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Archive for the ‘Holiday’ Category

What happened to the turtledoves?

We’re in the thick of the holiday rush. That perplexing commercial for Elizabeth Taylor perfume (“…these have always brought me luck”) is on heavy TV rotation, the Food Network is re-running every holiday-related challenge, Iron Chef competition, or Rachael Ray special they ever produced, and I went to sleep last night unable to get the smell of sugar out of my nose.

Not that I mind, because I think all of this frantic activity is fun. However, my tiny kitchen is on the verge of tears. My kitchen need not fret: the bulk of its work is done, and now my attention has moved to my holiday card list. All any of this requires is a little organization and the right tools.

The latter reminds me of my Dad. When I was a little kid, we lived in an old two family house. I doubt that my Dad ever baked a cookie in his life, but off in the corner of the basement of that old house he had a workshop. I remember the basement as being a dark, kind of spooky place (although it couldn’t have been too bad: my Mom went down there every day to do the laundry) but I remember Dad’s workshop as being bright, clean, and well organized. In my memory, he had every tool needed for every “handy” job that might come up around that crumbling old house. No mere dabbler my Dad, no sir! He rebuilt our entire kitchen himself, including tearing out walls with just a hammer and his bare hands (okay, maybe he didn’t have the right tools for every job, but then he didn’t go around tearing down walls that often.) He was a real handyman. My brother and I have inherited those skills, albeit in a very watered-down form. (Very.)

What I got from watching my handyman Dad is a respect for tools, and this has served me well in the kitchen (ah! You were wondering when I would bring this back to cooking, weren’t you?) I think having the right tools in the kitchen is important if you enjoy cooking—and essential if you are a casual, infrequent, or unwilling cook. If this seems a touch counter-intuitive, keep in mind that the unwilling or unskilled cook can accomplish a lot more, and do it easier and faster with the right tool in hand.

I’m not advocating expensive machines or gadgets here, but merely the addition of a few simple implements. Let’s put it this way: if you’ve always been struggling to eat your eggs with a straw, wouldn’t you be happy if one day someone came along and introduced you to a fork?

Since we are on our final approach to Christmas, lets make sure our tray tables are in the upright position and I’ll introduce you to a few items and tips that could make holiday time in the kitchen easier and more fun. (It’s the holiday season, so yes, it’s supposed to be fun.) I’m going to use holiday cookies as my laboratory for this, but truth be told some of these ideas will serve you well in the kitchen at any time of the year.

The Butter Flour Eggs Cookies 101 Primer

Cookie sheets. Ideally you should get decent cookie sheets that are heavy enough that you feel some heft when you pick one up. The weight of the cookie sheet usually indicates the thickness of the metal. Too thin and the bottoms of your cookies will burn before the tops finish baking. If you can bend it don’t use it. The cookie sheets with the pocket of air between two pieces of metal are good in gas ovens, iffy in certain electric ovens. You can get decent cookie sheets for twelve to fifteen dollars. Be wary of the ones hanging above the eggs at the grocery store. If you’re sitting there thinking, “Hey, I promised to bake cookies for my kid’s class. I’ll do that and then never bake again—ever. I don’t want to spend that much money on cookie sheets.” Fair enough. Buy the disposable aluminum cookie sheets, but stack three together to get approximately the thickness you need to avoid bottom burn. I make no promises for this technique.

Non Stick Finish. Unnecessary. Walk over to the foil and plastic wrap department and buy parchment paper to line your cookie sheets. One roll will set you back less than five dollars and will likely last you a couple of Christmases or more. If you’re more committed to being a baker (in for the long run, eh?) you can invest in a Silpat. Silpats are reusable silicone liners that will last through hundreds of batches of cookies. They usually cost about fifteen dollars. I’ve used both and prefer the parchment paper. It is less friendly to the environment, yes, but I can cut parchment to fit any pan (including cake pans), and I never worry that the flavor of the spice cookies I made yesterday will somehow find its way into the chocolate chip cookies I’m baking today.

