Vanilla Garlic

Clove a Cold, Feed a Fever

2009-11-21T20:41:00.000-08:00

(I'm writing this in bed with a cold. I'm awake and needed to do something productive. If it gets a bit incoherent, well, you know why. I'm doing my best just to stay conscious as I read over this.)

I didn't quite expect that sucking on cloves would make my mouth go a bit numb but there it is. Still, my cough was gone and my nose wasn't flushing like the storm drains outside.

After attempting to push through the day at work I was sent home after having sweat right through a t-shirt and sweater due to fever. Over the past few days when I was coming down with it I had become a bit of a pariah as people began to shoo me away from their desks and paint lamb's blood over their office doors in an attempt to ward away my sickness. Taking the hint I packed myself up and took off much to the relief of everyone else.

In order to help speed up my recovery I decided to swing by the market for a bit of food. A firm believer in "Feed a cold, feed a fever" (I find no reason to starve either, unless you're throwing up) I decided a bit of nourishment might be in order.

I meandered around the market trying to get in and out as fast as possible. A fresh chicken to roast and then later break down into stock for chicken soup and, more importantly, curry - curry being my go-to sicky food. A bag of tangerines (water and vitamin C), some hummus and pita bread (something to nibble while watching bad movies in bed), and some decaf chai tea (to keep me hydrated and focused).

Now of course, this doesn't explain why I was anesthetizing my lower jaw. I've always been willing to try more natural means of healing myself; I'm a preacher of honey for chapped lips and believe gargling salt water is the cure all for sore throats. Now the other day I had been informed that cloves had incredible antifungal, antiviral, antibiotic, and anesthetic properties. Doing a bit of research I found that indeed clove oil was a main ingredient in most dental anesthetics and sinus related medications. Often home remedies argue for making tea with cloves, roasting them and then chewing them, or sucking on them in order to help with coughs, runny noses, or even toothaches.

Since I was already going a bit out of my way in order to feed my fever, I figured that I might as well try to feed my cough as well. Digging through my spice drawer I pulled out an ancient jar of cloves and plucked one out. I opened my mouth and snugly placed it between my gum and cheek and anxiously awaited for results.

About seven minutes later my nose had stopped running and my cough was gone. I was dizzy with amazement, or fever, but either way I was impressed and a little off balance.

Ten minutes later I lost feeling in my lower right jaw. Those anesthetic properties of cloves? Yeah, you'd be surprised how effective they over over prolonged exposure. The inside of my right cheek and gums were now completely numb, feeling cottony to touch and lazy to respond. But at least my breath was aromatic and spicy. I was a germ packed aromatic welcome wagon of the holidays - like a spice scented candle in a public bathroom.

This is not to say I wasn't still pleased with the results. For the first time in two days I could breath through my nose without sounding like a truck downshifting on a highway. Furthermore, this anesthetic side effect could prove useful someday.

I went and grabbed one of the tangerines from the bag and plopped myself on the couch like a sack of old laundry. Burying myself in blankets and two cats eager for attention I turned on a rerun of Kill Bill and began the healing process. As I bit into my tangerine, I tasted bright citrusy flavors. And cloves.

Huh.

Later my roast chicken also tasted like cloves. My hummus? Delightfully spicy with a slight hint of cloves. Pita bread? Cloves. Chai tea? Oh, you bet it tasted like cloves. My breath smelled like so much cloves you'd think I was at a goth club all night smoking them while wearing too much black eyeliner.

So, cloves for sickness. My final word? Go for it. It works. Just learn to deal with the side effects in stride.

Crapload of Cranberries

2009-11-18T07:00:00.000-08:00

-Cranberries, ginger, orange, and shortbread. It's normal for you to be a little aroused by that.-

"I'm sorry, how many cranberries do you have?" I asked having been caught off guard and needing to make sure.

"A crapload," Kristy, my classmate, responded flatly.

"You have a crapload of cranberries?" I was amused at the meter and alliteration of her statement, and yet disgusted by the mental image in my head. "That's... lovely."

"So what can I do with them?"

"Uhh..." she had caught me in the middle of an argument between my various inner voices as we/I debated our/my schedule and how all final papers and assignments would be time budgeted. I silenced them all down as quickly as I could and began to stumble out what seemed to be a cohesive response. "Uh, well... let's see. Um, what kind of recipe are you looking for? I guess, I have a great one for cranberry sorbet."

She gave a frustrated sigh. "I don't have an ice cream maker. Not all of us cook like you do. I need something quick and easy - preferably dessert - that I can slap together a few times over the next few months. My dad brought me like three bags of the things and I dunno what to do with them." As she said all this her hands gesticulated so erratically I wondered if she might accidentally slap some poor passerby unconscious.

"Hmm, well it is a bit early for cranberry sauce I assume?"

"Yeah, and honestly I'm not a huge fan as the canned stuff turned me off as a child," she said, her face contorting into a sneer as her tongue slithered out in an show of disgust.

"Let me get back to you on that, I'll see I can figure out something easy." She thanked me and as she went to her desk and I went back all the different aspects of brain voiced their opinions in heated debate once more.

You could have given her the cranberry cake recipe! Who uses the word crapload? Why would someone not have an ice cream maker? That's a stupid question! I want to do something new! Who has the time? I wonder what would happen if she actually had slapped someone?

And so on. Eventually we/I came to the decision to make some cranberry shortbread bars.

I had tried one or two recipes in the past and found them to be somewhat disappointing as most tasted like soggy pie dough with overly sweetened cranberry sauce sloped over it. Joy of Baking's recipe, whose shortbread base I found inspiring due to the dumplette-like use of it on top of the cranberries adorable and for it's tender texture and old-fashioned flavor, was where I decided to start in developing a new cranberry bar. I took the basic cranberry filling recipe, the same for most any cranberry bar, and then decided to perk it up a bunch.

This filling is a small dose of brown sugar to make the flavor a little darker. An insane amount of grated ginger and the zest of an orange are added to add personality. The result is a cranberry bar that's enticing; one that wears a slinky red dress and beguiles your senses in spicy, citrusy smells.

The next day I brought over the cranberry bars to her desk.

"OMG!" because she doesn't say "Oh, my God," "These are so good! Is there ginger in this?"

"Yeps. I also threw in some orange a pinch of cinnamon and some vanilla too because, you know, why the hell not, right?" I shrugged and smiled. "So these work? Supe easy to throw together and it'll use up your cranberries. Though you will need to pick up some fresh ginger and oranges."

"I'll just throw in some ground ginger and toss in spoonful or orange juice. I have the rest I think."

My brain sighed just a little and I almost said something about her suggested substitutions but decided to leave it alone. More than likely I would choose to do the same if it came to it.

"So when can I get the recipe?"

"Just check my blog in a few days."

And so, here it is.

-All the voices in your head will agree that this cranberry bar is awesome. However, the cranberry bar is unable to make them shut up about it.-

Ginger Cranberry Bars
Makes one 8X8 pan - adapted from Joy of Baking

Cranberry Filling
2 1/2 cups of cranberries
1/3 cup + 3 tablespoons of sugar
2 tablespoons of brown sugar
1 tablespoon of freshly grated ginger
1 tablespoon of orange zest
3 tablespoons of water
1 teaspoon of vanilla extract

Shortbread Mixture
2 cups of flour
2 tablespoons of cornstarch
pinch of salt
1 teaspoon of ground ginger
1 cup of butter
1/3 cup of brown sugar

1. Preheat the oven to 350F and lightly grease an 8X8 (or 9x9) inch pan with butter or cooking spray.

2. Place cranberries, sugar, brown sugar, ginger, orange zest, water, and vanilla extract in a 2 quart saucepan and place over medium-high heat. Bring to a boil and boil for 5 minutes until it becomes reduced and syrupy. Be sure to give the mixture a stir once in a while to ensure the mixture does not burn; be gentle though as you don't want to break the berries but keep them whole. Take off heat and allow to cool.

3. Sift together in a separate bowl the flour, cornstarch, salt, and ginger.

4. In an electric mixer cream the butter with the brown sugar and vanilla. Slowly add in the flour mixture until just incorporated.

5. Press two-thirds of the dough into the prepared pan. Then evenly spread the cranberry filling, leaving 1/4 inch of space on the sides. Crumble the remaining dough over the top. Bake for 30 minutes or until top begins to brown around the edges. Cool on a wire rack, then cut and serve.

-This is what a crapload of cranberries looks like in bar cookie form.-

Tastes Like Way Back When

2009-11-14T16:33:00.000-08:00

-This is a ride on the way-back machine for me.-

"I really, really, really need a slice of that right now! Ok, who am I kidding? I could eat half at this very moment!"

This was the response that the recipe you see above elicited from my blogging buddy, Matt, after he had edited the image for me. It is a common and expected response when it comes to Oreo cream pie. One taste is all it takes before you become willing to submit yourself to the weeks it will take to jog a slice of this off year after year.

My mom clipped this recipe from the back of a box of Oreo cookies back in 1970. The retro tablecloth peeking out above, the positioning of the pie, its perfect rim of crust and piped whipped cream just jive right with me. It's a pie that tastes like listening to The Kinks belt out "Lola" over the radio. It tastes like watching the flow and ebb of neon orange blobs in a lava lamp. It tastes like nights up late lying on the floor gossiping with friends. It tastes like laughing till you cry at a dirty joke with your family around the dinner table.

-A more updated photo of this groovy pie.-

For me this pie is about as seasonal as you can get. It can only be served during the coldest days with coffee strong enough to strip your floors. If you happen to have a tree twinkling with tinsel and an aluminum star in the background too, even better. This pie is more than just tradition for me - it's memory suspended in thick cream and marshmallow. Nostalgia in an Oreo cookie crust.

I recently called and asked my mom if she would send me a copy of the recipe. She scanned it in and E-mailed it over to me within the hour, along with a reminder not to add the whipped cream and cookies to the top until moments before I serve it. After getting over how trippy it was that she scanned me an image of a recipe clipping from nearly 40 years ago I went to the store to get the supplies.

This pie is about as simple as it comes: butter, milk, cream, Oreo cookies and marshmallows. A dessert with enough fat and sugar that a diabetic will explode upon contact with it. I switched out the margarine for butter and added a smidge of vanilla to update it a bit (remember that in the 70's America thought margarine was going to save us all?). Overall though it's the same pie as ever. Simple and delicious; and one that mom, Matt, and I'm sure Lola, would approve of.

Oreo Cream Pie
Makes one 9-inch pie

41 Oreo cookie
1/4 cup of butter, melted
24 marshmallows
1/2 cup of milk
1 1/2 cups of heavy cream
1 teaspoon of vanilla extract

1. Roughly chop 10 of the Oreos and set them aside. In a food processor or using a rolling pin finely grind the remaining Oreo cookies into a sandy consistency. Mix ground Oreos with the butter and press into the bottom and sides of a 9 inch pie plate. Place in the fridge to chill.

2. In a 2 quart sauce pan place the marshmallows and milk. Place over medium heat and mix with a spatula until melted and smooth. Do not leave unattended as mixture can easily scorch. Take off heat.

3. Whisk the heavy whipping cream and vanilla together until it forms stiff peaks. Fold 2 cups of the whipped cream into the marshmallow mixture. Fold in the chopped Oreos. Spoon into the chilled pie crust. Chill for 4 hours. Pipe on remaining whipped cream and add extra Oreos for garnish if desired before serving.

-It's a pie that walks like a woman and talks like a man.-

Racial Slurs and Citrus

2009-11-12T12:00:00.000-08:00

In North America it's generally considered ignorant, offensive, and inappropriate (hell, downright racist) to call Brazil nuts by their colloquial nickname "nigger toes." The first time someone brought it up to me I was shocked and appalled. Who on earth would say such a thing?! Indeed, I believe the first time I ever heard this word pronounced out loud was in pejorative slang for these otherwise tasty nuts.

The term is for the most part all but forgotten. A closed chapter in North American foodie history, and relegated to be forgotten in the assumption that racism is extinct (but lo' how sadly untrue it is). Still, for this reason I am surprised to find that we still refer to a certain ingredient so nonchalantly. We mention it over the table and in the store without care or reference. Indeed I've developed a cupcake around it - said the word boldly without any any sort of retribution or consideration.

I speak of Kaffir limes.

First, you have to understand that in many countries, the term kaffir is equivalent to the word nigger. They are, on an international translational and dialectical level, interchangeable. Indeed, within parts of African and Asia, the limes are called "K-limes." Even the Oxford Companion to Food suggests that it should be referred to as the makruk (or makrud) lime.

What does Kaffir mean exactly?

