The Perils of Cooking in a New Apartment

After months of travelling and cooking and eating and imposing on the hospitality (and couches, air mattresses and guest rooms) of family, friends and acquaintances, I have found a little place to make my own--at least for a little while.

I should say the place found me. While indulging my culinary wanderlust, I found myself returning to one city in particular with a frequency that perplexed me. I figured I should probably stay put for a while and see what happened next. Just a few days after I made up my mind to look into finding a place, this one literally plopped itself in my lap: a furnished, one bedroom apartment with a semi-private garden and a month-to-month lease in walking distance of some of the best restaurants in the city.

Three weeks later, I moved in.

It has been a while since I've lived alone, and in general I don't care for it. Living alone just seems to me to be a collossal waste of resources: space, utilities, companionship. But worst of all is having no one to cook for, and a regularly scheduled dinner table for one. It never bothers me to dine out alone; but at home, one should never be required to eat alone.

On moving day I planned a very simple dinner. After the requisite meeting with the landlord, signing of papers, walking through the apartment, and unpacking my suitcase, it was late and I was hungry. I had a bag of groceries from Trader Joe's, and a plan.

The kitchen is sufficent with a gas range and poorly thought but abundant cabinet space. There was a set of cast iron skillets, cutlery, utensils, a toaster oven and coffee maker. Luckily, I'd brought with me a stock pot (yes, I travel with certain kitchen items) and set to work making a lentil soup.

I started by sauteing some onions in olive oil.

Less than a minute passed before the smoke detector went off.

Perterbed, I hastily found a chair to stand on and removed the smoke detector from the wall, then removed its battery. I opened a cabinet, placed both on the shelf, closed the cabinet and returned to my onions (slightly more brown than I had wanted them, so I quickly deglazed with some beef broth). While I appreciate that the law requires a landlord to provide a working smoke alarm, I do wonder why one is placed three feet from a stove. In the kitchen. Especially when another one is twelve feet away in the living room. I'm contemplating a smoke detector relocation program, perhaps to the bedroom.

I finished cooking the soup and ate it with a nice crusty bread.

Hours later I was still awake. I was not yet accustomed to the sounds of this new place, and my mind was full of all the possibilities of things to eat in the coming days and weeks. And, as E.B. White put it so well, "when your stomach is empty and your mind is full, it's hard to fall asleep."

At two o'clock in the morning, I acquiesced. It was time for toast.

I hadn't tried the toaster oven yet, and it occurred to me only when the unit started smoking that two o'clock in the morning might not be the best time.

I quickly unplugged the toaster oven and rushed it out the back door into the semi-private garden, leaving a plume of smoke behind me.

It was then that I realized the fan in the kitchen vent didn't work. And that the smoke remaining in the apartment could very easily reach the smoke detector in the living room. I grabbed a dish towel and started fanning furiously. It also occurred to me that the smoke alarm in the living room appeared to be attached to a central alarm system. I was suddenly very awake, and not at all hungry.

After twenty minutes of jumping around the apartment doing my anti-fire dance, I found myself wide awake and not at all hungry (although I did end up eating the toast with a generous slathing of good butter and some strawberry jam). The air had cleared and the alarm had not sounded. I tucked myself back into bed and decided it would be better to meet the neighbors under more auspicious circumstances than a false fire alarm in the middle of the night. Perhaps I could bake a cake. Or make another pot of soup.

Moving Day Lentil Soup
Ingredients (all from Trader Joe's)

1 large yellow onion, sliced
3 tbsp Olive Oil
3-4 sprigs fresh thyme
3 links italian sausage (fully cooked, in deli section), sliced
1 pkg steamed french lentils (in produce section)
4 cups organic beef broth
1"x2" rind of hard cheese such as parmesan
salt and pepper to taste

1. Remove battery from smoke alarm.
2. Saute onions in olive oil over medium high heat until onions begin to brown, 2-3 minutes.
3. Deglaze with about 3 tablespoons of beef broth.
4. Add thyme and sausage, then cover reduce heat to medium. Cook until thyme becomes aromatic (3-5 minutes).
5. Add lentils and beef broth and bring to a boil.
6. Reduce heat to simmer and add cheese rind. Cover and continue to simmer about 20 minutes.
7. Correct seasoning, and remove thyme stems and cheese rind. Serve hot with crusty bread.


