bitter honey

the cake

 

If there is any one dish that I am known for, it is my coconut cake. When I say known, I do not mean known like the way that say, Jamie Oliver is known. I simply mean that within my circle of friends and family, people tend to remember that I make a coconut cake and that I make it well. Take for example, my stepfather who, after splitting up with my Mother for ten years, upon finally re-uniting with her said to me the first time I visited them in their new home, “Hi Tov, when are you gonna make me a coconut cake?” NotI “It’s been a while”, not “how are you”, but “make me a coconut cake”.

    Then there are the random texts on Saturday afternoon from my best friend Amy that read simply "make the coconut cake.", as if I would even have any way of getting it to her all the way in CT. And the late night e-mails from various unrecognizable addresses. I miss your coconut cake. In a conversation with my most recent ex, whom I now consider a very good friend, he said the only thing he envied my current boyfriend was, you guessed it, my coconut cake.
    

    The secret about my coconut cake is this: I’ve never made it the same way twice. The first time I made it I couldn’t have been any more than twelve years old. It was a birthday gift for my Mom who adores coconut more than any other flavor of dessert there is (yes, even chocolate). Since then I’ve made it so many times that I no longer need to look at a recipe. It was the first recipe I ever “mastered”, and I imagine that if I simply continued to make it the way I did that very first time, it would still taste just fine, but for some reason I can’t seem to help myself. It’s become a sort of long term project. I am determined, within this life, to make the hands-down-best coconut cake that ever existed, ever.

    My recent trip home to the east coast was a perfect opportunity to tweak my recipe just a little bit more for the people who love my coconut cake the best. This time I took inspiration from Smitten Kitchen and used a variation on this cake for the base. Oh, and I made it gluten-free to accommodate my grandmother who has Celiac disease, by simply substituting this for regular flour.

It was a damn tasty coconut cake. Possibly the best one I’ve made yet.

Until the next time, that is.

The Best Coconut Cake (So Far)

I will leave it up to you to use whatever white/yellow cake recipe you happen to like best, although as I said before, I had great success with this one. After years of making this cake I can promise you that the cake itself is besides the point. The real focus here is on the coconut, which I’ve incorporated a number of different ways and which truly ends up dominating the flavor.

2 cups unsweetened shredded coconut
2 cups mascarpone
confectioner’s sugar to taste (about ½ cup alltogether)
1 tall, round white or yellow cake cut horizontally in half
or
2 small round white or yellow cakes trimmed so that they fit on top of each other neatly
1 can coconut milk
2 cups heavy cream
1 tsp vanilla extract
½ cup coconut shavings


Preheat the oven to 325
Mix the shredded coconut with mascarpone in a bowl. Sweeten to taste using confectioner’s sugar (regular sugar leave a grainy texture). Set aside
Place one cake or cake half on a serving platter or cake stand. Using a fork, poke a few holes in the top of the cake. Just a few. You want it to still maintain structure. Open the can of coconut milk and mix well to be sure that the creamy layer on top is incorporated into the more liquid layer underneath. Drizzle lightly over the top of the cake and into the holes you poked with the fork. Be sure not to flood the cake - you want the coconut milk to be absorbed by the cake, adding moisture and infusing it with flavor, but not creating too wet or sticky of texture.
Spread all of the coconut-mascarpone mixture over the coconut-soaked bottom layer of your cake. Use a butter knife to make a smooth, even coating. Then carefully top with other cake/half-cake. Poke a few holes in the top layer of cake as well and lightly drizzle with coconut milk again.
Add the vanilla extract to the heavy cream in a large bowl. Sweeten to your liking with more confectioner’s sugar (I like it just barely sweet - a tablespoon or two). Whip the cream into stiff peaks. You want it a bit thicker than typical whipped cream - think spreadable. Use the cream to frost the cake all the way around. I generally make a mess while doing this and clean it up and smooth it out later.
Toast the coconut in a single layer on a baking sheet, keeping an eye on it so that it reaches a perfect golden brown and does not burn. This generally takes about five minutes. Sprinkle the toasted coconut over the top of the cake. Chill until ready to serve.

 

 

Sunday Perfect

It was Sunday morning and I had everything I needed. Stunning candy-stripe figs; rich, salty bacon; cool, sweet watermelon and the last of summer's deep-red cherries. Still, it wasn't quite brunch. There was something missing. A great big, gaping hole on the plate in need of filling. 

Pancakes? French toast? Too pedestrian. I wanted something special. Something that wouldn't pale alongside my pristine late summer produce.

That's when I remembered that funky recipe I had recently come across in Melissa Clark's In the Kitchen with A Good Appetite. It was for some sort of pancake that supposedly  puffed up when you baked it in the oven. While I couldn't possibly imagine what that would come out like, I was intrigued enough to try it. Plus, I remembered noting that the recipe called for only a few basic ingredients; a definite plus on a Sunday morning!