Kaffir was used in reference to native southern Africans and utilized by Indians and ex-Pat whites living in parts of India, Africa, and Southern Asia. The term originated from the Arabic word kafir which means "ingrate" or "infidel" or "unbeliever" and was used to refer to people who did not believe in God or Muhammad as the prophet. Obviously, it was a derogatory term that eventually moved across cultures and gained new meaning.

The term eventually was used within apartheid Africa and India where it referred to the native black people or those who had displaced by the slave trade. The kaffirs were considered dirty, uneducated, and ugly; people to be considered less than human compared to other classes and races.

Much like the Brazil nuts, racially nicked named "nigger toes" due to their dark color and unappealing appearance when in the shell, the kaffir lime is similarly named to reflect attitudes towards a certain group of people. Kaffir limes are bulgy, mottled, and not as pretty as the smooth and glossy skins of other varieties of lime such as the silver or Persian lime. From this was born the reference to the less pleasant appearing lime as the "Kaffir lime."

Ironically, the makrut lime (as we shall refer it for the rest of this post) is a surprisingly diverse and multipurposed fruit. The fruit is often used for its medicinal qualities in stopping infection and cleaning wounds. The oil from its skin acts as a natural insecticide. The double leaves are used as a spice in African, Indonesian, Thai, and Malaysian cooking. It is, needless to say, a diverse and talented plant that produces makrut limes and leaves. In fact in Indonesia the fruit is referred to as the jeruk obat or "medicine citrus."

So we are left with a decision to make, both as individuals and as a food community as a whole. How do we refer to this fruit, leaf, and flavor? Given, most people in North America (and maybe Europe? I don't know...) have no idea about the history of the word kaffir. However, I doubt anyone will know what I'm talking about if I go to Whole Foods and ask for some makrut lime leaves. Is it my place to preach, or should I just simply lay back and accept it? From Brazil nuts to now makrut limes, where do we draw lines from acceptance to education, from offensive to absent mindedness and lack of information? Now that the word and leaf itself are such a part of food dialogue, can it ever be changed?

Honestly, I feel that at this point in time, trying to shift everything over to calling it a makrud lime is impossible. However, relaying the information and history of the fruit's nomenclature is not. Indeed the education should be encouraged.

I would love to hear comments and further dialogue from readers about this topic so please feel free to leave your opinion in the comments or shoot me an e-mail.

A Note: I am using the "N-word" in whole to simply make my point. By refering to the word as "N-word" the impact of the offense of the word Kaffir in comparison would be lessened, and therefore use of the word "nigger" gives more meaning to the argument. Furthermore, fear and societal repudiation of a word in itself only gives the word more power over our linguistic freedom and empowers the word's meaning.

Photo Copyright © 2005 David Monniaux

Crusty Bastard, Perfect Pie

2009-11-09T19:43:00.000-08:00

-Pear, maple, ginger pie in a buttery, flaky, pie crust. Totally swoon inducing.-

Pie crusts are bastards.

They're persnickety. Wishy-washy. Temperamental. Most of all pie crusts are a natural curiosity. How can something as simple as butter, flour, a sprinkle of sugar and salt, and some cold water go so incredibly wrong?

My history with pie crust is a tumultuous one, a long haul over unfriendly terrain where many times I've left stranded in the middle of nowhere, arms raised to the heavens and screaming to the gods in frustration about how once again perfect pie crust had eluded me.

My first ever pie crust was mush. It lay apathetically under rhubarb and berries and when moved became like a petulant child going limp when you tried to pick it up. Once it was in your mouth it aggressively stuck to the roof of your mouth in protest. Warm hands, hot water, and no chilling in the fridge had ensured it would be crust most contentious.

My second, third, fourth, and even fifth weren't soggy but rather sheetrock-like. I can't really say that one was actually worse than the other but only because no matter how you slice it the three others were identical to it. Though I do believe that at one point when I tried to cut thought the crust of the third, a cherry pie if I recall, that when my fork finally punched through it it sent one piece flying across the room splattering red juices across my white wall and couch. This was fighting crust. A bastard of a crust.

However - unlike with violin lessons I took as a child - I did not give up. This last weekend I decided I would make pie crust. Again. I had watched Elise make it plenty of times before. I didn't have a fancy-shmancy food processor to do the work for me, but I had gusto and a pastry cutter. Bring it.

During the process the dough had issues. The butter stayed clumpy, it wouldn't form into a ball, I was adding way too much water. It seemed that my crust was bust. In fact, I almost took the whole thing and threw it in the trash, but as my crumbly dough filled hands hovered over the trash can though I decided that, heck, maybe I'll get lucky and it would turn out. I mushed it into a disk as well as I could, then wrapped it up in plastic wrap and popped it in the fridge to chill.

-Sure, it may not be fluted or anything, but I'll take tasty over pretty.-

The next day I rolled it out. I half expected it to suddenly crumble to dust but nothing happened. It... it just rolled out. Like nothing was wrong with it. I curled it over the rolling pin, flopped and shaped it into the pie plate, and I placed it in the freezer to set.

I was... confused. All was going too well. Still, I had little faith. The other doughs had been just as malleable, but this one felt different. The thickness, the texture, its heft of flour and dotted blobs of butter all seemed to be aligned in some cosmic baking way as if the spirit of Saint Betty Crocker was somehow guiding my hands.

I prepared a quick maple pear filling one similar to the pie recipe I did at Simply Recipes (where Elise made the crust and I made the filling) and spread it into the prepared crust. Into the oven it went.

Forty-five minutes later I had a finished pie. But was it a good pie? Was this another failed crust? I held the Pyrex dish to the light inspecting the bottom and sides to look for signs of seepage or breaking as if somewhere I would find the key clue to solving a horrific crime scene. There was none.

Sixty minute later it had cooled. I cut out a piece, plopped it on a plate, and let my fork dive in. There was a bit of resistance and then the sound of aluminum tines striking ceramic. *tink* Not mush, not sheetrock.

I took a bite. It was flaky. Sweet. Buttery. It was perfect pie crust. Holy shit. I finally fucking made perfect pie crust. I. MADE. PIE CRUST! That didn't suck!

Sure it might not have been the prettiest thing (we'll call it rustic), but the texture and flavor were dead on what it was supposed to be. Oh lord, it's true what they say, I can't go back to store bought. This pie crust wasn't a bastard but a sweet, darling, buttery pastry angel.

I'm still not sure if the whole thing was a fluke or not. It very well could have been. Still, I've had success now. I'm more than willing to try again and again until I can do this with my eyes closed. After all, homemade pie dough may be a crusty bastard, but when right it makes for perfect pie.

-What kind of angle does a pie crust have? Don't be obtuse, it's a delicious angle.-

--------

The recipe I used for this pie was this one I did at Simply Recipes. I didn't have a deep dish pie plate so I cut the filling ingredients by a third. Elise's pate brisee recipe is fabulous. I know I'll be using it again.

-Booty shot.-

Snack Habit

2009-11-05T21:30:00.000-08:00

-Two seconds before I inhaled this lonely persimmon chip.-

-half a package of mint M&M's
-a few spoonfuls of pomegranate seeds
-a quarter of an onion bagel
-a pear
-far too many Cheeze-its (aka: the snack that proves God loves me)

I ate all of this between the oatmeal I had for breakfast and my late lunch of a simple salad of bok choi salad with croutons, oil, and vinegar.

Snacking has become my new bad habit. No longer a conscious act, it's become totally reflexive. Simple potato chip syndrome: my hand mechanically moving in a perpetual cycle between snack and mouth. Half the time I don't even realize I'm eating.

Worse is the control issue; like a salt hungry zombie I'll shuffle over to the kitchen in a daze and bust our a bag of kettle corn and bring it back to the couch where I'm working. Five minutes later, it'll dawn on me that, holy crap, I'm eating popcorn! Again! Ten minutes after I just put it away!

What's scary is the speed and quantity I shovel it into my face. Like a disciple of Eat Beast I just shove it into my maw in such quantities, my God, it's surprising my jaw doesn't just unhinge like an anaconda. Certainly, I was hoovering it in so fast enough that somewhere starving orphans spontaneously broke out into tears without understanding why.

In a huff of frustration I gathered up all the evil snacks in my house and put them on the community table in the kitchen at work (I'll be damned before I throw out go food, so instead I'll just take everyone down on the train to Chubbyville with me). No more chips and sweets for Garrett.

Still, let's be honest, stopping a bad habit cold turkey isn't that simple. Smokers use patches to ween themselves away from their sweet siren nicotine. I had to do the same.

Fruit, usually, are the snacks that our mothers gave us. A big bowl of pomegranate seeds is always swell, but quite a bit of work and not the stuff of a simple snack. Pears are great, and to help ease the pain I put a huge bowl of them at my desk. Sadly, it's not uncommon for one or two to go missing thus leaving me hungry. (Note to coworkers: I WILL find out who keeps purloining my pears.)

I have plenty of persimmons though, a fruit that I have an awkward relationship with. For me, persimmons are like someone you always go on bad dates with but always have great sex with afterwards. I hate persimmons cut up and served straight; they're far too sweet, like biting into floral, saccharic flesh. However, when cooked, dried out, baked, or candied they're awesome. In other words I only enjoy them in certain instances for specific reasons.

I decided then that I needed to make a sweet and easy snack using these persimmons. Something I could prepare ahead of time then whisk to my desk or to work to nibble away at uncontrollably sans guilt.

Recalling a simple recipe for persimmon chips I went to work while restraining myself from sneaking a piece of cranberry cake as I prepped. A quick bath in some simple syrup and then baked on low heat for a few hours (not all of us have dehydrators) and the persimmons would become a crunchy sweet snack that would keep my mouth and hands occupied.

If you're planning to be around your home doing house work or writing a blog post or something these are the perfect background recipe for you. Very little work with tasty payoff. A novel solution for any other snackers out there.

-I believe that snacks are tastier when they're nice to look at.-

Persimmon Chips
1 cup of sugar
1 cup of water
2 persimmons
1 lime
kosher salt (optional)

1. Preheat the oven to 200 and line two baking sheets with parchment paper or a silpats.

2. Using a sharp knife or a mandolin set to 2.0, make thin slices of persimmon. Place in a bowl and toss with the lime juice.

3. Bring the sugar an water to a boil and then bring down to a simmer over low heat. Place in the persimmon slices and let cook for two minutes.

4. Using a slotted spoon or a fork transfer the slices to the prepared baking sheets. If you want give them a tiny dash of kosher salt, being careful as too much will cover up the delicate taste of the persimmon (personally, I prefer them with no salt).

5. Bake for 2 hours then flip the slices over and bake for another 30 minutes. Cool on wire racks.

-Not quite a cheeze-it. But they're both orange so close enough, right?-

Know Your Vanilla - A Guide to Vanilla Varieties

2009-11-02T20:17:00.000-08:00

I recently decided it was about time to update the vanilla variety guide which I originally wrote back in 2006. You'll find that I've now added Indian and Indonesian vanilla to the list and added to each a few recipe ideas that would best utilize the vanillas. Furthermore, I've noted a good base recipe with which to better identify the subtleties of flavors between them. Enjoy.

-Unbeknownst to most, happiness can be measured by the amount of vanilla beans you have.-

"Package came for you," I looked up to see my co-worker Shanette holding a box for me. "Now will you stop hovering and looking for the mail guy?"

"YES! Thank you!" I snatched the box from her hands with gusto. I had been waiting eagerly over the past week for this to arrive - a box with what I assumed to be a small sample of sweet vanilla.

About a week before I had received a letter from Beanilla where a guy named Rob had inquired if I would like to try a some of their vanilla beans, and if I enjoyed them if I might write about them and if I didn't then no worries. I told him I would love to and that since this was the first offer of anything due to the blog I couldn't have been more ecstatic.

That is until I opened the box. The second the box opener sliced through the tape a gust of vanilla surrounded me. Rushing out of the box like Pandora's demons they quickly engulfed my office and everything was redolent with sweet, creamy, and spicy vanilla aromas.

Rob had sent me well over 200 vanilla beans of varying varieties. So many that I even called over all of my blogging and cooking friends and offered them free vanilla beans. Even after all the gifting, giving, and mailing I still had more than enough to last me years. In fact I still have a jar full of beans from that original shipment and since each bean can be used so many times I doubt I'll run out any time soon.

-Oh yeah, that's the good stuff. Right. There.-

Since that post went up I ran across Indian vanilla beans - India now becoming a major exporter of beans that possess a dark rummy scent that hints of cherries like the Bourbon variety. In addition, Rob recently wrote me and asked if I would be down with trying some new beans imported from Indonesia. I agreed and he once again sent me a large package of beans, along with a few samples of vanilla paste and extract (the paste now becoming my choice of vanilla for blondies, bread, and other rich baked goods). The beans themselves were strong, the scent reminiscent of sweet prunes and cinnamon. One of the most unique vanillas I've ever encountered.