P.S. The next morning I thoroughly cleaned the toaster oven. It works just fine.

Thanksgiving--The Basics

I've never met an American over the age of eight who didn't have a specific Thanksgiving Dinner food memory.

Thanksgiving may be the ultimate "comfort food meal." Certain dishes are iconic--roasted Turkey (yes, with a capital "T"), cranberry sauce, stuffing, pumpkin pie. And while variations and "twists" on the classics abound, the classics remain classics for a reason--they are time tested, taste tested, and well loved.

This year, many friends and family members are on tight budgets, pairing down extravagances, and returning to the simple, classic Thanksgiving Dinner. There is an extra dose of comfort in what is most familiar. For those of you who have asked, I offer you these recipes straight out of my own childhood (minus the candied yam casserole topped with marshmallows--a dish I hope will be permanently retired from the menu). Just the basics.

Thanks for reading, and enjoy your holiday.

Roasted Turkey

The turkey is the star of Thanksgiving Dinner. Keep it simple with a whole roasted bird. Use a fresh bird if you can, or make sure a frozen bird is thawed completely by cooking time. Prepare the bird by rinsing it and patting it dry. Lift the skin of the breast and smear with softened butter. Salt the bird inside and out. As for how to cook the bird, roast according to your regularly scheduled method, follow the directions on the package, or from your butcher, or call the Butterball hotline.

Gravy

I'm not a big fan of gravy, but I do enjoy making it. Grandma made the gravy last, with the pan drippings while the turkey was resting after cooking. She would pour off about 2 cups of the liquid and let it separate in a large glass measuring cup.

Ingredients:

Pan drippings (the oily parts)

Pan juices (the liquidy parts without the oil)

8 oz sliced mushrooms

1/2 diced yellow onion

2 tbsp flour

water or stock, if desired

Method:

1. In a medium saucepan, saute mushrooms and onions in turkey pan drippings until soft.

2. Sprinkle with flour. Stir and continue cooking for one minute.

3. Whisk in pan juices (1-2 cups as desired) and raise heat. Bring to a boil, then simmer until thickened. Thin with water or stock if desired. Season with salt and pepper to taste.

Stuffing

I prefer my bird unstuffed, and make the stuffing on the side like my grandma did (which is technically called "dressing"). Grandma also grew her own sage, which she used liberally in this dish.

Ingredients:

2 loaves sliced bread (white or wheat, whichever you prefer), dried in oven

3 tbsp bacon drippings (or olive oil)

2 yellow onions, chopped

4-6 ribs celery, chopped

1/2 cup chopped fresh sage leaves

2-3 sprigs fresh thyme leaves

3-4 cups chicken stock

1/2 cup butter, melted

2 eggs, slightly beaten

1 cup raisins, plumped
1 cup chopped walnuts (optional, but I always opt)
salt and pepper, as needed

Method
1. Preheat oven to 350 F. Grease a 9" x 13" casserole dish.
2. Break or slice bread into small pieces. Set aside in a large mixing bowl or stock pot.
3. In a large pan, saute onions and celery in bacon drippings or olive oil until soft. Add sage and thyme and saute another minute until aromatic.
4. Add melted butter and 1 cup stock. Cook another minute, then remove the thyme stems, plucking any hanging leaves and returning them to the pan.
5. Pour onion mixture over bread mixture and toss to combine.
6. Add egg, raisins and nuts and mix well. Add just enough more stock to moisten the bread, but not so much that it gets soggy or mushy. Toss well to mix.
7. Place into prepared casserole dish. Bake, uncovered, in preheated oven for 45-60 minutes until sides are nicely browned and crisp.

Brussel Sprouts with Sweet Onions

Brussel sprouts were my dad's favorite vegetable, and these have a dressing similar to hot german potato salad. I like to use rice wine vinegar, although I think plain white or apple cider vinegar is more traditional. These are prepared on the stovetop, so they don't have to compete with the turkey and stuffing for oven time.