For those of you that also have trouble imagining what a puffy pancake actually looks like, here is a photo:

I must admit, it is infinitely satisfying to mix a few simple ingredients in a bowl, pour them into a hot skillet containing an unholy amount of butter and have the whole thing emerge from the oven as something else entirely. It's that perfect kind of kitchen alchemy where the end result far exceeds it's humble components. I would recommend that you make the recipe for that reason alone if it weren't for the fact that it tastes amazing as well. Ethereal and comforting at the same time, it's a difficult thing to describe, except to say that I have craved it absolutely every day since making it. Rich with butter, faintly spicy from the nutmeg and barely sweet. It tastes as much like breakfast as it tastes like dessert. It tastes like brunch. It tastes like Sunday.

David Eyre's Pancake (adapted from Melissa Clark's In the Kitchen with A Good Appetite)

I've changed this recipe only slightly. Mostly because I find it impossible to add nutmeg to something without adding vanilla as well. I also swapped out the lemon for orange because I thought the softer, sweeter orange juice would work well with all the warm flavors at play here.

3 large eggs

1/2 cup milk

1/2 cup all-purpose flour

1/4 teaspoon freshly grated nutmeg

1 teaspoon vanilla extract

Pinch kosher salt

1 medium orange

4 tablespoons unsalted butter

2 tablespoons confectioner's sugar

 

Preheat the oven to 450. Meanwhile beat the eggs lightly in a medium bowl. Then add the milk, flour, nutmeg, vanilla, and salt and mix until a slightly lumpy batter forms. Zest the orange into the batter and mix again briefly.

Melt the butter in a large oven-safe skillet over medium heat. When the butter has melted add the batter to the skillet and transfer to the prehated oven immediately. Bake until the pancake is "puffed" and browned around the edges. 

When the pancake is done, remove from the oven and sprinkle with confectioner's sugar. Return the skillet to the oven until the sugar has melted slightly. Drizzle with juice from the zested orange and serve immediately!                                                 

the sweetest

I've been finding myself irresistibly drawn to the idea of simplicity. Afternoons spent lying in the grass reading a book, evenings spent at home watching the sunset, outfits comprised of nothing but a dress and some sandals. It makes sense in the summertime, when the days themselves are so perfect barely anything is required to make them enjoyable.

Naturally, this philosophy has extended to my food choices as well. Lately, the meals I've been preparing have been almost sparse in their lack of ingredients and preparation. Tomatoes dressed with nothing but olive oil and salt (not even lemon or vinegar), peaches eaten over the sink with juice dribbling everywhere, the insane pistachio sorbet from Scream, which boasts just four perfect ingredients.

Oh, and the strawberry jam from Kim Boyce's Good to the Grain. I've been making it weekly.

With just two ingredients (three if you add a flavoring), this jam is the essence of simplicity. It starts with perfect summer strawberries, plus a bit of sugar cooked briskly over high heat, and somehow ends up tasting more like perfect summer strawberries. This is nothing short of a true blessing when you live just a short walk away from the Lakeshore Farmer's Market, where they sell the most perfect summer strawberries. 

When the jam is done cooking, you can either leave it as is or enhance it with different flavorings. We tried stirring the finished product with sprigs of oregano as the book suggested but found that the sticky jam just got stuck in all the leaves and in the end, we couldn't actually taste the oregano anyway. But we absolutely loved it with some grated lime zest. The acidity in the lime added just the right amount of acidity to perk up the strawberries, and was more exotic and complex than the traditional pairing of lemon with strawberry.

Even if you decide to leave it plain, this jam is still a sublime way to eat strawberries. Bright and sweet and juicy and simple. Exactly the way they should be.

 

Strawberry Lime Jam (adapted from Kim Boyce's Good to the Grain)

I always thought jam was complicated, demanding strange ingredients like fruit pectin and requiring proper canning and about one-million steps. But this jam is literally, one of the easiest things I've ever made. It's even easier than the non I told you about a couple of weeks ago. As if it wasn't already easy enough, I halved the recipe to make it even easier (less hulling and less cooking time!). And you know what? I like the halved recipe even better. The strawberries hold more of their shape and the whole thing ends up almost more like a chutney or a compote than a jam.

-1.5 lbs strawberries, hulled (we used Chandler strawberries that we bought at the Farmer's Market which were insane - small, floral, barely sweet - but I imagine this jam works well with most strawberries, as long as they're not those pale, giant monsters you can buy at the supermkarket year round.)

-1/2 cup sugar

-1 lime

Combine 1/4 cup water with the sugar in a large, heavy pot and let sit. Meanwhile, hull and trim the berries, leaving the smallest ones whole and cutting any larger specimens into bite-sized pieces.