I decided to run a new test to try out some of these vanillas. Looking at my old notes I decided to make a few batches of sugar cookies and whipped cream, two nicely blank slates which would best be able to show off the flavor of the vanillas. While at first I was curious if each would be just the same old vanilla once baked, each demonstrated a prideful arrogance in its individual flavor profile. One cookie had a a slight creamy flavor to it, while when sniffing the other I caught a slight boozy scent. One whipped cream was classic vanilla, and the other a smokey hint of tobacco seemed to linger in the background.

Once again, varieties of vanilla had proved themselves to possess particular flavor qualities that should be taken into consideration when purchasing vanilla.

-Knowing the differences in the various varieties of vanilla beans may make you a vanilla snob. You'll learn to be okay with that.-

-VANILLA VARIETIES-

Madagascar - Dark, full bodied, and rummy with a hint of tobacco, just like Rob told me it would be. Perfect for recipes that might be flambed or if you need a vanilla to stand up to powerful flavors that might overshadow it.

Bourbon - Bourbon is defined by its fruity profile. Your nose my sense scents of figs, papaya, persimmon and cherries. Its diverse quality make it good all around variety, but I personally prefer it with cookies and cakes where I want the vanilla to add dimension and complexity.

Mexico - This vanilla is sweet, smooth and creamy. This vanilla is designed for infusions for milk, pastry cream, whipped cream, and all manner of ice creams. My personal favorite.

Tonga - This variety reminds me of cherries and of autumn, very brisk and felicitous. More of a delicate flavor. I've dedicated this one to using in developing fruit sauce for adorning meats as it seems to compliment the savory tastes of chicken and pork and at the same time enhance the fruit.

Papau New Guinea - Subtle notes of chocolate and red wine define this vanilla. Not a favorite as often it seems to disappear in the background of other more prominent ingredients, and when I want vanilla to stand front and center I usually want something a bit bolder. Still, for delicate tea cakes and that ilk of pastry this is a choice vanilla.

Tahiti - Floral, with hints of licorice and figs. I found that I prefer this vanilla in jams and preserves as it adds a florid bouquet to the overall taste. In addition, that slight licorice makes it choice for developing your own chai mix or spice rubs where you wish to include vanilla.

India - The beans are huge and very oily, with a very muted, woodsy quality. A good vanilla that would stand up well to spices with a more heady comportment in a dish, where the presence of cloves, rosemary, cinnamon, or thyme (and other such flavors with a dominating flavor) may threaten to eclipse other vanilla varieties.

Indonesia - These beans are thick, oily, and pliable. One of the mightiest of beans in physical presence. Also one of the oddest. The scent of vanilla is somewhat fermented and the overall scent profile is one you would associate with prunes. In fact, I would say they smell more like prunes than vanilla. However, when cooked the vanilla flavor becomes more pronounced. Perfect for stewing fruit, or in pies and compotes.

Tahitensis & Planifolia Blend - The most typical and assuring of the vanillas. This is what you might assume "typical" vanilla to smell like. A bit of a one note wonder, but because it possesses such a strong and reliable vanilla flavor that doesn't change with cooking it's my regular go-to vanilla variety. Probably the one I use more than any other.

So which one to pick? I suggest going with one or two that intrigue you the most and starting with that. As I noted earlier in the post sugar cookies are a great way to test the flavor profiles of vanilla. Whipped cream or vanilla ice cream are other good options. Whatever you do decide to use be sure that vanilla is the only and predominant flavor.

-Sugar cookies are one of the best ways to try out vanilla beans.-

Vanilla Bean Sugar Cookies
Adapted from Anita Chu's Field Guide to Cookies
Makes about 5 dozen

3 cups of flour
1 teaspoon of baking soda
pinch of kosher salt
1 cup of butter, room temperature
1 3/4 cups of sugar
1/4 cup of brown sugar
1 vanilla bean
2 eggs

1. Sift the flour, baking soda, and salt together in a bowl. Set aside.

2. Cream the butter and sugars together at high speed for about 3 minutes.

3. Cup open and scrape out the contents of the vanilla bean. Add to the butter-sugar mixture and mix in for 30 seconds.

4. Add the eggs, one at a time, beating for 30 seconds between each. Scrape down the sides and bottom of the bowl and mix a bit more.

5. With the mixer on a low speed slowly add the flour mixture. Mix until just incorporated.

6. Cover dough and refrigerate for 45 minutes. While it chills, preheat the oven to 325F and line some baking sheets with parchment paper.

7. Roll the dough into balls about 1/2 to 1 inch in diameter. Place them on the baking sheets and give them a small press to flatten them.

8. Bake for 9-10 minutes or until edges are golden brown. Allow to cool on the sheets for a minute before transferring to a wire rack to cool completely.

-Picking the right variety will help you enhance your cooking and your cookies.-

Thanks again to Rob at Beanilla. You've given me a chance to explore one of my favorite flavors and share that knowledge.

-This is about as artsy-craftsy as we get here at Vanilla Garlic before I get frustrated and throw things. This knot took me, like, ten damn minutes.-

Entertaining Rambutans

2009-10-30T18:30:00.000-07:00

-The whimsical and slightly ridiculous rambutan.-

Aside from pictures and drawings I had never seen one before so I couldn't be sure. The plastic bag distorted the image but I could still seem to make out what they were. I leaned over the stack of baby bok choi to see if I could get a better look.

"Excuse me?" I asked the small, Asian girl behind the counter. She turned towards me as she finished her exchange. This girl's family ran one of the best Asian stalls at the Farmers' Market and often had strange varieties of basil and spinaches that one might be hard pressed to find elsewhere.

"Yes?" she asked, pushing her glasses up and moving one of the suspicious bags aside to give herself some counter space.

"What are those?" I pointed to the bag.

"Oh, these? Rambutans." She pulled out an ovaloid fruit covered in fleshy, pliable spikes. Neon red with canary yellow highlights it looked like one of Jim Henson's muppets had laid an egg.

Rambutans, popular fruits of the drupe family, weren't exactly common fair at the Farmers' Market under the freeway. I had never seen one in person and so to come across one here was surprising.

"Oh, wow, where did you find these?" I asked.

"At the other Farmers' Market. The one down the street." She referred to the what's commonly considered in Sacramento as the Asian Farmers' Market (unless you primarily shop there where it's just the regular Farmers' Market) where ingredients most may consider somewhat foreign can be found; fresh tofu, culantro, Hmong basil, purple snap peas, and melons the size of a 4 year old child could be procured easily. I would visit it every so often to pick up water spinach and herbs but had never come across rambutans there.

"I never see these when I go," I exclaimed.

"You have to get there early. Even then you have to stock up. We have six more bags of these in our car," she motioned her head behind her and in the corner of the truck sat six bags pregnant with uncountable litters of rambutan.

"Damn." Apparently, they were hard to find even if you know where and when to get them.

"Hold on," she said and quickly reached over for a bag. She untied it and plucked out five of the plumpest ovals she could find, their spines bending to massage her hands like eager servants. They rolled off her hand into a new bag in a spriteful manner which reminded me of the little puppets running around in opening credits of Fraggle Rock. "Here, try a few," she smiled and handed them towards me.

-The eventual evolution of rambutans.-

"Oh, I couldn't," I reluctantly waved my hand to protest her kindness. Sometimes I regret those good manners my parents raised me with.

"No, I insist. We have tons. We won't miss a few," she pushed the bag forward.

I happily accepted. "Wow, thank you! How much?" I asked.

"None, you're here every week. Think of it as thanks for your business," she began to prepare a bag of baby bok choi, cilantro, and lemongrass for me: my usual.

I handed her $1.20, "Thanks a ton! Can't wait to try them!"

"Let me know how you like them!" she waved, turned, and went back to work.

When I got home I quickly grabbed one of the rambutans out of the bag. It was soft and the spines felt like rubbery hairs. I quickly produced a pairing knife and cut the entire circumference lengthwise. I knew that anatomically they were like lychees so I let the stone in the center of the fruit guide the knife.

I popped the rambutan open to find an oblong, white piece of fruit; its flesh was translucent and fragrant. I bit in and was surprised how juicy it was but the flesh had a death grip both to its fluids and the stone in the middle. It tasted like a mellow lychee, not nearly as sweet and overpowering which was pleasant as I found lychees to be far to sweet for my taste. It was interesting, funky, a bit acidic and different. A taste that I wasn't going to sing praises of but not speak ill of it either. I think its a flavor you have to grow up with to really appreciate it.

I cracked open the rest and plopped them into a bowl. I brought them and a cup of chamomile tea out to the table, the steam from the tea billowing into divining swirls and producing a floral scent. I cracked open a copy of The House on Mango Street and began to enjoy my afternoon, the sweet tea and fruit perfectly complimenting each other and my reading.

I decided to just enjoy an hour or two this way. After all, how often do you have a chance to entertain rambutans in your home?

-I'm pretty sure you can hatch a fraggle from this thing.-

Persimmon Bread for Your Terrible, Awful, No Good, Very Bad Day

2009-10-27T19:19:00.000-07:00

-Fuyu and Cinnamon persimmons, when hard, are the best for this recipe.-

"Chapter 4?" I thought.

And then the panic set it.

"Please don't tell me I..." I reached into my bag and grabbed out my notebook. I funbeled through the unorganized mess of handouts and papers creating a snow storm of white paper on my desk and eventually pulled out my syllabus. I read the day's assignments:

10/26 Teaching Strategies
"Remedial Writing Courses" Rose (SacCT)
"Writing and Reading as Collaborative Social Acts" Bruffee (SacCT)
Teaching Developmental Writing - Chapter 4

"Chapter 4? No. No, no, no... I read chapter 14!" My inner voice was now shrieking with such terror you'd think Norman Bates was plunging a knife into it. The class had read chapter 13 last week and in my exhaustion I misread the syllabus.

Then, like a bomb went off in my head, I realized what this meant. "I wrote my paper on the wrong chapter."

My body shuddered. The first domino in a long line had been flicked over and now my emotional and mental barrier began to reel apart. Tears welled and my I felt myself hyperventilating. I immediately crammed it all back down into the pit of my stomach making it feel dull and shocked like it had been sucker punched with a brass knuckled fist. I was going to have to try and hold back a total breakdown right then in the middle of class in front of nineteen of my peers for the next 75 minutes while simultaneously acting like a coherent human being making salient observations about the two correct readings I did finish.

I felt hollow, like a porcelain doll containing an maelstrom whose turbulent winds would at any second crack and shatter me. I noticed through my blurry vision that everyone began to move into small groups. I lifted my desk and did the same, my physical body and mind in some ambulatory fugue state. Moving without awareness, my body was powered by a sense of utter defeat.

"Are you okay?" asked my classmate, Manpreet. She was one of the people in my class who I admired; charming and intelligent, one of those naturally effervescent people who always seems to have the right words. Yet at the moment these were not the words I wanted to hear. I wanted to hear the words "chapter 14". "Are you okay?" simply pointed out a hole in the emotional brick wall I was trying to lay.

"No." I breathed. At that instant my porcelain shield cracked. "No. I'm not. I wrote on the wrong chapter. I wrote on chapter 14, and not chapter 4. I've already cut way back on all my side jobs and other sources of income and from that have willingly taken a pay cut just to try and keep up with class this semester and after that I still make a giant mess of things?! I don't do that kind of thing. I never make mistakes like these. I can't." My breathing became erratic and my voice pitched high with panic.

"It's okay. Don't freak. Someone else did the same thing last week," her eyes caught me like a snake charmer's pipe.

"Wha... what? Really?" I stuttered.

"Yes. Just talk to the professor. It'll be okay," she said in a tone so clam that it I could only assume it was a universal and unquestionable truth.

I paused, then asked, "Is anyone else feeling seriously against the wall this semester? I'm barely keeping up."

"Yes," Manpreet and the other people in our small group pronounced in unison.

After class I went up to the professor and explained my situation. After an hour and some joking the storm had abated. Now calm I was able to articulately explain my innocent mishap.

-Unlike my homework, this bread is foolproof.-

"Don't worry," said my professor, "you can turn in the right one on Wednesday. But you know your paper was supposed to be on last week's discussions right?"

...What?

"So wait, you mean had I done chapter 4 I would have done the wrong one anyways?"

It's a little known fact that on October 26th at roughly 5:50 PM time stopped for one second. I know. I felt it. Because when time stops, even for one second, it feels like years.

One no-second later time resumed, "Oh God, I did all of the responses wrong then? I did them all on the current week's reading and not the previous!" The maelstrom returned.

