantro – other countries use the name “coriander” for both the seeds and the leaves), and I don’t like fennel seed. Both problems for Indian food. I also don’t enjoy curries all that much (I like some of the milder yellow curries). This seriously cuts down on my options. I can take these ingredients in small doses if there are other flavors surrounding them (for example, I like samosas even though there’s usually coriander inside, but there are lots of other notes and a nice buttery, starchy base). But, if there’s more than a bit, it’s all I can taste.
It’s not just the taste, either. It’s actually the smell that’s worse. If I smell Italian sausage cooking, I have to leave, because the smell of fennel seed literally nauseates me. My stomach doesn’t quite like the smell of curry or coriander either. So, I can’t really stand to be in an Indian restaurant, because even if I’m not eating these things, the place always SMELLS like these things, and it puts me off. So, if I get Indian food, I usually get takeout, which is, of course, not the best way to judge cuisine.
My biggest problem with the taste of Indian food (at least the Indian food I’ve tried, the “authenticity” of which I can’t really speak to) is that a lot of it tends to be lacking in base notes for me. All I taste are top notes (and many of them). I’m missing a brightness, a well-rounded attack on my palate. Again, I think it may be this “supertaster” thing – I overtaste the spices, and they dwarf the other flavors.
But, the other night I decided to try Indian food again. This time I went for Lawrence of India, because it got excellent reviews for its former location. I’m not very knowledgeable on the different regional cuisines of India, but this place is a southern Indian restaurant. They even serve beef, because the owners are from a Christian part of southern India (big crucifix on the wall, btw).
I was totally optimistic about Lawrence of India, if only for its hilarious name. I wanted nothing more than to love this place and have a new favorite takeout option. I ordered a bunch of things so I could take a broader survey and really give this stuff a chance.
I also wasted $25. The only thing that was good was the samosa. The lamb biryani was fine I guess. The keema naan was blander than bland and extraordinarily greasy. The pakora and the onion bhaji were DISGUSTING. How can you make fried vegetables and onions disgusting? They tasted rancid. The pakora didn’t look like any other pakora I’ve seen (not that I’m an expert). Instead of fried little pieces, it was like big globs of who-knows-what vegetable something, and it looked more like soggy tempura than pakora.
First of all, this place did itself absolutely no favors from the beginning. I ordered the food, and they told me 20 minutes. I walked in after 25 minutes, because I like to give them time to make it, but I don’t like to wait too long and have my food be cold. The food wasn’t ready, which, you know, fine. I waited at one of the tables. And waited. The owner brought me an iced tea, which was lovely. I’m thinking, okay, the dude is nice and this tea is delicious, so I’ll just be patient, and maybe the food will be worth it. 35 minutes after I ordered, the owner told me my food was ready. But when I got up there, it wasn’t my food, but some other dude’s. The owner asked what I ordered, so I told him, and he looked confused.
Then I saw a post-it with my order sitting on the desk, not having been entered into one of the order tickets. He quickly covered it up and told me my order was coming in two minutes. I asked, “Really two minutes, or fake two minutes?” He confidently responded, “Really two minutes.”
10 minutes later, he came over to me and said, “Okay, I lied.” “Yes,” I said. “I pretty much figured that out from the beginning.” Then he gave me some story about how everything was done except the keema naan, and that as the cook was finishing it, he accidentally flipped it into the garbage can. WTF? I just said, “Uhh, whatever, how much longer?” “I’ll check,” he says, “because I don’t want to lie to you.” How charming of him.
Finally they give me my food. 55 minutes after I ordered it. I didn’t get pissy. I just oozed disappointment. Like a parent shaming her child, not with yelling and punishment, but with the simple statement, “I’m disappointed in you.” The food did not do anything to restore my confidence in the possibilities of Indian cuisine.
I had such high hopes for you, Lawrence. You’ve let me down. How can I trust you in the future?
Let's count all the reasons why I am qualified to be a food blogger. I've been thinking of them.
1. I am a decent cook/better baker, admittedly mostly in the "my mom taught me how to do this" mold. Luckily, my mom is also a pretty decent cook.
2. I took a class called "Fandom, Participatory Culture, and Web 2.0" with Henry Jenkins.
3. Many people, both ones I know well and ones I don't, have asked me when I'm going to write "a book." This has been going on for years--the current answer is obviously "after I write this seminar paper, three book reports, this conference abstract, and a dissertation, then if all that gets finished, the book will be an adaptation of my dissertation and you probably won't want to read it anyway."