Ingredients:

1 pound small brussel sprouts

3 tbsp bacon drippings (or butter or olive oil)

1 sweet onion (red or white), chipped

1 tbsp sugar

3 tbsp vinegar (white, apple cider, or rice wine)

Method:

1. Clean brussel sprouts and slice in half through the base, leaving the base intact so the sprouts don't fall apart.
2. Steam brussels in a large steamer basket until tender but still crisp, about 7-8 minutes (longer for bigger sprouts). Remove from steamer.
3. In a large saute pan, cook onions in bacon drippings (or butter or oil) over medium high heat until translucent (about 3-5 minutes).
4. Add sugar and cook until onions begin to caramelize.
5. Deglaze with vinegar. Add brussel sprouts to pan and toss to coat. Serve hot.

Cranberry Orange Relish

This uncooked cranberry orange relish is best made a day ahead. It is delicious on turkey sandwiches, too. You will need a food processor or blender for this recipe.

Ingredients:

1 bag (12 oz) fresh cranberries

1 whole navel orange (with peel), cut into 8 slices

1 cup white sugar

Method:

1. Place all ingredients in a food processor.

2. Pulse/blend until evenly chopped, which may take several minutes.

3. Taste, and add a little more sugar if too tart, or a squeeze of lemon juice if too sweet.

4. Store in refrigerator. Serve chilled.

Pumpkin Pie

One secret to good pumpkin pie is getting good pumpkin. Use canned organic pumpkin if you can find it.

The other secret is the crust. My grandma taught me how to make wonderful rolled pie crusts with butter and flour, but it is impossible to pass along the method without showing it to you in person. So much of working with dough is how it feels. And a miserable pie crust simply ruins a pie, especially if it is a simple but special pie such as this one. A gingersnap crust is delicious with this pie, and practically fool proof. Pie can be made the day before serving, and should come out of the oven at least four hours before serving.

Crust:

2 cups crushed gingersnaps

1/4 cup melted butter

Combine and press into a 9" deep dish pie pan, or a 9" spring form pan. Set aside.

Pie filling:

4 oz softened cream cheese

3 tbsp butter, softened

1 cup sugar

1 can (15 oz) canned pumpkin

1 egg

1/2 cup half and half

1/2 tsp cinnamon

1 tsp fresh grated ginger (optional, but I like to opt)

Method:

1. Preheat oven to 350 F.

2. Beat together cream cheese, butter and sugar until well combined.

3. Add pumpkin and beat well to combine. Add remaining ingredients, beating well to combine.

4. Pour filling into crust-prepared pan.

5. Bake for 50-60 minutes until center is set.

6. Cool completely to room temperature. Serve with copious amounts of whipped cream.

Oh Food Trucks, Where Art Thou?

I remember a time when Momofuku was just a hole in the wall--in its early days, when one could walk in and take a seat at the counter, enjoy a plate of savory pork buns and linger over a bowl of brothy noodles before returing, full and happy, to the cacophany of First Avenue. It was conveniently located (literally) around the corner from my apartment. I ate there almost daily for a few of months.

I also remember the day I walked in the door and saw Mario Batali and company seated prominently by the front window with what looked like every item on the menu splayed out before him. He was showy and boisterous and enjoying the audience that could not keep their attention away from the spectacle in bright orange Crocs. The fairy tale that was my perfect neighborhood restaurant had come to an end.

And indeed, the very next week I had to wait for a seat. I was glad for David Chang's success, but so sad that my experience of this "good thing" had come to an end.

It occured to me then that perhaps if it had been harder to find, or if it had taken more effort for the "outsiders" to enjoy the wonders of Momofuku, that my little Eden would not have been so fleeting.

Enter the Food Truck. My father called one a "Roach Coach" when I was a child, so I eschewed them into my early adulthood.

That was before I worked in the industry. Before the Vendy Awards. Before Twitter.

Consider this article from the New York Times Dining Section this past week. There is some work involved on the part of the eater to actually locate these vendors. And once you find the food, you must be willing to eat it standing up, or squatting on a sidewalk, or possibly leaning against a building. You may need to wait in the rain. Or the sweltering heat. This is not food you eat to "be seen," (yes, Mario, I'm referring to you), but food to eat because it is GOOD. The food itself is (literally) fleeting. One must pursue it.

And just because you find it once does not guarantee that it will return to the place where you left it.