"No, just the last one or two. But don't worry. I only took about half a point and I noted it on the one I'll return to you next. The point is you were still thinking about the texts and engaging them and that was what was most important." She smiled at me and then turned to gather her things and was on her way out.

I went home defeated. When I walked in the door I dropped my messenger bag to the floor and made my way to the kitchen. I pulled out the persimmon bread I made the day before. Apparently, the only thing I did do right that day. As I pulled back the cling wrap I breathed in deep, the air now made heavy and sweet.

I began to cut off a piece and smear it with butter. The bread was amazing though it wasn't going to fix any of the mistakes I made or ones I was still going to make. Food can't always do that. It did however fill my empty stomach a bit and calmed some of those clouds. I no longer felt like I would shatter. I took another bite of bread letting my tongue feel out the textures of the dense bread, nibby pumpkin seeds, and chewy cranberries. I let it taste the spike of ginger, the coy cardamom, and the creamy waft of vanilla. I slumped on the couch and exhaled.

"Damn good bread," I sighed to myself.

-An in depth look at the cure for a shitty day.-

Persimmon Bread for Your Terrible, Awful, No Good, Very Bad Day
Makes one loaf, can be doubled for two - adapted from zucchini bread recipe at Simply Recipes

1 egg, beaten
2/3 cup sugar
1 1/2 teaspoons vanilla
1 1/2 cups grated fresh fuyu or cinnamon persimmon
1/3 cup melted unsalted butter
1 teaspoons baking soda
Pinch salt
1 1/2 cups all-purpose flour
1/4 teaspoon nutmeg
1/4 teaspoon of ground ginger
1/4 teaspoon of ground cardamom
1 teaspoon cinnamon
1/2 cup chopped pecans, walnuts, or pumpkin seeds (optional)
1/2 cup dried cranberries or raisins (optional)

1. Preheat the oven to 350°F (175°C). In a large bowl, mix together the sugar, eggs, and vanilla. Mix in the grated persimmon and then the melted butter.

2. Sprinkle baking soda, salt, and spices over the mixture and mix in. Add the flour and fold in. Fold in the nuts and dried cranberries or raisins if using.

3. Divide the batter equally between 2 buttered 5 by 9 inch loaf pans. Bake for 1 hour (check for doneness at 50 minutes) or until a wooden pick inserted in to the center comes out clean. Cool in pans for 10 minutes. Turn out onto wire racks to cool thoroughly.

-It may not fix mistakes, but it'll make you feel a lot less crappy about them.-

Mystery of the Maleficent Smell

2009-10-25T19:07:00.000-07:00

I looked at the ground for a moment, my attention wavering from my phone conversation. My line of sight gazed over the downed foliage that scattered the moss covered soil and cracked cement. Suddenly, it hit me. An electric current pulsed through the entirety of my brain and my eyes shot open with the speed that only comes when the patterns of the universe suddenly become transparent and understood.

It was so clear. So obvious.

I understood the cause.

I knew what it was.
______________________________

"God damn, it still smells all yeasty out here. Seriously, what the hell is causing it?" I complained.

"I dunno," replied BF, "but it's still pretty strong. Lucky for me the smoke kinda covers it up." He laughed at me and took a long drag from his cigarette. I used to be on BF about his smoking but now I was innocuous to it and didn't really care one way or the other. At this point the whole smoking topic was kind of a running joke to us. He inhaled, "Mmm, tobacco. Sure you don't want one? It makes you look cool."

"When do I ever want one?" I said walking around outside and sniffing my nose in an attempt to follow the smell. The somewhat fermenting odor had been prevalent for about two weeks. It was everywhere and my roommate and I had exhausted almost every single possibility we could think of as the odious cause. Something in our yard was evil and didn't want us to leave the duplex under threat of nasty, stinky torment.

"It wasn't the fish," I mused to myself. A few days ago I walked out my front door and made my way to the beaten redwood gate. It had rained the night before and as usual the water had made the wood swell to the point that the only way to open it was with a to give it a good bash with my shoulder. As I began to brace my weight I noticed a perfectly good salmon fillet sitting in the mud (as relatively good as a salmon fillet in the mud can, of course, be). Pink, fishy, and rank it sat there under a pulsing blanket of flies.

"Who throws away a piece of salmon like that?" BF puffed.

"Maybe it was funky?" I guessed. "Still, we tossed that and it still smells here." I used the "we" liberally. BF had been the one brave enough to scoop it into the trash after the roommate and I had and our upstairs neighbors had all chosen to ignore it. Personally, I had hoped a neighborhood stray would devour it but to no such luck.

I looked at the old storage shed and wondered if something died in it. Sniffing the air again I confirmed that this wasn't the case. The stench of decay wasn't so fermented or humid. Rather, it would be pungent, heavy and lingering with that distinct death-scent. No, no... this was too rotten-sweet like old tomatoes left in the sun on a humid, Missouri day.

Days of this passed. We began to close the windows. The roommate was unable to identify the yeasty smell which persisted and search as I might, the odor was all encompassing. It came from everywhere and hung like misery stretching its foul sinewy tendrils over the yard and duplex, its grip tightening.

We were trapped.
_____________________________

Flash forward a week later. I picked up the phone to call my best friend Janelle. I had taken the call outside as BF was playing video games and I didn't want to be distracted. Per the usual I had forgotten Janelle's birthday again; a ritual I performed with all my family and friends and twice with myself. As I made my pleas with the utmost contrition I tried to ignore the smell.

Slip and goo suddenly threw me off balance. Friction left me. My back arched and I flailed one arm to find balance, the other arm focused on keeping my phone safe. Somewhere I found level footing preventing me from tumbling to the ground.

As I righted myself I fumed. Lifting up my foot I inspected the smashed, black, rotted flesh. There was still some pink in the middle and the seeds all had taken a sickly adobe hue. "Fucking figs..."

...Holy crap.

-Not pictured: The smell of funkified, yeasty oppression.-

I looked at the ground around me. Corpses of figs littered it. I shot my eyes up and squinted to see plenty more hanging on to the branches wet with natural booze. The figs were fermenting. They were fermenting hard.

The yeasty smell!

My answer had been all around me. I hadn't given any thought to the fig tree this year. Rising three stories high the figs were out of reach this year. A lack of pruning had left the tree to produce hundred of immature figs which never had a chance to really become ripe before they took a sleigh-ride to converting their sugar to alcohol. Alcohol which now made the yard smell like the nastiest home brew outhouse you ever did catch a whiff of.

"Oh God, that's it!" I yelled.

"What?" said the voice over the receiver.

"Nothing, nothing, I just figured something out." I went back to the conversation. There was nothing else to do. The figs on the ground were smashed in. The gardeners would take care of them Tuesday. The ones in the tree were too high for me to take care of.

We would just have to live with the maleficent smell a bit longer.

Pasta Sfoglia Cookbook Winner

2009-10-23T08:33:00.000-07:00

Thanks everyone for entering! I loved hearing about how everyone enjoys their pasta. I have to admit, I'm kinda jonseing for some fettuccine alfredo with chicken or meatballs. I may have to give a few of your ideas a shot! Ah, but you all want to know who scored the cookbook, yes? Well, the winner of the contest is Largehearted Boy, David Gutowski, who noted his love of tagliatelle, especially homemade with a cream sauce.

David, be sure to e-mail me so I can be sure the cookbook gets to you. My sincere thanks to everyone who entered!

expletive cranberries expletive

2009-10-21T06:00:00.000-07:00

-This cake harnesses the power of cranberries in order to kick ass.-

I didn't mean to swear that loudly in the store. It had just sort of slipped out in all the excitement. One guy turned away from me assuming me to be some crazy youngin' who didn't know better. The stock boy paused his task of corn stacking and raised his eyebrow at me in curious stupor. Down the aisle next to the celery a mother glared at me as her children, little girls now poisoned by my filthy mouth, were doomed to grow up into delinquents with pink hair and dog collars that matched their boyfriends' eyebrow jewelry.

Whatever. I can't help it if the first thing that comes out of my mouth when I see bags of crimson cranberries is, "Oh sweet mighty God, FUCK YES! CRANBERRIES!" Seriously, these things are only available for what, 60 days of the year? Damn right I get excited.

As Mrs. Prudy McPrude shuffled her kids away from my negative influence and devil speak I began to build up my cranberry cache. Most of these would be thrown into what would in the next few weeks can only be described as a nervous horde. A stockpile of cranberries in my freezer and fridge that might rival the larder of an apocalypse-theory obsessed nutjob's bomb shelter.

Cranberry sorbet, cranberry bread, cranberry scones, cranberry granola... Cranberries had become part of my fall and winter ritual just like busting out the good blankets from storage come the cold rains and cursing out the squirrels who dug up my potted plants. Every year I try to do something a bit new and inventive, I try my best to break out of the ruby colored mold.

This year was no different. I went and broke the mold by breaking out the springform pan: cranberry cake - a super simple one. A quick rendezvous in the kitchen resulting in a cake that everyone would fawn over in a cranberry colored haze. This cake is simple as can be: sugar, eggs, butter, flour, some salt and milk, and an entire bag of cranberries.

It's definitely something that'll make you swear out loud for cranberries too.

-Look upon this cake in all its neon red-streaked cranberry glory and weep for joy.-

Cranberry Cake
makes 1 9x13 or 1 10" springform cake

3 eggs
2 cups sugar
3/4 cup unsalted butter, slightly softened and cut into chunks
1 teaspoon vanilla
1 tablespoon kirsch (optional)
1 teaspoon of salt
2 tablespoons of milk
2 cups flour
2 1/2 cups cranberries (1 bag)

1. Preheat oven to 350°F. Lightly grease a 9x13 pan or a 10" springform pan.

2. Beat eggs and sugar together for 5-7 minutes; the eggs will increase in volume quite a bit, streaming into ribbons when you lift the beaters. They will also turn pale yellow.

3. Add butter and extracts and beat for 2 minutes. Add the milk and salt and mix for another 30 seconds.

4. Stir in flour and fold in cranberries. Pour into greased pan.

5. Bake 45-50 minutes for a 9x13, or a little over an hour for the springform. You may need to tent the cake with foil in the last 15 minutes or so to keep the top from browning. Cool completely on a wire rack before serving.

Amaretti & Prunes (PLUS: A Cookbook Giveaway!)

2009-10-18T20:39:00.000-07:00

-A colorful and sweet risotto with a mellow wisp of parmesan and butter, and announced with a trumpeting blare of prunes and wine.-

"Okay, well right off the bat you don't want an Amarone. That'll set you back $70 on the low end and if you want to stay on budget we should find one wine for both dishes." The wine guy said this without looking at me as he searched through the racks of Italian labels in what seemed to be a futile attempt to help me. My wine knowledge isn't what one might even call mediocre, I have more know how in how to install a light fixture than knowing a rosey wine from a rosey nose. Thus, the task of meeting my seemingly impossible needs fell to him.

I was hell bent on making two dishes from my Pasta Sfoglia book, one being a gnocchi dish using the sweet potato gnocchi I made last weekend and the other being a risotto. Both dishes required prunes and amaretti, a dry Italian almond cookie. I figured this would be a great chance to try two different dishes.

However, each one also asked for a different, slightly expensive wine, one that asked for Amarone and the other a Marsala. After a bit of searching my wine guy was able to find something that kind of balanced the two though from what I understand I was basically asking for, "apples and oranges in one bottle."

-It was this one. It's a good thing you're reading this because I'm pretty sure I pronounce it so badly you'd go spontaneously deaf.-

With wine in hand I began my risotto experiment. I had never made risotto before and assumed it was just like making rice pudding. Furthermore, I had only ever tried onceone my life so I had no idea what a finished risotto really looked like. Luckily, the cookbook had pretty clear directions so as I sat and stirred and shook and mixed while I listened to Anthony Hopkins play the role of Titus on my crappy old television. Shakespeare and the smell of risotto cooking; I can't endorse this combo enough.

-Photographing something shiny and black like prunes is a total bitch. Just letting you know.-

Soon it was time to serve...

"You'll have to pardon me if the risotto is like glue. Eat it anyways and make me happy," I slid the bowls of risotto over to my guests. The risotto was striking in its hues of purple; lavender shaded rice with pitch-burgundy sauce which offset the tan crumbles of amartetti.

All my testers then looked at the food in front of them. Purple food - strikingly purple food - was not quite common for either of them. They lifted their forks, took a bite, mulled it over a bit, and then smiled and dove in for more. They weren't even faking. Go me.

The risotto was delicious, especially the sauce. (My God, the sauce!) When we had the leftover risotto again for dinner I made another batch of it and loosely swirled it in with the rice and crumbled more cookies over the top. My guests and I were in agreement that this was a better result though whether it was due to our collective sweet tooth or the fact that my risotto skills are negligible is undetermined (probably a little column A and a little column B).