4. When I was in college, I wrote copy for an SEO marketing company. Most of it was advice: which online college degree is right for you, credit cards for people with bad credit, how to waterproof your basement, travel guides for places I'd never visited, other things I knew nothing about. The moral of the story is you maybe shouldn't trust websites. Also, I learned something about search engine optimization.
5. I used to work as a closed caption editor, and have probably captioned upwards of 40 hours of reality cooking programs.
Let's also count the reasons I am NOT qualified to be a food blogger:
1. I'm a decent cook, but not the most adventurous one. I don't, for instance, frequent fish markets or ethnic food stores (although since I live in L.A., the ethnic food section of my local Ralphs is pretty extensive).
2. Baking is science-y, and so I use recipes for that. Cooking is not all that science-y for me (I am not Wylie Dufresne). I rarely measure anything or write down measurements when I do. I'm a damn good eyeballer. But somehow, I don't think "Hey guys! Look at this awesome pasta sauce I estimated!" is going to make for a very compelling blog.
For instance, look at this tomato cream pasta sauce I estimated earlier this week! It was delicious. Emile the cookie jar approved. And clearly I remembered to take pictures. But I couldn't tell you how to recreate the exact experience.
So I'm going to try to write things down. I found an unused notebook and everything:
And I started writing down how I made what I made for dinner tonight. I give you...
Vegan Chili (or Vegetarian Chili)
Tonight's dinner was brought to you by the letters W, T, and F, and the rest of the phrase, "is in my pantry that I can cook relatively quickly?" It's also based on my mom's chili recipe, which I'm pretty sure isn't written down anywhere.
The answer included this stuff:
(Santa Nelson Mandela magnet is included not because of the World Cup, but because he is awesome.)
Like many other things that taste good, the chili begins with:
1 medium onion, diced 2 cloves garlic, diced being sauteed in 1 tablespoon olive oil (medium heat)
Then I added: 2 cups water 1/2 cup lentils, rinsed and picked over
Put the lid on the pot at an angle, and simmer on medium heat for about 15 minutes, or until the lentils are tender and have absorbed most of the liquid. Then add:
2 14.5 oz. cans diced tomatoes, undrained (preferably no salt added) 1 can corn, drained (again, preferably no salt added) 1 can kidney beans, rinsed and drained
Season to taste: oh, right, here's where I forgot to measure any of the spices. Well, we can guess.
1 tsp. chili powder - I think I started with this much. Added more later after tasting, again without measuring. I don't like a very spicy chili, mind. I recommend putting in a little, letting it cook for a bit, tasting the brothy part of the chili, and adding more if desired. 1 tbsp. granulated garlic (there is no such thing as too much garlic) 1 tsp. granulated onion 1/2 teaspoon parsley 1/2 teaspoon oregano Salt and pepper to taste
Reduce heat to low; cover and simmer for about 20 minutes.
It's vegan as-is, and probably fairly good for you. I, of course, am currently eating it with both sour cream and shredded cheddar cheese, which is less good for me.
In my house, the traditional accompaniment for chili is a grilled cheese sandwich. I would also be eating one of those right now...if I had sliced cheese. The chili is pretty good, actually. If you're not a fan of lentils, don't worry. They're actually working as a good meat substitute here - a little extra bite along with the kidney beans, and more satisfying than that time a few months ago when I tried to replace the meat in my chili with cubed firm tofu.
The really nice thing here, though, is how easy it will be to clean up after this. One pot and lid. A can opener. One measuring cup (for the lentils) and one strainer (for the lentils, corn, and kidney beans). One big spoon for stirring/serving and one little spoon for tasting. One knife and cutting board for the onions. One garlic press. One rubber band to put around the bag of lentils. I like easy cleanup.
Edited to add the media pairing: Since the notebook I happened to find is Office branded, I give you Kevin's famous chili from the episode "Casual Friday."
Ahh, summer. How do I ever justify baking in this season of nectar? Strawberries, drupe-fruits of all shapes and sizes (Rainier cherries and nectarines being my favorites), watermelon... summer is the time of year you can pluck and eat globes of sweet joy, gustatory jewels of the good earth, warmed by the sun... as far as I'm concerned. Are my birkenstocks showing? Ah, well. Vitamin D overdose, maybe.