When the strawberries are trimmed, place the sugar-water mixture over high heat and watch as bubbles begin to form. First, you will see tiny bubbles mostly around the edges but soon the mixture will come to a full boil with big bubbles scattered all across the surface. Add the strawberries to the pot immediately before the mixture starts to brown.

Stir the strawberries over high heat for about 15-20 minutes. First, they will release a lot of liquid and become intensely fragrant. Keep stirring. Eventually, they start to break down and the liquid begins to thicken.

In the original recipe, you are instructed to keep a plate in the freezer, which you dollop teaspoons of the jam onto when you think it might be done. If it thickens on the plate, you've got yourself some jam. You are also instructed to use a candy thermometer to measure the temperature (210 means it's finished if you were wondering) but I actually do neither. Instead I use my intuition to tell me when the jam is just a little less thick than I'd ideally like it to be. It does thicken a bit when cooling.

However you decide to measure it, when the jam is at your ideal doneness, pour it into a bowl and set it over an ice bath to cool. Stir it a few times while it's cooling to let all the steam escape. Once it's mostly cool but still slightly warm, grate the zest of one lime directly over the jam. Stir the lime zest in and chill the jam in the refrigerator with a layer of plastic wrap sitting firectly on the surface of the jam to insure that a skin does not form. The next day, you can divide it up into jars if you like, where it will keep for approximately two and a half weeks in the refrigerator or up to a year in the freezer.

appearances can be deceiving

    So now that I’ve taken the plunge and begun posting ugly pictures, you may have noticed I can’t seem to stop myself! In truth, I have quite the collection of ugly photos of good food, and this decision has been ultimately, so freeing in that I can now tell you about all those delicious meals that didn’t photograph quite so well. The meal we ate at Plum is a perfect example.

    First off, I just have to say, Plum is one of the ugliest restaurants I’ve ever been to. Peter made the comment that he thought they were trying to make it look like the inside of a plum. Which makes sense, and actually even kind of sounds like a good idea. The problem, of course, is that it doesn’t translate so well. Plums are dark, and the space they’re in is pretty industrial. Dark plus industrial does not create the most inviting of atmospheres to enjoy a meal in. Think hard wood benches, cold concrete walls and surly looking black-clad waiters. Not my cup of tea, and certainly not the best of conditions for attempting to take photos discreetly with an outdated point-and-shoot.
    Still, I would gladly spend any amount of time there. In fact, if Plum was located in an abandoned insane asylum in the middle of nowhere, I’d probably still go. Yes, the food was that good.

    
    We started with a bowl of fried onions, because you know, who can resist fried onions? These were puffy and golden, like the fake fried onion chips you can buy at the supermarket, only they tasted like real onions. Caramelized and deeply savoury onions. Seriously, I could have eaten five bowls of these things.

    After the fried onions came toasts with chicken liver mousse, which tasted like toasts with chicken liver mousse - delicious, but familiar and expected.

    The next dish we had was stellar - sardines with various assorted pickly vegetables, on top of some sort of sauteed green that was unbelievably buttery and luscious.

    But the star of the meal was undoubtedly, the burger. I initially read about the burger at Plum a couple of months ago, when Peter and I were on a mission to find the best burger in Oakland. “There’s this new place called Plum, “ I told him excitedly, “And they have a burger that’s made of out of beef cheeks and oxtail!!” He got really quiet and didn’t say much, which is what he does when he doesn’t like an idea of mine but doesn’t want to say so. So, I dropped it. By the time I suggested we eat there  a few months later, he failed to make the connection. Since the burger is only actually listed on their late-night menu, I was able to order it off-menu, without him being any the wiser as to what it actually contained. By the time I told him later that night, it was irrelevant. We were both already in firm agreement that it was the best burger we had ever had, and nothing was gonna change our minds.

    Words cannot even begin to describe how rich and juicy this burger is, it practically melts into the bun. Adorned with minimal toppings, it arrives looking like any other burger you’ve ever had. It looked so commonplace in fact, that when Peter asked if I wanted to take a picture of it I said no, because who needs another picture of a burger? But this is not just any burger, and I ended up regretting my decision later that night.
    Although, the burger was decidedly our favorite part of the meal, the dessert was certainly no letdown. Listed on the menu as a cherry-chocolate cake, it arrived looking like this:
A couple of blond crumbs and some sauce smeared across the plate. But oddly enough, it tasted intensely like chocolate and cherries, rich and deep and pretty much exactly how I wish every chocolate cake tasted.
    By the time we finished dessert, I was no longer preoccupied with the hideous decor. My mind was on other things - like how glad I am that Plum  is just a short walk from my house and how sometimes the best things in life come in the most unlikely packages.

how do you make a perfect day?