The gnocchi dish was equally tasty as differing layers of sweet flavors really helped establish a choral counterpoint to the still savory gnocchi. However, it is my opinion that sweet potato gnocchi will taste perfect no matter what you do to them.

Overall, between all the gnocchi and risotto I'm totally digging the prune-amaretti combo and this cookbook (and I have yet to even try the pasta dishes). In fact I'm enjoying it so much that I'm giving away a copy of Pasta Sfoglia to one lucky reader. Even better, author Ron Suhanosky will personally be signing the copy for the winner! A big thanks to Ron, John Wiley & Sons publications, and a super big thanks to Megan Evans for helping me organize this little giveaway for you guys!

To enter just leave a comment about your favorite kind of pasta on this post before Friday the 23rd. On Friday, I'll announce the winner so be sure to check in and see if you've won. Please enter only once. All contestants must be in the continental United States. NOTE: This contest is closed.

-An awesome cookbook signed by Chef Ron Suhanosky. A perfect text for any pasta novice like myself.-

Risotto with Red Wine, Prunes, and Amaretti
Adapted from Pasta Sfoglia
Serve 4-6

2 tablespoons of oil (olive, safflower, or grape seed)
1 cup of coarsely chopped onions
2 cups of carnaroli rice
1 1/2 cups of red wine
6 cups of water
1 teaspoon of salt
ground pepper
5 tablespoons of butter
1/2 cup of grated Parmesan
2 cups chopped prunes
1/2 cup of crushed amaretti cookies

1. Add the oil and onions to a 3 quart saucepan over medium heat. Cook until translucent, about 3-4 minutes.

2. Add the rice and toast for 1-2 minutes, stirring every few seconds to avoid sticking and burning. Add 1/2 cup of the wine and cook until evaporated.

3. Begin to add the water, 2 cups at a time stirring often in order to release the starch. Continue to shake pan. When a wooden spoon dragged through the rice reveals a pathway add the next 2 cups. Add salt and pepper.

4. During the addition of the remaining 2 cups of water add 3 tablespoons of the butter and the Parmesan.

5. Begin the topping: Add the prunes, remaining wine, and remaining butter and toss into a skillet over high heat. Reduce to a syrup. About 8-10 minutes (6 on my freakish electric coil).

6. Place risotto in a bowl and top with the prune wine mixture. Garnish with amaretti cookies. Serve.

Note: On serving I highly suggest loosely mixing it all together. Way better in my opinion.

-Amaretti cookies and prunes. Who'da thunk it?-

Implications

2009-10-15T07:30:00.000-07:00

-Grassy and a bit zesty, these fine green zebras are the perfect food for sowing dissent amongst guests. (Taken with my iPhone.)-

"Still, there's something to be said for food that doesn't follow Slow Food's mantra. I mean, it's easy to eat the way Carlo Petrini or Alice Water's does if you're Carlo Petrini or Alice Waters."

"No, I think it's possible. You just have to be smart about it and dedicated to good food," she smiled in a way that her pursed lips turned as fine as lines drawn from a pencil. She reminded me of a Stepford wife - all pearls, soft makeup, and cashmere.

"Oh lord almighty, I think this one already drank the locally produced punch." I thought with dread.

I nodded to her comment and feigned that I was taking her words in and kneading them in my head like bread dough in an attempt to make meaning. I turned to my plate and used my knife to nudge a slice of green zebra tomato onto my bread. Pinning the fruit and bread together with my hands I sloshed it around some aged cherry balsamic vingear and dashed on a little fleur de sel. The taste was excruciatingly complex in its use of simple flavors. As others bit into zingy pineapples, winey Castulato Genoveses, and somewhat mutely rich Japanese Truffles the din of the room grew louder as people gushed and praised each and every heirloom they tried.

I had never been the biggest fan of tomatoes so going to a Slow Food event that focused on them didn't hold the greatest appeal to me at first. Still, as I was writing an entire thesis on Slow Food rhetoric I drew the conclusion I would have to immerse myself in the culture. Plus, after reading hundreds of pages of information (no exaggeration) I figured a field trip of sorts was needed. Slow Food Sacramento had put together a lecture about the history of heirloom varieties to be catered by Del Rio Farms, one of the regions premier organic farms which grew an astounding variety of, well, everything; all of it in line with Slow Food's Good-Clean-Fair mantra.

These tomatoes had single handedly changed my mind about what tomatoes can and should be. One of the best parts about my research thus far.

Sadly, the lecture only lasted two minutes which left me feeling a little stymied and a bit peeved. Yet it seemed that the history snippet was enough for most as they were primarily here to eat and in the process donate money to whatever charity was being run that night (no one seemed to know).

I was able to do some observational research though. The room was, except for three people, white. All very well off judging from the fact that a designer label bomb had apparently been detonated in the room prior to the event. Given, I was no exception in either case, but I was in attendance as a poor student and planned to write the cost of the ticket off that way come tax season. (Slow Food Sac's committee had rejected my plea to attend for free so I could just listen to the speaker and then leave when people sat down to eat. I assume due to the fact that the "lecture" was secondary to eating.)

I swallowed my bite and admired the bright, grassy finish of the green zebra. I turned back to my table, "Well, no offense but I live as a grad student who works at a non-profit. I eat well but only because I buy what's in season at the farmer's market. Furthermore, I'm only buying for one so it's affordable for me. I rarely buy meat aside from frozen chicken cutlets for easy cooking. I'm also lucky that I have friends who hunt and farm," I nodded to Hank and Holly who were also in attendance and at the table. "For the most part, living the Slow life isn't feasible if you're poor, live in a low income urban area, and in both cases means you probably aren't white."

"Well, that's why we have to encourage our economies to work the right ways," replied Stepford. I noticed her high demeanor, and statuesque presence. I wondered if she had ever reflected on this discourse and what the right ways were in detail and how they were supposed to work? I had no idea and couldn't judge - though I am good at it - so I plowed on with a different argument.

"Still, that's niether here nor there. These tomatoes are fine eating. Can't believe I used to refuse them. I think it's just the Albertson's irradiated and sprayed tomatoes. I always found them way too sweet, almost like they tasted rotten," I snarked. We all laughed in agreement.

"Certain childhood foods, likes and dislikes, you just can't let them go sometimes," said Holly.

Stepford's husband chirpped in, "I still love McDonald's french fries. Love. Them. Ate them all the time as a kid."

"Ick!" I said, "Not me. McDonald's makes me ill, though I am a fan of Jack in the Box. You know what? I still love tuna casserole with potato chips crumbled on it. I still make it once or twice a year. It's not haute food but it's nostalgia and my childhood tastes. You can't be served that in a restaurant."

"I don't see how you could eat that," Stepford noted before popping a small organic cherry tomato in her mouth as well as one can pop a cherry tomato in the primest fashion possible. I wondered if Emily Post approved of popping.

"It reminds me of home and of simpler times when I lived in the dorm staying up late to watch zombie movies with friends." I pressed on, "I'm not saying it's environmentally responsible food or crazy healthy. Just that some food doesn't have to be justified. It can just be fun and invoke memories. Every once in a while I buy Captain Crunch for the kick of it or eat frozen corndogs because I don't want to make homemade pasta or I want to sort of kick back and chill out. It's not Slow Food, but it works for me. Tuna casserole has a place in society and people's lives."

And then she rolled her eyes at me.

Let me say it again: She rolled her eyes at me.

Her lips pursed harder, almost so hard that they might have merged together forever binding the flesh and shutting her up forever. They might as well have. She refused to speak to me the rest of the event. Eventually she denied her amiable nature to Hank and Holly as well once we moved on to the topic of "How to create the most offensive dish ever!" (Answer: Bunny ears wrapped in foie gras and slathered in twinkie cream, then deep fried and served with a a variety of dipping sauces one of them being zesty ranch.)

Whatever. This was her problem. She was too entrenched in Slow Food's surface aura, unable to see their real messages about economic, environmental and nutritional change. Stepford was oblivious to how the world worked outside her bubble, or at least didn't want to hear about it. I was the graduate student who didn't know to not eat tuna casserole with potato chips.

"Oh well," I thought, "she'll make for a good subject in the thesis."

Scratch Another New Year's Resolution - Sweet Potato Gnocchi

2009-10-11T12:53:00.000-07:00

-This image looks pretty, but if you could see what the rest of the surrounding kitchen looked like you might actually have a stroke at the sight of the sheer mess I made.-

"Guh-nahshe?"

"Ganahce? No, that's chocolate."

"Oh yeah. So, Guh-nochi?"

"Nope, but that's what I used to call it too. Truthfully, I still do sometimes. 'Guh-nochi' is more fun to say," I smiled at myself.

BF ignored my quip. "Gn-occhi?" he asked, guessing once again.

"Gnocchi. Nyo-kE," I said sounding it out.

"Gnocchi. Okay, yeah... who decided to spell it this way?"

"The Italians," I smirked.

"Ah," he gave the cookbook I was holding a look that reflected his confusion towards the messed up world of international linguistics. I smiled in a way that assured him that I agreed with his silent conclusion.

Gnocchi was one of my New Years resolutions this year. This last January first I had decided to make a mental list that I could actually follow through with, ones with resolutions I could actually scratch off. Too often had plans to learn French, teach myself to juggle, and buy flowers more often been put up on a dust covered shelf with a note pinned on, "Do later. No time." Others were simply forgotten and left in to stew in the rot of gutters of city streets.

The impetus finally came when I picked up a copy of Pasta Sfoglia by Ron and Colleen Suhanosky, the chef-owners of the Sfoglia restaurants in Nantucket and Manhattan. Now pasta, and Italian in general, is not my strong suit in cooking. I have ruined spaghetti, laid waste to perfectly good lasagnas, and ravaged raviolis until they were burnt to the bottom of my pot. Seriously, I cannot cook non-Asian food for the life of me.

However, this book however had a welcoming approach. All the recipes are unique and intriguing utilizing for the most part ingredients I can find and afford. Furthermore, it has a section on making pasta and gnocchi from scratch. I purchased it on a whim and took it home hoping the fact I had spent money I didn't have would be enough to propel me into crossing a resolution off my list.

"Sweet potato gnocchi," I read to myself. It sounded so simple, yet outrageous. A concrete recipe given new life through a modern twist. I rushed to the farmer's market for some russets then dashed over to Elise's to borrow her potato ricer (a mandatory piece of equipment needed for gnocchi that I did not have as I can't say I have a fervent need to rice potatoes very regularly) with the promise to return it before nightfall or face the wrath of Father Bauer (who apparently rices many potatoes). Since the man can fell trees with his bare hands I made sure to rush home and begin my project with the utmost speed.

A short roast and some ricing went underway; then an egg, salt, flour and a bit of maple syrup came together to form a dough. The dough was then rolled into ropes and cut into puffy pillows of burnt orange dough. Delicate and fragrant. Their rustic appearance was beyond adorable and I couldn't help but coo at them as if they were tiny little puppies - they were certainly as soft as one.

Now new processes and ventures into the world of food are rarely pretty and usually involve plenty of scrubbing. The kitchen however did not feel the same way about the process as I had. A storm of flour had coated every possible surface, and every speck of it had been somehow cemented into place by the fine layer of starch from the potatoes. Pots were stacked, some I couldn't recall what I had even used them for and I wondered if some, unhappy with how they had been so poorly washed before - I have no dishwasher - had crept back into the pile when I wasn't looking.

In the end I had made two and a half pounds of sweet potato gnocchi. Enough to make nine or ten satisfying servings as each little puff expands into a mightier, floofier puff. It was an epic undertaking. One I would be happy to do again. Just not again any time soon.

I froze the bulk of it and later gave some to Elise and Father Bauer when I returned the ricer. I threw some into some boiling water and watched intently for them to rise to the surface; the inevitable proof I had made them properly. My elated screams were met with BF's quizzical stare when I squealed, "They rose! They rose! Can you see this!? The gnocchi! They've bobbed to the surface! My happy, sweet gnocchi!" I would have cried had they not. BF simply turned his head back to playing Warcraft as by now he was used to my kitchen mood swings.

Since they were so sweet from the maple syrup and sweet potatoes I served them with a quick sauce of tomatoes, garlic, Italian sausage and capers. The dish was a fine balance of acid, brine, spice and sweet. Satisfying and amazing.

One more resolution could now be checked off my list. Canning? Done. Pancakes? Done. Buy flowers for the apartment? Done. Juggling? Hmm, next week? Make pasta or gnocchi from scratch? A resounding hells yes done. Now I just need to get to making pie dough successfully and not hard as sheet rock. I still have two and half months to go...

Clock is ticking people, better get on your own lists.