So, though I'd encountered many a canned exotic fruit on aisle 9 of this 99 Ranch Market and that — canned toddy palm, coconut sport, taro halo halo jello, ad infinitum, I've never really fallen for an exotic fruit. Papaya smells like vomit. Durian? The stink is legendary. Not a taste I have yet acquired. This is what I carry in my purse in lieu of pepper spray. Dragonfruit? Pretty, but not really much going on in terms of flavor. Jicama's flashy sister.
But yesterday at 99 Ranch in Van Nuys, the Jackfruit display enveigled me, led me by the nose... a scent as sweet and arresting as a Moscato wine, and then I saw its correspondingly bold visual presence.
It's all "KABAM WHAT UP BOO I'M A PILE OF JACKFRUIT! I COULD KILL YOU IF I HAD A FEW FLOORS ON YA, HOLLAH."
I admit, I only bought some because they had cellophaned quarters for sale (see there at the bottom?), and they looked and smelled very, very yummy.
Cut to the chase — this is a seasonal option you won't find year round, and a treat you'll be happy you tracked down. If you live in the greater LA area or any other metro area with a big enough Asian population, check the Asian market out.
The fruit is huge, leathery, almost spiky like its cousin, the durian, but like nothing so much as a triceratops testacle. Nubby. Reptilian. Cretaceous. Inside there's a sweet-smelling, sticky, stringy weblike structure of cells, akin to the spongy and papery one you'll find in a pomegranate. Where the arils of pomegranate would be, jackfruit has large, yellow-orange corn-kernel shaped fruits, with pits in their centers. Did I mention the stickiness? This isn't juice, it's sap. It's hard to wash off your fingers and lips, but I doubt you'll mind.
The fruit is firm in texture, like a mango or an unripe banana. A very pleasurable texture to munch. The flavor has notes of muscat, banana, pineapple, mango, and Handsome Consort insists, like the durian, onion. Honestly I didn't notice that. I'd call that lower, caramel note bananalike.
Here's a charming video explaining how to prepare and eat one, in case I've been unconvincing or obtuse. I urge you to make this the summer of jackfruit! Sit on the front steps and try the thai treat that will give you a sticky grin you may not have had since the popsicle years.
A few days ago I realized that I own a cookbook and had never tried any of the recipies. The boyfriend unit's mother's birthday is soon, and since none of them cook or bake at all (until they met me, I'm not sure they had ever heard of frosting that didn't come from a can) I thought I'd look through the book for something she might like. It's since been decided that I should just go with the cake mix for the party - she likes cakes from cake mixes - but I did find a recipe for almond brown sugar pound cake. "Self," I thought to myself, "you must make this cake." Myself and I had to wait a day, because we did not have several of the ingredients in question. Nor, shockingly, did we own a Bundt pan or a flour sifter. I have since remedied that situation. Have I mentioned that I live within walking distance of a Bed, Bath, and Beyond? It's potentially dangerous.
You know what else is dangerous? This cake. It's really, really, really not good for you.
Anyway, the cookbook in question is Jill O'Connor's Sticky, Chewy, Messy, Gooey. She's graced the pound cake with a very stupid official name, falling prey to a terrible pun involving brown sugar and Mick Jagger. And despite the fact that this blog title is itself a horrible pun, I feel that the pound cake recipe is so good that it does not deserve said punning title, and I will not repeat it here.
If you use a Bundt pan, you'll get this:
Pardon my coffee pot and my bananas.
So, the "almond" part of this pound cake comes in the form of almond flour (in addition to almond extract). I found almond flour at Whole Foods. It is not a cheap substance, which makes the cake a bit pricey as well. Also, I assume that not everyone lives conveniently close to a Whole Foods or similar store. For this reason, I have googled "how to make almond flour." The consensus seems to be that one puts whole almonds (blanched or unblanched) into a blender/food processor and grinds them until they resemble flour, being sure to stop blending before they turn into almond butter. However, I haven't tried doing this yet. Considering the price of almonds and the possible annoyance, you may just want to look for the flour. I used Bob's Red Mill brand (because that's what there was). I liked it.
The recipe: 2 cups all-purpose flour (sift, then measure) 1 1/4 cups almond flour 1 teaspoon baking powder 1/2 teaspoon salt >> Sift these things together in a bowl, then set aside.