A couple of weeks ago I had the perfect day. You know the kind of day I’m talking about. All my favorite songs came on the radio, lights turned green as I drove right through, my hair behaved from morning all the way until I came home from work. And then, right on cue, I made the perfect frittata.

 Not that it’s exactly difficult to make a frittata. I mean, you beat some eggs, saute some meat or veg or whatever, pour the eggs in, maybe add some cheese or herbs and then run the whole thing under the broiler. Simple and easy. But what this method usually produces is a tasty weeknight dinner, and what it produced on this particular day was more like a miracle.
It was perfectly golden brown on the outside, with a creamy, almost custard-y interior. The baby zucchini I sauteed were meltingly soft and tender, but still held their shape. The whole thing was dotted with just exactly the right amount of salty feta to provide the perfect counterpoint to the cool herbaceous yogurt sauce we ate it with.
All in all it was a brilliant success, and one that I think could be easily replicated with a bit of attention to detail. Now if I only I could say that about the perfect day....

(This is the perfect example of a set of pictures that didn't quite come out the way I wanted them to. I had no idea, when throwing together a frittata for a simple weeknight meal that it would come out so well I'd want to photograph it. By the time it came out of the oven it was starting to get dark out and we were starving, so I just snapped a few quick shots. If anyone had any pointers on how to take better photos in low light, I'd love to hear them!)

 

Zucchini Frittata with Lemon-Herb Yogurt

-3 baby zucchini sliced into ½-inch disks
- ¼ large onion or ½ a small onion, sliced lengthwise
- about 1 tbsp olive oil
- 4 large eggs
- handful of parsley, chopped
- 3 ounces of your favorite feta or chevre, crumbled into irregular pieces
- ½ cup greek style yogurt
- zest of 1 lemon
- 2 tbsp chopped chives

Saute the zucchini and the onion in the olive oil in a medium-size ovenproof skillet over med heat until they’re just starting to color. Meanwhile beat the eggs with a little salt and pepper so the white and yolk are mixed but no quite uniform. When the veg are ready, pour the eggs into the pan and as the edges start to cook, gently lift them with a fork or spatula to allow some of the uncooked egg to slide underneath.
At this point, turn on your broiler.
Sprinkle half of the parsley over the fritatta and all of the feta. When the frittata is starting to brown on the bottom, move the pan under the broiler. Check it continuously to be sure it doesn’t burn. When the eggs are set and the edges of the feta are turning golden brown, remove the fritatta from the oven.
Add the lemon zest, chives and remaining parsley to the yogurt and mix to combine. Serve the yogurt spooned onto slices of the frittata or on the side.

perfectly imperfect

Last weekend we drove down to Santa Barbara to visit Peter’s family, who are seriously, some of the nicest people I’ve ever met. When we first started dating I used to think there was no way that he could be so normal and well-adjusted. That is, until I met his family.  If I grew up around such warm, friendly, laid-back folks I might be a bit better adjusted, too!

Peter mentioned a couple weeks before that he wanted to cook a meal for his family. He also mentioned in a separate conversation that he wanted to try his hand at making pulled pork, but wasn’t sure when we’d have enough people around to make such a big meal for. It didn’t take us long to piece the two together.

We used Homesick Texan’s recipe, for the pork, the sauce and the buns, but the coleslaw that we made was all mine. A mash-up of a few favorite recipes that I tweaked and twisted until I found a combination I liked. All in all, it was super easy, if slightly time-consuming. His family was incredibly appreciative, even before we finished cooking, thanking us again and again for taking the time out to cook for them. When we all sat down to dinner, the unanimous consensus was that everything came out beautifully. It was Peter’s sister-in-law that paid us the biggest compliment though, when she asked for the recipe for the coleslaw, not once, but twice during the course of our meal. When someone likes something that you made so much that they want to go home and make it themselves, you know it was good.

Unfortunately for me, I wasn’t able to enjoy this praise as much as I should have. Instead I was thinking what a perfect opportunity for a blog post! I mean, if I’m going to type up the recipe anyway...except that I didn’t take pictures. I guess I could take them now, but everything’s half-eaten, plus I don’t even have my SLR and they’ll come out badly and I’ll probably make everyone at the table uncomfortable if I’m snapping away trying to get a good shot....

 

Eventually, I just grabbed my point and shoot from my purse and took a couple quick and discreet shots so as not to bother anyone. And then I thought some more. About whether or not I could edit the photos to look better, about whether or not I should just do a post even though the pictures weren’t the greatest, about where I want to draw the line when it comes to picture quality. What I came up with is this:

I’m a writer first and foremost. I always have been. The fact that I want to have a food blog with pretty pictures on it has given me an opportunity to learn more about photography - and I really like it! - but it’s secondary to the fact that I want to share a genuine account of my food experiences, the moments that meant something to me. Unfortunately, there’s not always a photo opportunity that coincides with those moments. As rewarding as it is when a photo comes out well, and as much as I enjoy sharing that, I’m not a pro. This is a learning experience for me and pretending I’ve already got it down pat isn’t going to fool anyone.