Does the chase make the food taste better? Perhaps to some. But for me, good food is worth the effort, especially if it keeps the party crashers at bay.


P.S. If you happen to be in New York this weekend, the 2009 Vendy Awards are this Saturday, September 26 at Queens Museum of Art.

Do You Have Any Carrots?

A few weeks ago I was spending some time with a good friend and her family. She was revving up to return to her job as a high school teacher after a year off for maternity leave. I offered to do the menu planning, grocery shopping and cooking for the week.

While throwing together a pasta salad, it occurred to me that I had forgotten to buy a few things. So I asked my friend, "do you have any carrots?"

We rifled through the produce drawer to no avail.

"I wish I'd bought a bell pepper," I muttered under my breath.

"Oh!" she exclaimed. "I have those in my garden!"

Earlier in the summer, she had planted a little vegetable garden, but had neglected for several weeks as she geared up for the new school year.

Without another word we slipped out the kitchen door and into her backyard.

Although the weeds had crept in and a few of the plants had gone to seed, she did indeed have a gorgeous yellow bell pepper that was picked immediately. A few sprigs of curly parsley were plucked, too.

And there were carrots, waiting politely in a row, their bushy green locks waving at us gently as if to say, "I'm still here! Pick me! Pick me!"

The one we picked gave a fight, clinging firmly to the ground. It took more than a minute of wiggling and coaxing to free it from the soil. But when it yielded, we saw why--it as split into three roots no more than two inches below its head. It looked vaguely like a molar, extracted whole. We laughed at how silly it looked, then paused for a moment, almost in wonder, at how things grow.

Returning to the kitchen, I decided not to add it to the pasta salad. A freshly picked carrot is so much sweeter than one you would buy at a grocery store. We sliced the carrot and nibbled on it.

"This is the best carrot I've ever tasted," she commented. I agreed.

Just a Little Chocolate

Some days, you just need a little chocolate.

When I have those days, what I crave is chocolate cake. Good, dense, chocolate cake.

The problem is, I usually don't want a huge slice of cake, just a few mouthfuls. Enough to satisfy my craving.

To further complicate the issue, I don't want frosting. I don't want spongy cake. I don't want a cake from a box mix. I don't want a cookie.

What I want are these dense chocolate mini-cakes. They are small enough to fit into your mouth, but taking them in two bites extends the chocolately goodness.

The ingredients are simple, and if you keep your kitchen stocked to be ready to bake, you probably have everything you need to make these in the house right now.

This recipes makes enough to share (if you are so inclined). The batter freezes nicely, in case you want to bake a fresh batch now and another one later. They are perfect to take to a potluck, or to wrap as a hostess gift, or to offer to guests with tea or coffee.

Two Bite Chocolate Mini-Cakes



Ingredients:

100 grams (about 3/4 cup) All Purpose Flour

1 cup cocoa powder (not dutch processed)

1/2 tsp salt (non-iodized)

12 oz (3 sticks) unsalted butter, melted and slightly cooled

3 large eggs

1 cup sugar

6 oz semi-sweet mini chocolate chips



Method:



1) Preheat oven to 325 degrees F. Grease and flour a non-stick mini-muffin pan.



2) Sift together flour, cocoa powder and salt. Set aside.



3) In a large bowl, beat eggs on medium speed. Slowly stream in sugar and continue to beat until mixture thickens and is pale in color.



4) Add about half of the dry mixture and half of the melted butter. Mix on low speed to combine. Add remaining dry mix ture and melted butter and continue mixing on low to combine. Stir in mini-chocolate chips.



5) Spoon batter into mini-muffin pans. (Batter will not expand much, so fill almost to the top).



6) Bake in pre-heated 325 degree F oven for 15-20 minutes until top of cakes is just set. (The toothpick test will not work because the mini-chocolate chips will be melted.)



7) Remove from oven and let cool 5-10 minutes. Remove cakes from pan and let cool on a rack.



Makes 36 mini cakes.

Scuppernog

Some of the best meals I’ve ever eaten have been in the American South.

Many regional culinary specialties come to mind when I think of Georgia--boiled peanuts, summer peaches, biscuits and gravy.