In a large bowl, and with electric mixer on medium speed, cream: 1 1/2 cups (3 sticks) unsalted butter, softened 8 oz (one package) cream cheese, softened Then gradually beat in: 2 cups firmly packed light brown sugar 1 cup sifted confectioner's sugar 1 tablespoon vanilla extract 1 teaspoon almond extract
Once all that is creamed, add 6 eggs - at room temperature - one at a time.
Fold in the flour mixture BY HAND, using a rubber spatula or a very large whisk. (I tried this with a smallish whisk because my big whisk was dirty. Use a big whisk.)
Pour batter into a greased pan: Bundt, 10-inch tube, or two regular-size loaf pans. Bake in preheated 350-degree oven. The recipe says that this will take 75-90 minutes, but my Bundt cake was perfectly done at 75 and my oven isn't fast. So I'd recommend checking at 65 minutes or even before. The usual toothpick test applies.
When the cake comes out of the oven, put it on a rack while you make the brown sugar glaze. Put aluminum foil under the rack; you'll want it there later.
While the cake is cooling, make the brown sugar glaze: 4 tablespoons butter 1/2 cup water 1 cup firmly packed light brown sugar Combine these in a saucepan over low heat and cook until melted. Increase the heat to medium high and bring to a boil. Boil until the glaze is thick and syrupy. (Recipe says this will take five minutes; it took me closer to twenty. But maybe I just like a really thick glaze.)
Unmold the cake onto the wire rack. (It should still be warm.) If you like, poke some holes in the cake with a skewer, so that the glaze may pool deliciously therein. Drizzle your warm glaze over the cake. The recipe says to let it cool completely, and I suppose you should, but let's be honest: this cake is better warm. Therefore, I recommend cutting into it before it's completely cool. Or just microwave for 30 seconds. That works too.
The next time I make this, I plan to sprinkle sliced almonds over the glaze while it's still warm, both for decorative effect and because I think the added crunch would be lovely.
Be careful, because this cake will attract small, sneaky dogs.
And here's what it looks like when you cut into it. It's very dense and rich.
Media pairing: It's a rather classy, sophisticated sort of pound cake. The almond makes it seem a bit more upscale than you'd get at the Tupperware party. Therefore, I recommend a nice 1950s melodrama - Minnelli's Tea and Sympathy, or perhaps something by Douglas Sirk.
So what's next? I'm thinking maybe the mocha hazelnut trifle with Kahlua whipped cream...
I recently came across a great food blog while Googling a recipe for scallion pancakes - My Kitchen Snippets. (http://www.mykitchensnippets.com/). The blogger is originally from Malaysia, so she makes a lot of Southeast Asian food, but she also makes plain-old American-as-apple-pie recipes. She's just this woman who's like, oh hai, I just like to cook a lot. And then she'll post a recipe and be all, oh I just had some stuff left over so I made this awesome food. If I've got leftover ingredients, or I'm looking for a specific recipe, I just search her blog for inspiration. Love her!
So, for the family supper to celebrate my baby brother coming of age, I decided to give him a dose of mocha unadviseable for minors. Baptism by bittersweet. The cake is Ina Garten’s "Beatty's Chocolate Cake," which is deeeeeeply chocolatey, enriched with a cup of coffee, and the icing is a simple mocha ganache. Really, this is a sinfully simple combination and it delivers astounding decadence in flavor.
I mean seriously. Ganache? Do you know about ganache? Okay, who invented ganache? GOD. Ganache is from GOD. French God. DIEU. It’s food! It counts as food! Now, that’s a miracle. You put chocolate and cream together and that’s a RECIPE? Get out of here. There’s the door, you raving harridan. Bewitch me not with your florid lies. Ah, but it’s true, so true. Heat cream to near boiling, and pour over chopped chocolate, whisk until combined and you have the perfect chocolate glop, imo. Good as icing, filling, umm… marital aid… ganache can do it all. This ganache was mochafied with an eyeballed shake-in of instant coffee, added to the heated cream. I found some recipes that advised espresso powder, but I thought that might be a little more bitter, though mellower. Anyway, I went with the coffee crystals. I think they deliver a reliable coffee flavor, something I take to be the platonic ideal of coffee taste.