So, I’ve made an executive decision to share what resonates with me, whether or not that includes a perfect photo. I’d rather be sincere about my strengths and weaknesses than limit one by limiting the other. Plus, if you decide to make this coleslaw, I guarantee you it will come out perfect, even if the photos didn’t.

Perfect Coleslaw

I use the Cook’s Illustrated technique for making coleslaw, where you draw all the extra water from veggies by salting and allowing them to drain in a colander before mixing with the dressing. This time I constructed the dressing around a base of all greek yogurt. The pork we served it with was very rich, and I wanted something cool and creamy and not-too-heavy to offset that with. If I were serving it with a leaner meal, say grilled fish for example, I might use half-mayo instead of all yogurt. Feel free to adjust to your particular taste.

- 1 head cabbage (red or green both work equally well)

- 2 large carrots

- 1 bell pepper (again, any color will work fine)

- 1 small onion

- 3 tbsp. salt

- 3 tbsp. sugar

- 2 cups yogurt, mayonnaise or a combination of both

- ½ cup of dijon mustard

- 2 tbsp. apple cider vinegar

- 1 tbsp. whole mustard seeds

- ½ cup chopped parsley

Quarter the cabbage, remove the core and slice diagonally into the thinnest strips you can manage. Repeat with the bell pepper and the onion. Put all vegetables into a large bowl. Grate the carrots using a box grater and add to the vegetables in the bowl. Sprinkle with the salt and sugar and toss to combine until the vegetables start to release water. Place in colander over a bowl or in the sink and allow to drain for at least one hour and up to three.
Make the dressing in a large bowl, combining yogurt or mayonnaise, mustard, vinegar and mustard seeds.
When vegetables are done draining place on top of a large kitchen towel. Roll the vegetables up inside of the towel like a burrito and twist the ends of the towel in opposite directions to extract moisture from the veg, as if your wringing out a washcloth.
When you’ve extracted as much moisture as you can, add the veg to the bowl with the dressing. Sprinkle with parsley and toss to combine. Season to taste with salt and freshly ground black pepper.

 

how lucky am I?

One night in the very beginning of our courtship, my boyfriend and I returned to his apartment after a night of drinking. 

"I'm hungry," I complained, as I usually do after consuming a sizable amount of alcohol. 

"Don't worry," he told me, "I'll take care of it." He returned a short while later with a plate of toasted bread slathered in butter and honey.

"I made this," he said.

"You're proud that you made a piece of toast," I snorted.

"No," he said, "Like I made the bread. You know, from scratch."

Now that, that was impressive (and quite possibly one of the reasons I continued to date him.) I cook everything from scratch and even I don't make my own bread. 

Since then, he's made me countless loaves of bread. Grainy breads, sweet breads, seeded breads, buns, rolls and all other manner of baked and starchy things. The way it goes in our house is that I cook and my boyfriend bakes. Being that this a habit I benefit greatly from, I've tried to encourage it as much as possible. So, for his birthday this year, I bought him a copy of Tartine Bread (we love Tartine) and almost every week since he's produced two perfect, gorgeous, round breads using Chad Robertson's complex and exacting, but totally flawless recipe.

One week, instead of making two breads, he turned half of the dough into a focaccia which he covered in paper-thin potatoes and shaved parmesan. 

Gorgeous, simple and so, so delicious.

the simplest things

 One day, when it was still kind of cold outside, my boyfriend and I were having company for dinner and we couldn’t figure out what to make. Overwhelmed by the glut of winter produce provided in our CSA we decided to consult The Internet, where we stumbled across a recipe on Smitten Kitchen for curried cauliflower and potatoes. Perfect. Curry on it’s own, however was not enough, so with 15 minutes to spare we ran to the mega-grocery/healthy-foods-store/mall down the street for some naan. Unfortunately when we arrived we found that the spot where they used to carry freshly baked breads was now home to a large display of overpriced organic spa products, and the bread selection had dwindled to include only a few baguettes, some sourdough and a couple of blueberry muffins. We finally found naan in the pre-packaged bread aisle, and despite it’s questionable appearance we took it home and baked it for our guests. When it emerged from the oven we were sad and embarrassed to find that what we bought at the store was nothing like naan. In fact, it bore an uncanny resemblance to cardboard, and it tasted like it, too. The end.