-Puffy pillows of sweet potato perfection!-

Sweet Potato Gnocchi
Adapted from Pasta Sfoglia

1 1/2 pounds of unpeeled sweet potatoes
1 1/2 pounds of unpeeled russet potatoes
2 cups of all-purpose flour
1 egg
1/4 cup of pure maple syrup (not fake!)
1 teaspoon of kosher salt

To Make Gnocchi:
1. Preheat oven to 400F. Wrap the potatoes and sweet potatoes in foil. Bake for an hour or until a tester goes in without any resistance. Let cool until you can handle them.

2. Peel and discard skins. Pass through a potato ricer into a large bowl.

3. Add the egg, salt, and maple syrup and mix. Add 1 cup of the flour and mix. Add the second and mix until well combined.

4. Turn onto a dry surface that has been lightly floured. Gently knead the dough into a 10 x8 inch log. Let rest for a few minutes.

5. Cut the log into four pieces. Lightly roll into a rope about 1 inch thick (give yourself a lot of space for this). Cut each rope into 1/2-inch gnocchi. Store on a lightly floured baking sheet in a single layer..

These can be cooked immediately. You will have tons however. Place them in the freezer in a single layer on a lightly floured sheet. When frozen you can toss them into an airtight container and keep in the freezer. Use within two weeks. When you do use them, allow them to thaw for 30-45 minutes in a single layer on a baking sheet.

To Cook Gnocchi:
Bring a pot of well salted water to a boil. Add the gnocchi. They will sink to the bottom. After the gnocchi rise to the surface, let them cook a minute more. Scoop them out with a wire mesh skimmer or what-have-you and serve immediately with a favorite sauce.

-The sweet gnocchi here are well paired with capers as most things usually are.-

Sweet Potato Gnocchi with Capers, Tomatoes, and Italian Sausage
Adapted from Pasta Sfoglia - Serves 2

2 cups of sweet potato gnocchi
2 tablespoons of unsalted butter
1 clove of garlic, thinly sliced
1/4 tablespoon of capers, washed
1 link of mild Italian sausage, cut into small pieces
1 cup of diced tomatoes
splash of white wine
salt and pepper
1/4 cup of pasta water

1. Add butter to skillet and melt on medium-high heat. Add garlic, sausage, and capers and cook for 3-4 minutes. Add the tomatoes, salt, pepper, and wine. Cook for 2 minutes. Take off heat and cover.

2. Bring a pot of well salted water to a boil. Add the gnocchi. They will sink to the bottom. After the gnocchi rise to the surface, let them cook a minute more. Scoop them out with a wire mesh skimmer or what-have-you and put on plates or bowls.

3. Add pasta water to the tomato mixture and stir. Pour over hot gnocchi and serve.

-Gnocchi, with a flourish, is scratched off the list.-

Consolation and Cookies

2009-10-08T21:53:00.000-07:00

-Cookies are a perfect comfort food because both words start with a "C". My reasoning is infallible here.-

Dear Tyler,

I'm not sure what to say to you. Not after what you did. I'm still angry and upset that you would lie to me like that over the last few weeks. I'm in class writing this and trying not to cry. I have to go up to the front and give a presentation but all I can thi-

Suddenly an arm covered the rest of the letter. I looked up quickly only to meet the bloodshot eyes of the letter's author. They were framed by her rumpled eyelids and brow, furrowed like sand dunes casting small shadows that seemed to make her rage towards the fact that I had trespassed upon such a private correspondence all the more intense. She stared at me coldly, my invasion had made her situation public and she was embarrassed; frustrated at the unexpected revelation.

"I... uh-I... Sorry. I was bored waiting for the class to start and my eyes just kinda started to wander around. I didn't mean to intrude on your personal stuff. It was a total accident." I began to apologize profusely stopping at just shaving my head as penance.

She looked at me, her eyes growing a bit softer and wet. She glazed her line of sight to the left and struggled in for a deep breath, the air stuttering as if filled her lungs to the point where her chest might burst. She exhaled like a gun firing a shot, echoing it in the acoustic classroom.

"It's okay. Sorry, just... Yeah. He's an asshole and it's hard just... you know..." she sighed.

"Writing it out. It's admitting to yourself and taking it in through your own senses that there are problems," I said, hoping that I was finishing her thoughts the right way assuming there was one. I realized I had probably been a bit forward in my amateur analysis and hoped I hadn't offended her more.

"Yeah." I was relieved to hear her say this. She continued, "Just it's hard after so long to just make this decision and change my life in such a way." She paused for a moment, then turned and asked, "Is it tacky to write a letter?"

"I dunno, but I think eventually you have to talk to the person. It's inevitable. Avoiding it just makes you the bad guy I think. On the other hand the guy is probably a douchebag," I gave her a smile so awkward I thought it would fall off my face. I've never been good at this kind of thing, even with friends I know well. I'm never sure what to do. Just listen? Offer advice? I'm happy to be there as support for the people in my life, yet emotional situations lose me like a thick fog. I'm just uncertain as which way to go.

"He is," she laughed. "I'm Kelly."

"Garrett," I replied. We shook hands. Then I remembered the cookies I had baked last night. In my rush to get to class in time I had thrown a few into a plastic baggie and dashed them into my messenger bag as a way to later fight off the unending drone of the professor. "Cookie? I find cookies generally make most things better. At least temporarily."

"Ooh! Yes. I dig cookies," we toasted our cookies like wine glasses, a small puff of crumbs falling to the ground between our desks.

I smiled. I wasn't sure what else I could do. Class started and we made a few jokes and smart ass one-liners to each other to cut through the dry lecture. She would go back to her letter every now and again, jotting a few words down but keeping them covered with her arm. The thoughts weren't ready to be made known to anyone but her.

I fear consolation will never be a skill of mine. All I can offer are a few kind words and some cookies. Luckily, it seems, that's all people need at times.

-Cookies should always come in neat little bundles like this.-

Chocolate Chip Cocoa Nib Cookies
Makes 4-5 dozen

1 cup of butter (2 sticks) room temperature
2 eggs, room temperature
1 teaspoon of vanilla extract
1 heaping teaspoon of ground coffee
3/4 cup of sugar
3/4 cup of firmly packed dark brown sugar
1 teaspoon of baking soda
1 teaspoon of salt
2 cups of all-purpose flour
1/2 cup of whole wheat flour (substitute all-purpose if needed)
1 cup of dark or bittersweet chocolate chips
1/2 cup of cocoa nibs

1. Preheat the oven to 375 degrees. Line a baking sheet with parchment paper. In a side bowl whisk together the salt and flours.

2. Cream the butter for three minutes. Add the eggs, one at a time, beating for thirty seconds each. Add the vanilla extract and coffee and beat for another minutes. Be sure to scrape down the sides and bottom of the bowl to ensure even mixing.

3. Add the sugars and beat for two or three minutes until light and fluffy. Add the baking soda and beat for another minute. Be sure to scrape down the sides and bottom of the bowl.

4. Slowly mix in the flour mixture and beat until just incorporated together.

5. Stir in the chocolate chips and cocoa nibs. Spoon onto the prepared baking sheet in small spoonfuls. Bake for 8-10 minutes or until the edges are golden brown and the centers no longer pale. Let cook for a moment on the pan then move to a wire rack to finish cooling.

-"Dear Tyler, I'm eating cookies and you aren't. Suck it."-

knead the bread

2009-10-05T21:57:00.000-07:00

-Smeared with butter this bread will help cure whatever is pissing you the hell off.-

Sometimes, I need to just pause from the everything I'm doing. At the moment my schedule is work from 7-3:30, class from 4:30-6:30 (or 10 on Wednesdays), get home and do homework. During the time after homework I try to also eat, blog, run errands, do chores, and try to balance in a social and love life so people don't think I died by finally hanging myself outside the CSUS library where I spend most of my weekends doing research.

Still, and by sweet zombie Jesus there is a still, I find a moment to actually get some work done in the kitchen. Work isn't necessarily the right word. I don't see cooking as work. It's play. A chance to be creative. To blow off steam.

I find bread to be one of the more productive ways to let off steam and frustration. Few other tasks encourage you to smack the snot out of something with your ring hand and work out your frustration because those damn kids across the alley have no concept of noise pollution. (Oh shit, I think I'm old now!) Yes, kneading bread is a fabulous way to just get it all out.

The whole act of aggressive pulling, pushing, and shaping acts like an edible stressing stone. The warm ball of whole wheat and buckwheat has magic in it. Wet dough sticking to your fingers sucking out all the frustrations. Yeast has therapeutic properties, not only does it convert sugar into gas, it converts negative energy into sweet smelling goodness. As every muscle in your fingers contract and release, pushing energy in and out of the dough, it absorbs the frustration and imbues you with a kind of serenity only good bread can bestow.

This last Saturday, a day that had been plagued by reading on cognitive linguistic patterns, or something like that, I was filled with angst. It swirled inside me colliding, the friction of frustration and anger generating storms and dark clouds could be seen in my eyes. It was during this that I needed to knead bread, the same way a Buddhist will meditate for inner stillness. For me, it was noms rather than ohms.

"Ugh, God, you must be vengeful if I'm still fucking alive after this week."

*knead the bread*

"I'm tired! God damn assignment making me read over 280 pages in one weekend!"

*knead the bread*

"I just want to stop. Why the hell did I take this on!? Why did I want to go back to school!? I'm burnt out already. My personal graduation deadline is coming up fast!"

*knead the bread*

"Work is driving me crazy! Why won't people leave me alone so I can get shit done for once?"

*knead the bread*

"At least I can start teaching college writing soon. Assuming there are actually jobs out there when I graduate."

*knead the bread*

"Oh crap, I have an article due for Edible Sacramento soon. I need to budget time for that somehow. Crud. Okay, deep breath."

*knead the bread*

"I think I can squeeze it in in early November? Ah well, I'm sure I'll find something great to work on."

*knead the bread*

*looks out the window*

*knead the bread*

"God, it's nice outside. I think I'll open the window."

*knead the bread*

"Mace, damn it, go away. I'm not letting you eat another yeast packet. You fart up a storm when you steal those."

*knead the bread*

"Oh hells yes, this smells good. Hmm, I wonder if I should contact that person I met at BlogHer, I bet she would be a great wealth of information for my thesis."

*knead the bread*

"I think I'll add some more dried cranberries to this. Damn, this'll be good. If baking bread was a sin, Dante would have dedicated a chapter to me."

And then I set the bread in a warm place so the little bits of yeast who have escaped Eat Beast can nourish themselves. As the bread rises, so do my spirits. All is once again good with world.

-When life gives you cranberries you make cranberry studded bread sweetened by molasses. Then thank life for giving you cranberries because that was really awesome of it to do.-

Whole Wheat Molasses Bread with Cranberries
Adapted from Gourmet

2 1/2 cups all-purpose flour, plus additional for kneading
2 cups whole-wheat flour
2 tablespoons of buckwheat flour (optional)
2 teaspoons salt
1 (1/4-oz) package fast-acting yeast such as Fleischmann's Rapid Rise yeast
1 cup warm water
1/2 cup warm milk
1/4 cup molasses (not robust or blackstrap)
5 tablespoons unsalted butter, softened
1 1/2 cups dried cranberries

1. Whisk together flours, salt, and yeast in a bowl. Whisk together water, milk, molasses, and butter in another bowl until combined well, then stir into flour mixture until a wet dough forms. Stir in cranberries. You may need to add a sprinkle or two of water if the dough is initially crumbly.

2. Turn out dough onto a lightly floured surface and knead, working in just enough additional flour to prevent dough from sticking, until smooth and elastic, 7 to 10 minutes. Form dough into a ball and put in an oiled bowl, turning to coat, then let rest in bowl, uncovered, in a draft-free place at warm room temperature 10 minutes.

3. Divide dough in half and form into 2 balls. Arrange about 4 inches apart on a large baking sheet. Loosely cover with oiled plastic wrap and a kitchen towel and let rise in a draft-free place at warm room temperature until doubled, about 1 hour.

4. Preheat oven to 425°F with rack in lowest position. Lightly sprinkle dough with some flour and bake until golden brown and bottoms sound hollow when tapped, 20 to 25 minutes. Transfer to a rack to cool.

-Ruby nuggets of tarty goodness.-

Amaretti & Butternut Cupcakes

2009-10-01T00:00:00.000-07:00

I revamped, rewrote, and refined my very favorite of all time cupcake recipe. Enjoy!

-I think putting a cookie on top of a cupcake was one of the smartest things I ever did.-

Certain flavors are unexepectedly harmonious in ways you might never expect. Some people add curry powder to brownies, others add feta cheese to their watermelon, I combine hardy knots of winter squash with crispy amaretti.