HOW YOU MAKE AMAZING:
Greasing the pans for the cake. I asked Handsome Consort, “does the fact that I naturally put a baggie on my hand to grease a pan show my white trash?” but he seemed to think it was admirable American ingenuity. Wait till I show him how you can jack up a car with a cinder block, and give a hungry baby kool-aid.
The parchment paper thing. Alton Brown clued me into this, or at least I’ll credit him for broadcasting it. I think I would have figured it out myself. But it works like a charm. Fold and cut and unfold and no freehand circle-drawing ability fantasies will you watch deflate and die.
About then, my refrigerator door plum fell clean off. Uh, that’s an emergency. Funny how important doors are. Like fences in that poem. Fences : Neighbors :: Doors : Food. Fortunately, we have pretty wicked gender modes going today, so Handsome Consort fixed down on the floor while I stood barefoot in the kitchen baking a cake and trying not to furrow my brow, lest I wrinkle.
The cake recipe is one published by Ina Garten, the cookbook maven I most trust on this kind of classic dish. Alton’s recipes can be a little meh. That his food’s resulting mediocrity originates in a prime-time show with an informatics bent, that endows audiences of both genders with knowledge on activities they are not necessarily compelled to practice is proof to me that Alton acolytes may also be phonies and should be tested in the kitchen properly, subjected to gustatory scrutiny. But anyway. I made the batter, no problem, and I did think it rather thin looking. Oil, and a whole cup of buttermilk and coffee each, to only 1.75 C of flour and .75 of cocoa. But I assumed it would rise a lot. Yep!
I took the cake out, evened one out and tasted the skin I’d shaved off it and was VERY happy. Fudgy flavor but light, rich texture. Like a brownie, in space. Depressurized. The edges were the slightest bit crisp in the most wonderful caramelized sugar way.
For the filling, I heaped the ganche high so it would remain a thick layer, and help the cake be level. Piled it high and then pressed it out a bit with the second layer.
Slice and toast some almonds. Kidding. But yeah, toast them in a cast iron pan, lots of stirring, some will burn if you are not pure of heart. So pray and stir.
Pressing the almonds onto the sides of the cake was a giant pain in the ass; I'm not gonna lie. And the top is indeed rimmed with chocolate covered espresso beans. VIOLA.
As for a media pairing, it’s got to be Oliver! Also known as “The Boys Eating Movie,” to my brother when he was about four. Watch the clip and you can see why a little blond boychik would be dazzled by it. And this paean to the deliciousness of food in the hungry imagination seems an auspicious beginning to our foodie-filmie fête.
Top Chef is back. Hooray! Except that as usual, there's too damn much going on in the first episode. 17 chefs? Really? And you send home the most easily distinguishable one? Sigh.
Thoughts on the episode: Usually I want to try all the food, but with so many chefs, I instantly forgot what almost all of the food was before they'd even moved on to the next group. Angelo seems like a douche. Instant dislike. Yay, more Eric Ripert! Instant like. Yay, no one said the words "Glad family of products"! I suspect Padma and Gail are being sponsored by Cleavage 'R' Us. (Loved Padma's dress at the elimination challenge, but things were distracting up top.)
I do want to make a couple of comparisons to last year's initial episode. It was pretty clear that Kevin, Jen, Michael, and Bryan were the chefs to beat after the first elimination challenge of Top Chef 6 (hell, it was pretty clear after the first quickfire). This episode was slightly less obvious, although they seem to have included the usual cannon fodder of self-trained caterer and needy, whimpering little man (Stephen of the "your ribeye looks like a chicken nugget" rubbed me the wrong way).
However, I think we may be off to a more culinarily diverse season. Now, granted, the first Quickfire wasn't set up to allow it--but we had SEVENTEEN chefs in the elimination challenge and NO ONE made scallops or ceviche. The first episode of last season? 16 minutes to a ceviche, 24 to requesting scallops at the Whole Foods seafood counter. Yes, I timed it.
Food pairing for this episode: I'm feeling sickly today. Dry whole wheat toast and V8 peach/mango juice.
(Puntastic post title courtesy of Molly. Blog title is my fault.)
So, we are graduate students who like to eat. This blog will make more public the things that we hint about in Facebook status updates. We're also media studies folks, so it's likely that that will surface from time to time as well.
Personally, I envision: recipes (original and reviews of ones we find and make), restaurant reviews, product reviews...or we never update at all.