If only we had known how to make non, that story wouldn’t have had to come to such a tragic end. I know, I know, non totally sounds like some gimmicky knockoff of real naan that one might make in their microwave or something, but I assure you that it’s not and that we do not even own a microwave. I found the recipe in another vintage gem, Russian Cooking, published by the same folks who published The Picture Cookbook. According to them, non is a traditional recipe made in Uzbekistan. Being that Uzbekistan is so close to India and that the two recipes bear some very signifcant similarities I will acquiesce that non and naan are probably cousins of some sort. But non is a formidable dish in and of itself as well, make no mistakes about that.

First of all, it’s simple. I might even go so far as to call it The Simplest Recipe I Have Ever Made. At the very least, it’s in my top five. But for it’s simplicity it is not at all lacking in flavor. Infused throughout with the perfume of onions sauteed in butter, this bread boasts a soft, gentle umami flavor that is nothing short of addictive. It lacks the elasticity of traditional Indian naan, but is no less effective a vehicle for soaking up sauces and soups. I would not hesitate to serve this with an Indian curry, but I think it would be equally appropriate with a thick Tuscan white bean soup or a steamy paella. 

Best of all, in the time that it takes me to run to the market for pre-packaged bread, I could make this recipe twice.

Non (adapted from Russian Cooking)

7 tablespoons butter

1 cup finely chopped onions

3/4 cup lukewarm water

1 teaspoon salt

3 cups all-purpose flour

 

Melt the butter in a skillet and saute the onions in the butter until soft and translucent but not yet browned. Combine remaining ingredients with the onions and butter in a large mixing bowl to create a stiff dough. If the dough feels too sticky, add more flour. If it feels too dry, moisten with a bit of extra water. 

Divide the dough into sixteen equal pieces and form into balls by rolling between your hands. Preheat a skillet over high heat. Flatten the balls of dough into thin disks, about the thickness of a piece of naan. When the pan is hot, add one round of dough and cook on both sides until charred in spots. Repeat with remaining rounds of dough.

Transfer the bread to a rack to cool. Serve immediately.

mousse magic

Since we’re on the subject of classic cookbooks, I’d like to take this moment to declare my undying love and devotion to Julie Rosso and Sheila Lukins. Their Silver Palate Cookbook was the earliest and perhaps most significant influence on my culinary identity that I can recall. My mother and grandmother taught me how to cook, but The Silver Palate was the closest thing we had to a textbook; required reading for the course. It sat on my mother’s bookshelf for as long as I can remember, and anytime there was company or a potluck, my mother would pull it out and flip through the pages, find the perfect recipe like magic.
For holidays, she loved to make the sweet potato and carrot puree. Have you ever had their sweet potato and carrot puree? It’s as simple as it sounds - just sweet potatoes and carrots mashed together with an unholy amount of cream and butter. But the flavor of this dish is something else entirely; an education in the luxury of simple pleasures.
When I began to show an interest in cooking, it became my turn to flip through those pages. I still remember the first meal I ever cooked. Under the careful supervision of my mother I made raspberry chicken, with a side of simply sauteed vegetables. I can recall the flavor with precise clarity, in much the same way that I can recall the flavor of the chicken dijonaisse my prepared so frequently. Both dishes were too complex for my as-of-yet-inexperienced palate, but to this day they haunt me, begging to be recreated.
Isn’t it a wonder then, that I somehow managed to forget the book they came from? I confess that for the past five years up until very recently I had given the Silver Palate nary a thought. Even as the flavors of those dishes remained etched in my mind, and their techniques continued to influence my cooking, their source remained a peripheral memory. There, but not quite visible. In much the same way that we forget about scars or birth marks or tattoos, I knew it was a part of me, I simply forgot to think about it.
Then, somewhere in the midst of my vintage cookbook obsession, I found myself lamenting the fact that all the nostalgia I was immersing myself in did not, in fact, belong to me. The cookbooks I was reading were not my cookbooks. The memories of times gone by were not my memories. I had purchased them second-hand at a used bookstore. Like every other d-bag in my generation, I was nostalgic for a time that I did not even live through.
I fell asleep that night with a pout on my face, but as I was sleeping, I remembered in a dream, as if the answer was sent to me; what about The Silver Palate? And even as I slept, I realized, if I was searching for simple, elegant classics, the answer was lying between those well-worn pages.
Upon waking, I did the only logical thing there was to do: called my mother and begged her to please, please send me the battered and bookmarked copy that had been sitting in her bookcase for the past 20 something years. Her answer: I threw it away. Typical. If there are two things my mother despises in this world they would be clutter and sentiment.
So I was forced to order a used copy, new just wouldn’t do. And of course they sent it through media mail and it took, I’m not even kidding you like, a year to get to me. And when I finally had it in my hands, it was like reading it for the first time. Recipes I had overlooked for years revealed themselves as precious gems; sesame mayonnaise, escabeche, black forest cake. I wanted nothing more than to sit and read that book cover to cover, every note, every sideline, every quote and charming little illustration. Unfortunately for me, life got in the way. I had to work, I had to wash ten loads of laundry, I had to buy cat litter, I had to cook dinner for myself and my boyfriend every. single. night.The entirety of my existence felt like one big chore that was keeping me from reading The Silver Palate.
Finally, I lost it, snapping at my boyfriend “Why don’t you cook dinner? I’m sick of doing everything around here!!” (cue psychotic head spin).
I returned home the following day to find a gorgeous meal waiting on the stove.
“And I made dessert,” he told me proudly.
“Oh, yeah? Whaddya make?”
“Just that lime mousse from that silver-palate-thingie you’ve been reading”
I was shocked. Torn between feeling touched (I wanted to impress you, he said, you’re so good at cooking and it’s not that easy for me) and livid with jealousy (how dare he cook out of that book when I can’t even find a second to read it?!?!!!). Of course, that all changed once I tasted it.
The lime mousse had always caught my eye, but I had never made it. My mom thought it sounded gross and the only opportunity I had to cook in my younger years was for family gatherings. It is one of the recipes they are best known for, and I assure you it deserves it’s reputation. As they say in the recipe’s introduction it is simultaneously buttery, rich and refreshing. Like a key lime pie only ten times more elegant and refined.
I imagined myself eating this dessert at a party catered by Julee Rosso and Sheila Lukins in their heyday. I’d be wearing shoulder pads and excessive jewelry. I’d have bubble bangs. The party would be on a yacht. Only then I realized, quite abruptly, it was just as relevant now. It made just as much sense to be eating lime mousse at home with my boyfriend and my cats on a sunny spring evening, and it would make sense, too, to be eating this lime mousse in a trendy restaurant after a five-star meal. It is one of those dishes that’s absolutely timeless. A straightforward combination of two things that taste really good together - citrus and cream - suspended in a delicate balance that feels seamless and beautiful. It is the epitome of fresh, simple cooking and that idea, as the Silver Palate still so eloquently proves, will never get old.