I never fail to marvel at the bounty of regional produce at the Farmers Markets there during the summertime. Tomatoes and watermelon and honey. Okra and cucumbers and fresh chicken eggs. The colors are so beautiful, the fragrances so luscious in the warm, humid air and soft morning light.

I love that people in the South are so polite. Last week, I spied some beautiful figs on the back table of one vendor. There were precious few baskets of them, and I had decided that one of them was to be mine. The farmer was attending to an elderly gentleman who was hard of hearing and selecting some tomatoes. They chatted cordially while he selected a dozen or so from the heirloom varieties. The vendor was comfortably unhurried, offering to package up the tomatoes in several smaller boxes to keep them from being crushed when the man carried them home.

Quite a small crowd had gathered around the farm stand during their transaction. The farmer had a choice selection of produce. My Yankee instincts threatened to kick in--to step forward, to start elbowing the newcomers, to throw around some money and threatening glances and challenge the crowd for the alpha stance.

Silly, silly Northerner.

No one rushed. No one pushed. No one tapped a foot or sighed impatiently.

And when the farmer was finished attending to the gentleman with the tomatoes, he helped him load the little boxes into his basket and bid him a good day.

When he looked up at the small crowd, I felt sheepish. I felt a bit like an outsider, like I stuck out, like I should let someone go ahead of me and observe the interaction for context clues.

After a few moments of speechless but courteous smiles were exchanged, I heard a voice beside me.

“I believe the young lady is next.”

I claimed my bag of figs, trying my best to savor the moment of chatting with the farmer and not to rush. I didn’t feel guilty for enjoying the lilting cadence of this interlude. This is what life in the South is supposed to be like. And when in Rome….

A line from an Indigo Girls song comes to mind: “When God made me born a Yankee, He was teasing.”

As I continued through the market, eating the figs out of hand, I stopped short at a vendor with baskets of peaches, cucumbers and some small, round things that I could not identify. They were about the size of cherry tomatoes, but had stubby, woody stems on them that made me think of cherries with closely trimmed stems. Their skins were tight, also like a cherry tomato, but they were greenish bronze and speckled with brown. After a few moments of contemplating them, I had to ask, “what are those?”

I had forgotten my manners. The farmer reminded me with his courteous greeting and answer.
“Good morning, ma’am. These here are scuppernogs. Those figs sure look delicious.”
I backtracked, wished him a good morning, and got back to the matter at hand.

“Scupperknob?” I asked.

“Scuppernog,” he corrected. “Sometimes called a muscadine. They are like big grapes.”

I had to have some.

With money in my hand, I was about to ask him for a basket, rushing the moment again. “Would you like to taste one?” he asked, unhurriedly, like he had all the time in the world. He held one out to me.

I held it close to my nose--it smelled like Fruit Loops. I gently squeezed the tight skin, and it yielded only gently, like a plump cabernet grape still on the vine. I put the whole thing in my mouth and held it between my left molars, cradling it with my tongue and my cheek as I gently bit down. The skin popped with a sweet juiciness, the thick, firm skin yielding to the softer flesh inside. For a brief moment it tasted like grape soda. I chewed gently; the tart, musky flavor of the skin balanced the sweetness of the fruit. Inside, a found a smaller slippery orb, more dense than the flesh closest to the skin--the source of the sweetness. At the very center was a small seed, like you would expect in a grape. I bit it gently and it crunched, still green. I found it bitter, but a surprising and unexpected finish.

I repeated the name to myself several times so I wouldn’t forget it. I wanted to look them up when I got home.

Scuppernog. Scuppernog. Scuppernog.

It sounded like a magical incantation.

But like many wonderful Southern foods, there isn't a lot of reliable information available on the internet for the Scuppernog, although a Google search led me to other names for the fruit including scuppernong, suscadine, and scuppydine.

And now that I've had a first hand experience with scuppernogs, I am finding reference to them everywhere--books like To Kill A Mockingbird and The Secret Life of Bees, recipes for jelly and salsa, and it is the official state fruit of North Carolina.

Perhaps I'll need to do some research of my own to learn more about this lovely fruit, which means going back to the Farmers Market, and getting more scuppernogs.

Eavesdropping on Nora and Maureen

Have you ever eaten a bowl of cold cereal over the kitchen sink in the middle of the night? The perfect reading material for such a private indulgence may be this article.