Yet, this is not necessarily a new combination; in Italy and now in the United States it has become an increasingly popular filling for ravioli in the winter, and is often served with a nutty cream sauce. As strange as cookies in pasta sounds the flavor is spontaneous and endearing to the senses. So, when a flavor combination is this delightful, how can I not make it into a cupcake?

Crispy amaretti are hunted game in this household, their airy bodies musky with the scent of almonds make them a favorite prey for the cookie hungry. Come autumn it's also common to see my squash bowl out, an old wire basket I once picked up at an antique store that holds the obtuse produce throughout the chilly months until I end up carving, baking, pureeing and dicing them into manageable portions for whatever recipe.

Taking these two strong flavors and combining them is a task any adventurous baker should try. Two flavors that are like fall winds mixing and swirling into each other becoming one unified force with more body, more spirit than when they were apart.

Even if it's not this recipe, grind some amaretti cookies into dust and add them to pumpkin pie or bread. Go on. You'll see, I'm right. Then you'll come and thank me and want to try this cupcake recipe even more.

Amaretti Butternut Squash Cupcakes
Makes about 24 cupcakes / 350 F oven

I decided to revisit my first ever original cupcake, Butternut Squash with Sage Frosting and Allspice, and use the same base with a few little alterations. I ground up a few of the cookies into the batter in lieu of actually using almond extract in fear it would overtake the squash. The cake is fantastic.

1 large butternut squash (for 2 cups of puree)
4 large eggs, lightly beaten, room temperature
1 cup of butter, room temperature
1 cup of granulated sugar
1 cup of brown sugar
pinch of salt
1 teaspoon of baking soda
1 teaspoon of baking powder
2 cups of flour
1/3 cup of finely ground amaretti cookies

What You'll Do...
1. Quarter and seed the squash. Place in a dish with 1/4 cup of water and bake for 40 minutes at 350 degrees. Let cool, scoop out (no skins!) then puree in a food processor or blender.

2. In a medium bowl, whisk together flour, baking soda, baking powder, salt, and crushed amaretti cookies. Set aside.

3. In a large bowl, whisk together sugars, eggs, and butter. Add dry ingredients and whisk until smooth. Whisk in butternut puree.

4. Divide batter evenly among liners, filling each about halfway. Bake at 350 F until tops spring back when touched, and a toothpick inserted in the center comes out clean, about 18-22 minutes. Rotate pans once if needed. Transfer to a wire rack to let cool.

5) Frost with buttercream and top with an amaretti cookie.

Vanilla Buttercream
What You'll Need...
1 cup butter, room temperature
4 cups of powdered sugar
1/4 cup of milk
1 teaspoon vanilla extract

What You'll Do...
1. Cream the butter until soft.

2. Add the sugar and then the milk and extract. Cream till soft. Spread on cool cupcakes.

Adaptation
This recipe also makes for a great layer cake. Just use cake pans and increase the time to 35-40 minutes.

If you don't want to use butternut puree', 2 cups of pumpkin puree' from a can also tastes great!

Breakfast in Ojai

2009-09-28T21:20:00.000-07:00

-The runny eggs were smeared onto blackened toast, accompanied by a Marlboro Light and the morning paper.-

Ojai Grandma had always had a rough voice, one with the kind of sandy tone that only comes from decades of hard smoking. She still smoked in the house even when my mother took my brother and I to come visit. It wasn't out of irresponsibility or ignorance to the then newly publicized hazards of second-hand smoke, but it was simply how it had always been for her. It was her house and she would smoke if she'd like as she would often reprimand my mother who had quit years ago during her first pregnancy.

I was fascinated when Ojai Grandma chided my mother. It was like watching a elusive natural phenomenon, an event more rare and forbidden than the northern lights confined to the four walls of a Southern California home. "Sybil," she would say, "just leave it be," and she would return to her morning balancing act of reading the paper, eating, and smoking.

When Ojai Grandma called her Sybil this confused me as my mother went by her middle name Suzanne. Sybil was Ojai Grandma's name as well. Everyone except Ojai Grandma called my mother Suzanne, but Ojai Grandma was mom's mom so she must know best, even better than mom I figured. For years I would be confused by this and was unsure as to what my mom's actual name was as I felt asking would be a stupid question. (The concept that she simply went by Suzanne with everyone but her parents never occurred to me as a child.)

That smoke worn voice was the source of much love, and confusion.

I miss that rough voice. When I was young I had a mental image that when she slept a chicken must have crawled onto her bed and scratched at her voice looking for worms. "A tasty meal might lie in her throat," the chicken would think. Its sharp talons would shred her voice into rough layers as it dug for its dinner. So, when Ojai Grandma spoke, it was like listening to a raspy choir of voices.

It was this voice that would chide my mother and lecture my brother and me. We would get in trouble for not drinking our orange juice, "Too sour!" we would say and push it away. The juice was only sour because we ate our sugary cereal first. Lucky Charms and other such breakfasts were a rare treat reserved only for Ojai Grandma's house so when we had a chance to eat them they were devoured with eager speed before anything else at the table.

"You always eat the marshmallows first. That's why your juice is so sour," she said in her hen-pecked voice. She then took a bite of her burnt toast smeared with runny egg yolks and bacon drippings as stared at us, compelling my brother and me to obey. That stare froze me to my seat until, with a grimace, I chugged the fresh juiced offense down as quickly as possible.

Today, I always drink my juice first, often using it to wash down vitamins and supplements. I won't touch the rest of my breakfast until I finish my juice. It's a strange habit. I'd rather enjoy my orange juice, now sweet and pleasantly sour enough. My eggs can go cold and they will still taste like eggs, apricot jam will still taste like apricot jam no matter what, but orange juice is persnickety in how it tastes.

I think to myself, "Rules must be followed," and then eat a piece of burnt toast smeared in runny egg yolk.

Voice and Blogging

2009-09-25T10:01:00.000-07:00

This Saturday I'm at BlogHer Food 09 on the panel about voice and identity with Dianne, Ree, and Susan. I highly doubt we'll be able to get to everything we want to as it's a subject that we could spend days on. I wrote this little post up to give the topic a bit more depth and definition and open a little more dialogue about it. Please feel free to leave any ideas or contributions to the topic in the comments. ~Garrett

Voice is a difficult topic to pin down when when we're talking about blogging. It's not something you can mimic or try on like a suit. Voice is organic, unique to each blog and its producer. In the overcrowded world of food blogging your voice is your signature dish - each photo, recipe, post, and review represents you.

The basic rule to voice is what we've been taught since we were little: to be yourself.

It's astonishing just how hard that is. How do you convey who you are and your point of view in a way that's reflective and gives your readers a sense that they're sitting down with a real person? Translating this to paper (or in this case the screen) is no easy task.

I recently had dinner with a friend at a nearby sushi joint so we could play catch-up. As we traded stories about life, careers, and love over not-so-impressive bowls of miso soup I started to tell him about the panel. I asked permission to be self indulgent for a moment - I ask the same of you right now as well - and queried if he could describe what my blog voice was like. I had never sought out an outside opinion about my voice but I figured it was a sensible way to find out.

He sat for a moment pondering my question and finally said, "I can tell it's you when I read your blog. I mean, the way you write and the way you talk are different, but I can tell it's the same person. Your inflection, humor, and descriptions when telling stories are different than anyone else I know. You have a dry sarcasm and your words have a rhythm. I've heard and read plenty of your bitchy rants too to know when it's you who is complaining. Even if I were to just hear someone read your posts out loud, I would be able to tell it's you."

And there it was - my voice laid out to me. I asked a few other friends the same question, and while the answers varied certain traits were consistent. This little demo shows that your voice is your calling card. If you're not sure what it says, ask someone who reads your blog regularly. It may be a bit awkward but it's informative and something you should know.

Now, the difference between voice on your blog and voice in a conversation is that one requires more forethought. You don't ponder for a half hour how you'll reply when someone inquires about your day. Yet for a blog post we have to plan what we're going to say; in other words what our voice will be for each post.

How are you putting forethought into your blog post? Well, if you plan to talk about a recipe you have to consider a dozen things. What is in season? What is your cooking style? How do you want to photograph it? Why are you choosing this recipe? How do you want to introduce it? Why do you want to blog about this recipe? How will you write the recipe? Each decision is part of what will make up your voice.

After doing this for many posts you begin to demonstrate a certain individual style, this style is your voice, the voice of your blog. Your voice then becomes representative of your identity, or who you are as an individual outside of the blog. You then are the selling point of your blog through your identity, voice, and style.

The only way to develop your voice is to just keep blogging away. Write a lot, challenge yourself, find niches that you excel in, and keep your focus narrow. Your voice will grow and gain strength and, eventually, your confidence will grow making voice all the louder.

Tips for Finding Your Voice

Write Every Day: Every writing coach, English teacher, blogger, and writer will tell you that. Remember that you don't have to post everything you write. I know I have many posts that never saw the light of day, but did give me good ideas for future ones.

Stop and Consider: Ask yourself what the purpose of your post is? Think if there is a story or lesson somewhere in your recipe, or why you're using a particular photograph. A moment of reflection can make good posts great.

Get used to "I": The scary part where you have to reveal yourself to your readers. Remember that your voice is valid and has a right to be heard. A unique voice is what draws people into a blog. The prettiest pictures and the best recipes don't mean much unless they have an identity behind them. Writing coach William Zinser says, "writing is an egotistical act. Get used to it." This seems especially true to food blogging where you and your interactions with food are the main event.

Experiment: No one finds their voice overnight. It takes practice. Drafts. Time. Risk of failure. Try out different writing methods. Mimic your favorite authors and try to write in their style, see what works for you and what doesn't. The traits that work for you you'll absorb and adapt to your own. Try new posting formats, writing a book review, conducting an interview, or take new kinds of pictures. You may stumble into something you like.

I also highly suggest that every blogger pick up a copy of On Writing Well: The Classic Guide to Writing Nonfiction by William Zinsser, and Will Write for Food by Dianne Jacob.

You can find another great post about describing your voice on Dianne's blog.

Indifference (In Regards to Bread Pudding)

2009-09-20T13:04:00.000-07:00

-Pumpkin bread pudding with shaved chocolate is definitely one of the better things in life.-

"... and later tonight I plan to make bread pudding."

"Oh," he said.

"What?" I replied, already depressed at the answer I knew was coming.

"Nothing. Just, you know, bread pudding," he said while shrugging his shoulders.

This was the general reaction I had received throughout the day. As I traded weekend plans with friends and co-workers I would eventually get to the part where I would say that part of my Saturday schedule was to bake up a thick n' custardy bread pudding. Mind you, not just any bread pudding, pumpkin bread pudding with shaved chocolate.

Normally, my cooking plans get a bit more reaction than a stone-faced, "Oh, bread pudding." People had more to say about the fact that I also planned to mop my floors, sympathizing with me over the labor of it or launching into a humorous anecdote which surprised me as mopping is the last thing I would suspect someone would have a humorous anecdote for.

This isn't to say the reaction was negative, but it wasn't exactly positive either. No one professing their adoration for custard soaked chunks of bread, studded with raisins and cinnamon. Not a peep about eating a plate of it cold for breakfast with a dollop of whipped cream. At the same time no one told me stories of how their grandmother piled mounds of bread mush so sickeningly sweet it was no wonder dad was diabetic.

*sigh* All I got was indifference.

And here's the thing about indifference. It is, in my opinion, worse than hate. If you hate something that means it at least preoccupies a place in your consciousness. You are willing to point out your dislike openly. It has enough presence to rate somewhere in your life. If you're indifferent to a person, place or thing then that means it's moot. It doesn't have the importance to even register.

Simply put, you don't give a crap one way or the other.

This seems like a cruel attitude to have towards something as rich and homey as bread pudding. Personally, I get a little bit excited over it. How many desserts require so little work? What else encourages you to use up extra stale bread, cream on the precipice of spoilage, or that lone egg that's just sitting around? How many desserts have such an aura of hospitality and whose simple components effuse such a charming comportment?

This bread pudding's use of pumpkin and spices make it reminiscent of your favorite pumpkin desserts (indeed, you may forgo your favorite pumpkin pie recipe in lieu of this). The shaved chocolate adds a bittersweet tinge to the dish that makes it all the more irresistible. Simple prep, a mere rendezvous in the kitchen, and this slightly stylish dessert is turned out. And, I promise, every response you get will be "Oh! Bread pudding!" said through the biggest of smiles.