 

Lemon/Lime Mousse adpated from The Silver Palate Cookbook by Julee Rosso and Sheila Lukins

In the book, this recipe is called Lime Mousse, but they note in the sidebar that you can make it with lemons as well. The version in the photos is made with meyer lemons, as they are plentiful and readily available where I live, but I imagine you could make it with any citrus you happened to have on hand. I'd love to try it with blood oranges. The color would be gorgeous and I imagine it would taste a bit like a creamsicle. I also have fantasies of addind thyme to the butter as it melts to infuse the whole thing with an herbal flavor. That's one of the things I love the most about this recipe - it's so simple it practically begs you to get creative.

1 stick (8 tbsp) sweet butter

5 eggs

1 cup sugar

3/4 cup fresh lime or lemon juice

grated zest of five limes or lemons

2 cups cold heavy cream

Melt the butter in a double boiler, or in a large bowl positioned just inside a pot of simmering water.

Beat the eggs and sugar together until the sugar dissolves and the eggs become frothy. Add this mixture to the melted butter slowly and incorporate fully, being careful not to scramble the eggs.  Cook over very low heat until the mixture thickens into a silky custard. Again, be sure to remove it from the heat as soon as it reaches this point to be sure that that the eggs don't scramble.

Off the heat, stir in the juice and zest of the lemons/limes/whatever citrus you are using. Let this mixture cool to room temperature.

Meanwhile, beat the heavy cream until stiff peaks form. I usually prefer my whipped cream a bit loose and floppy but for this recipe it really needs to be stiff. Almost to the point where it turns into butter.

When the cream is stiff and the custard is cool, fold the two mixtures together carefully. At this point, you can divide the mousse into individual servings (this recipe says it makes 8, but think six is more like it) and chill it, or chill it in one big bowl and divide it up when you're ready to serve it. I put mine into mason jars and garnished it with lemon slices and mint. However you serve it, it makes a really elegant end to a spring or summer meal. Enjoy!

shrimp scampi, revised

  
  It’s official. That vintage cookbook obsession I wrote about the other day has now become a full-blown addiction. I simply cannot get enough. And what’s worse, I seem to have lost interest completely in any food, cuisine or culinary movement that could be labeled as “modern”. It’s as if the books have somehow sucked my brain into a bizarre time-warp and I’m no longer able to comprehend ideas like fusion or molecular gastronomy. Do you think there’s a rehab for this sort  of thing?
    Actually, if there was, I don’t think I’d even want to go to it. In all honesty, I’m pretty content with the classics right now. I mean, it’s not as if there’s a lack of them. People have been cooking food for as long as people have been eating. Even more to the point, they’ve been serving me well. Take for example, the shrimp scampi I made last week.

Yes, shrimp scampi. Perhaps the most ubiquitous of all restaurant dishes. They even have it on the menu at Red Lobster. A far cry from the quinoa corn muffins I was eating on my cleanse, or even my normal weeknight dinners of super-healthy bean and veggie stews and sautes. My reasons for making it were twofold. Firstly, The Marshmallow. Growing up, his family didn’t eat shellfish. His mother was allergic and his father didn’t like it. He’s an open-minded guy, but his experience is limited. Being that I think of shellfish as one of nature’s greatest and most delicious inventions, I’ve taken it upon myself to single-handedly make up for his lack of experience.

    Secondly, after spending so much time with all those dusty old cookbooks, I was craving a classic, something that felt ancient to me, and if any dish fit the bill, it was definitely Shrimp Scampi. One of my very first cooking memories ever is of me standing over my grandmother’s sink on a stool, learning how to peel and de-vein shrimp for Scampi. My Grandmother’s Scampi is the best, hands down. I’ve tried to emulate about it one-million times, and although I’ve come close, I can never quite get it right. To me, Shrimp Scampi is the best kind of food. The kind where the original idea is so perfect that it endures for years and years and still tastes good every single time.
    So, can you imagine my shock and horror upon discovering that of all the books in my ever-growing collection not one of them had a recipe Shrimp Scampi? Blasphemous! What I did find though, was a wealth of shrimp dishes, similar to Scampi in every way, except instead of being prepared on the stovetop in a screaming hot saute pan, these were broiled in the oven in a baking dish. Eventually, this got me thinking. What if I took my Grandmother’s infamous Scampi recipe and converted to something that could be broiled in the oven? 

    I followed three basic guidelines.
    1. Use Sherry along with white wine as the cooking liquid. The Sherry adds a sweetness and richness that white wine alone does not acheive. This is the key to my Grandmother’s recipe.
    2. Add the garlic at the end. Garlic burns easily and in order for the shrimp to cook through without becoming tough, it’s neccesarry for the heat in the pan to be very high. Adding the garlic at the end insures you won’t end up with that bitter burnt garlic taste throughout your dish.
    3. Prep everything beforehand. Once the prep is done this dish comes together almost instantaneously. You don’t want to get stuck trying to chop your parsley while meanwhile, your Scampi is getting burnt to a crisp .
    In addition to that I added some crumbled crackers with the garlic at the end, as kind of a throwback to the classic New England style baked stuffed shrimp. Since us Sicilians don’t grate parmesan on our seafood-based pasta dishes it added a nice crunch and saltiness to the finished product.
    The resulting dish was good. So good I might even say it gave my grandmother’s scampi a run for it’s money. Richly sauced and refreshingly light at the same time, plus I found that baking the shrimp in the oven rather than attempting to saute on high heat without burning, made it much easier to cook the shrimp without overcooking them. All in all, it was a brilliant success, and a sound justification for sinking even further into the depths of my new-found addiction. Don’t expect me to emerge anytime soon. It’s true what they say about the classics; they’re classics for a reason.
Broiled Shrimp Scampi
1lb Shrimp, peeled and de-veined, or trimmed to your liking
2 tbsp dry sherry
1 tbsp of dry white wine
2 tbsp olive oil
2 lemons
8 cloves garlic
½ cup of crumbled crackers, or seasoned bredcrumbs
handful of parsley
handful of fresh chives
½ pound linguine or spaghetti.

Peel and de-vein the shrimp. Place in a large bowl and season with salt and pepper. Cover with sherry, white wine and olive oil. Add the juice and zest of 1 lemon. Crush four garlic cloves using the flat part of a large knife. Add to the bowl with the shrimp and toss gently. Place in the refrigerator to marinate for a few hours.
Finely mince the remaining four cloves of garlic. Add to the breadcrumbs along with the zest of  the remaining lemon. When the shrimp are done marinating preheat the oven to 475 and bring a large pot of salted water to a boil. Transfer the shrimp from the bowl into a large baking dish. In the meantime, chop the parsley and chives and set aside.
When the water for the pasta begins to boil, set the shrimp inside the preheated oven. Add the pasta to boiling water and stir briefly. When the shrimp have begun to sizzle (about 5-6 minutes) remove baking dish from the oven and turn on your broiler. Toss the sizzling shrimp with the garlic and breadcrumb mixture and squeeze the juice from the remaining lemon on top. Place dish under broiler.
At this point the pasta should be close to done. Test it to make sure. When pasta is al dente, drain and reserve until the shrimp is done cooking. When the crumbs begin to brown and the liquid in the baking dish has been reduced by about half, remove the shrimp from the oven. Toss the pasta directly into the baking dish and sprinkle with parsley and chives. Toss to combine and serve immediately.