-As tempted as you might be to lick chocolate off a rasp, don't.-

Pumpkin Bread Pudding
Adapted from Gourmet

1 cup heavy cream
3/4 cup canned solid-pack pumpkin
1/2 cup whole milk
1/2 cup sugar
2 large eggs plus 1 yolk
1/4 teaspoon salt
1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1/4 teaspoon ground ginger
1/8 teaspoon ground allspice
Pinch of ground cloves
1 teaspoon of vanilla extract
2 tablespoons of shaved chocolate
5 cups cubed (1-inch) day-old baguette or crusty bread
3/4 stick unsalted butter, melted

1. Preheat oven to 350°F with rack in middle. Melt the butter.

2. Whisk together pumpkin, cream, milk, sugar, eggs, yolk, salt, spices, extract, and shaved chocolate in a bowl.

3. Toss bread cubes with butter in another bowl, then add pumpkin mixture and toss to coat. Transfer to an ungreased 8 or 9-inch square baking dish, shave with a little bit more chocolate if desired (who wouldn't?). Bake until custard is set, 25 to 30 minutes.
-If you're honestly indifferent to this then you must be a robot sent out to kill all humans. You monster.-

To the Faux Vegetarians...

2009-09-16T08:33:00.000-07:00

From the archives. I enjoy re-posting this once a year, usually when I get swamped from class. I edited it a bit this time around and added some new content. Enjoy!

I am officially done cooking for vegetarians. Okay wait, let me rephrase that: I am done cooking for faux vegetarians, and faux eaters in general.

"I don't eat any animals. But I love sushi."

I stare back in dumfoundry and reply, "Fish are animals."

She's encountered this remark before and counters, "No, they live underwater."

Someone explain that one to me, please.

"I eat meat but not pork. Well, except bacon." Oh, that makes sense. I wasn't aware there was such a thing as kosher pancetta.

"Eating animals is cruel." And your leather prada bag was developed through stem cell research, right?

In my opinion, as a total hardcore bacon portobello mushroom burger lovin' omnivore, vegetarians are people who eat nothing that ever flew, swam, or walked this earth. If it could move and think it's an animal and not on your menu. Last I checked that was the definition. So when I cook for someone who tells me they're a vegetarian, this is the rule I follow. Dairy and eggs are fair game unless they call me ahead of time and tell me otherwise (but that would be vegan then). All God's creature's are a no-no. I shouldn't be asked why I didn't prepare that "dish with those massive shrimp," by the said vegetarian.

Really, I don't mind cooking around allergies, likes, dislikes, health problems, and religious or moral viewpoints. I'm not going to serve a ham sammich with tomatoes to a practicing Muslim who gags at the thought of a sliced tomato touching their food. I will not, however, cook for someone who sits down and says they are on the Atkins for the next three days and can't eat the salad I made (insisting on near-raw hamburger instead), or the vegan eating a cheese bagel because "They're just too good to give up."

These are all real quotes and real food situations I've been ~~tortured~~ obliged to take part in, and it's this kind of random adoption of dietary proclivities that truly piss me off. It's ridiculous the types of food habits and special rules some people will adopt for themselves simply because it's fashionable or trendy at the time, then expect the host to cater to these farcical whims.

Is ridiculous a bit harsh? Not in my opinion. This tendency to see one's own fanatical and ever changing gustatory status as a "lifestyle" which should be catered to by everyone around them is the definition of the word. That, and it certainly can't be healthy for the mind or soul (nor the appetite for that matter).

Furthermore, jumping into the world of food allergies. If you're allergic to something, let's say apples, then tell me and I won't cook apples for you. If I catch you eating an apple later and you explain that really you "just don't like cooked apples, only raw" then you've been caught lying for the most ambiguous and unimportant reasons. There is no need to fib to refuse a dish, but rather just tell the truth even if it's during the meal in question where apples have been prepared. Forging dietary restrictions to get out of eating a meal someone served you is disrespectful to the host.

Sorry to have written in such a side-to-side, all over the board manner but I needed to get this one out of my system. To any faux vegetarians, semi-vegans, trendy dieters, sometimes allergic, stewed tomato eating raw food proponents: Bite Me. When you have figured out what you really want to eat, let me know, and you will be welcome to my table. There will be a hot meal waiting for you.

Conversations with Pears

2009-09-13T15:25:00.000-07:00

-Conversing with pears is the only way to find a good one.-

She was a pear shaped woman which, I suppose, was to her ironic benefit as pears were what she sold. She was dressed in an old sweater with a faded image of a school mascot I could barely make out. Her cheeks were blush and plump which were probably more charming when she wore her hair down. As it was now, her hair was tied up in the back with a rubber band which better showed the fatigue that pear farming had levied over the years.

Still, her pleasant smile and sweet disposition had a warming effect; they illuminated her and shined on those nearby. These and her baskets of colorful fall fruits are what drew such a crowd to her stall.

A basket of Gala apple were front and center. Their pink and yellow streaks were funky and vibrant, reminiscent of a party dress from 1985, yet they made it sleek and fashionable allowing any passerby to understand their socialite nomenclature. Next to it were bulbous Golden Boscs, whose sandpaper skin barely contained their crisp, meaty flesh. Russet hued Seckles sat like petite dolls in a collector's display next to amber glowing Comice who tried not to bruise one another.

I had asked the pear woman which ones would be good for baking. "Bartlett," she had said, and pulled down a bag while inquiring what my pastry plan of attack was.

"A crisp. Or a crumble. It depends. They all start out as crumbles, but if I forget that it's in the oven it's a crisp."

I was amused at my pun. I couldn't tell if she was, wasn't, or just missed it all-together. She just smiled and moved towards the basket of green Bartletts.

She went through the pile of pears reading their topography. Her experiences with pears has immersed herself in their own natural culture and she was now able to communicate on their level, understanding their inflections and sweet humor. She understood the secret language of pears, their pin-prick speckles and heft being their way of conversation. "I'm great for baking!" said one, and she dropped it into the bag. "Too late! I'm way too ripe!" said another once she put the pressure on. She put that ripe one, a perfect pear to eat right there in the market, back in the pile to eagerly wait for the right owner.

I gave her $5 for a bag of Bartletts; more than enough to cook with and plenty to eat. I had her throw in a few Gala apples as well (a fashionable move on my part). "Be sure to add star anise with the pears," she instructed through the still ever-present grin. "It tastes great."

She then moved on to her next customer who was cooing over the Comice. I smiled back to her though I knew she didn't see me. She and her pears were too busy charming the patrons at the stall.

-Dulce de leche and star anise make these pears proud.-

Pear Crisp with Star Anise and Dulce de Leche
Makes one 8x10 inch pan

Baking whole points of star anise gives this dish an amazing flavor. Be sure to let people eating this know not to eat them though. The dulce de leche is optional, but trust me, you want it.

3 medium Bartlett pears, peeled and chopped
1/4 cup of sugar
1 star anise, broken up

heaping 1/2 cup of rolled oats
heaping 1/2 cup of packed brown sugar
1/4 cup of all-purpose flour
1/4 cup of chilled butter
pinch of cinnamon
Dulce de leche

1. Preheat the oven to 350F. Lightly butter a 8x10 baking dish.

2. Place the pears, sugar, and star anise in a bowl and allow to macerate for 15 minutes. While the pears macerate place flour, oats, brown sugar, and cinnamon into a bowl. Cut in the butter using your fingers, two knives, or a pastry cutter until it all comes together is small pea sized bits.

3. Place the pears in the baking dish. Cover with the oat mixture. Bake for 25-30 minutes or until the top is lightly browned. Serve with dulce de leche.
-Crisp when cooked too long. Crumble when cooked too short. I learned long ago the best way to fix a ruined dish is to rename it.-

Rum Soaked Cupcakes with Dulce de Leche Frosting

2009-09-10T19:40:00.000-07:00

-Dulce de leche will never be a food faux paux.-

I recently had a talk with my friend Kate who said she read the cupcake trend was coming to an end soon for a variety of reasons - the new fad of funky flavored ice cream, the bad economy, the over-saturation of cupcake bakeries. I was generally unfazed and unsurprised.

"Of course it is. You read about my Rocktar Ingredient Theory. Remember in the late 80's how every chef and product went insane for kiwis? Or the craze Alice Water's caused over her deification of green zebra heirloom tomatoes? I knew cupcakes were going out of style about a year ago," I said with assurance and a touch of arrogance.

My friend Kate looked at me,"Didn't you say you were making some later today?"

"Yes, but that's not the point. You see, just because it's out of style doesn't mean you can't still eat it and love it," I replied smugly.

Food fads aren't quite the same as fads in music and fashion. The way I see it food is centrally focused and has a direct purpose: to provide sustenance. Furthermore, food has the additional bonus of providing extreme pleasure through the senses. If something tastes good we get satisfaction from it. While you might not see kiwis on every plate at a restaurant, people still buy, grow, eat, and cook with them. The fad may be over but the food in question is still present and visible in the public consciousness, it just doesn't sit on a pedestal anymore.

Cupcakes may go out of style and a few cupcake shops may close, but no one will ever recollect about 2008 and wonder what they were thinking when they ate that cupcake with dulce de leche frosting. They'll think how sweet and moist the cake was, how the frosting had just enough salt from the cream cheese which tempered the rich dulce de leche. They'll remember the crunch of the almonds and the spice of the rum.

Then they'll go and make those cupcakes again because to hell with fads - good food never goes out of style.

-For fun times and big laughs put a dab of this stuff on your pet's nose and allow hilarity to ensue.-

Rum Soaked Vanilla Cupcakes
adapted from Gourmet - makes 12

1 cup all-purpose flour
1 1/2 teaspoons of baking powder
pinch of salt
6 tablespoons of butter, room temperature
1/2 cup of sugar
1 egg
1/2 teaspoon of vanilla extract
1 teaspoon of spiced rum (break out the Captain Morgan)
1/2 cup whole milk

1. Preheat oven to 350F. Put cupcake papers in a muffin tin.

2. Whisk together the flour, baking powder, and salt in a bowl and set aside.

3. Beat the butter and sugar together for a few minutes in high until light and fluffy. Add the egg, vanilla and rum and beat for another minute or two.

4. Add the flour mixture and milk alternatively in batches, beginning and ending with the flour mixture and mixing until just combined.

5. Divide batter among cupcake cups. bake for 20-25 minutes or until a toothpick comes out clean. Cool on a wire rack. When cooled brush with rum. Allow it to absorb for 10 minutes. Brush again with second coat of rum. When the rum is absorbed frost the cupcakes.

Dulce de Leche Cream Cheese Frosting

5 tablespoons of Philly cream cheese
1/2 cup of dulce de leche
slivered almonds

1. Beat the cream cheese on high for a minute. Add the dulce de leche and beat well. Frost cooled cupcakes and then add a small amount of slivered almonds.

-Couture comes in frosting.-

Harsh Realities

2009-09-07T06:07:00.000-07:00

Every office has that one table. The one that’s always covered with food. Lots of food. Fatty, sugary, deep fried, salted, cream filled, jellied and buttered, extra pepperoni food. Food I have to struggle to avoid. A box of asiago and garlic bagels sitting next to a small tub of whipped cream cheese. Boxes of cookies. Leftover donuts from a meeting. Dishes that weren’t finished off at yet another potluck. It’s like a god damn siren calling sailors to their doom, except instead of craggy rocks it’s a warm cinnamon bun the size of your head.

I have to actually voice my self restraint when I pass by this table so it’s not uncommon to suddenly hear me scream, “Chocolate muffins, I REJECT YOU!”

Given, I am a major contributing force to the problem. Half the stuff you see me make on the blog ends up at work. One person ~~can’t~~ shouldn’t eat two dozen cupcakes alone, plus I’m trying to watch my girlish figure. The way I see it is that if I’m going to get fat I’m putting everyone on the train to Chubbyville with me.

Today there was half of a sheet cake sitting there. The tiny piped on frosting carrots that are so ubiquitous with Costco bakeries signaled that it was carrot.

A co-worker and her child were in the kitchen at the time. As she poured herself a cup of stale coffee that had been sitting motionless in the pot for the last five hours the child’s eyes never wavered away from the cake. Regardless of any motion he made he never lost direct sight of his sweet toothed desire. This carrot cake was his new God, and he its devoted acolyte.

Finally he summoned up the courage and piped up, “Mom, can I have a piece of carrot cake?”

“No,” she said, crushing his dreams.

“But it’s carrot cake! It’s a vegetable.”

I interjected, “No,” I laughed, “carrot cake is not a vegetable.”

The look of defeat on his face was almost heartbreaking. In under ten seconds I destroyed a child’s hopes and optimism. He knew that if a stranger saw through his specious reasoning, mom did too. I remember adults telling me this about carrot cake when I was little. It's a cruel fact and one of the many initiations into adulthood.

“Sorry sweetie,” mom said, “but we both know that’s not going to work.”

Harsh realities of life kid. Get used to it.