Frenchie and pin bands

Rolling pin. Optional. But again if you’re in for the long run, check out the different kinds before you buy. Go to Williams-Sonoma and take them for a test drive. I use what is called a French rolling pin: a simple straight cylinder of ash wood, I find that I have more control with this kind of pin. And it’ll make a good weapon if someone ever tries to attack me while I’m baking. If you don’t want to invest in a rolling pin, make slice and bake cookies, and using small cookie cutters (or freehand with a knife), cut the shapes out of the slices. (I’ll go into more detail about this with the recipe linked at the bottom of this posting.)

My dirty little secret about rolling out cookie dough is that I cheat and use rolling pin bands. These are color-coded elastic bands of varying thicknesses that slip onto each end of the rolling pin and limit how thin I can roll the dough, i.e., yellow equals ¼-inch. I use an Offset Spatula to transfer the cut out cookies to the cookie sheet. This tool’s angled blade lets you slide it under the cookies.

Offset Spatula

Space.Hey, I have a small kitchen too. But if you’re going to bake cookies you need to make a trade off: either lower your expectations about how many cookies you can make, and how fast, or clear the decks to make room for this project.

Stand mixer or bowls. I use a Kitchen-Aid, and am very spoiled by it. But a lot of cookies (and some cakes) can be made with a big bowl and a wooden spoon. Use a bigger bowl than you think you’ll need. You’ll go out of your mind trying to keep all of the batter in your cereal bowl.

Timer. C’mon. You know you’ll use this. Or you can use the clock on your cable box and burn your cookies. I have.

Organization. This is the biggie, the crucible, the scripture. Even if you have every piece of equipment and a gigantic kitchen, you need a game plan. Here’s what I do: I read the recipe through a couple of times to make sure I have all of the ingredients. Then I break the project into three milestones:

ONE: Mise en place: This is a term the pros use that I will translate as: pre-measure all of your ingredients before you start mixing. Pre-chop the walnuts, pre-grate the orange zest, and let the butter and eggs come up to room temperature. Cardinal rule: liquids are measured in a liquid measuring cup (usually made of glass by Pyrex) and dry ingredients are measured in a dry measuring cup (usually metal or plastic.)

TWO: Mix. Whether you use a wooden spoon or a Kitchen-Aid stand mixer, make your cookie dough, wrap it tightly and store it in the refrigerator. Then clean up. You’re done for the day.

THREE: Bake. The next day, bake your cookies, and you won’t have to worry about the space or time for cleaning dirty mixers, bowls, and counter tops while you bake. You’ll be much more relaxed, and most cookies taste better and the dough is easier to handle when it has been allowed to chill for at least a few hours.

Wet measuring cups

Dry measuring cups

My last piece of advice is to start small. Roll out just a little bit of dough until you get used to the feel of the dough, how much flour you need to use to keep the cookies from sticking to the board, and how cold the dough should be when you handle it.

Have fun. Remember no one expects you to be a pro; your family and friends will be delighted by your efforts. This is a great messy project to do with your kids. Mind my pearl of wisdom for baking with kids: keep them away from the hot stove, sharp knives, and whatever they do is the most beautiful and delicious cookie you’ve ever seen and tasted. Ever.

This is the stuff of which happy memories are made.

Click here for my Chocolate Pepper Cookie recipe (pictured above) and more holiday cookie baking suggestions.

Holiday cookie questions? Feel free to drop me an email at the address below. I’ll try to help.

Let me email you when the blog has been updated! Opt in by clicking the biscotti at right or by sending your email address to michael@butterfloureggs.com

All that glitters...

To fry or not to fry? That was the question. Allusions to William Shakespeare aside, I’ve been tossing around that question for a week or so. It’s not as profound as Hamlet’s version, is it?

Here’s why the question has been on my mind: The first night of Hanukkah is this Friday and in a cloud of creative confusion I find I am resistant to the idea of writing about latkes. You don’t need me to tell you how to make potato pancakes, do you? Step one: Shred potato. Step two: fry. Step three: top with sour cream or applesauce and eat. Thanks for reading, see you next week.

Oh sure, I know there are a zillion variations. Shred some carrot or parsnip into the potato mixture. Add various spices. Add an egg. All are really delicious, but truly it would be like me telling you how to boil a pot of pasta.

My other choice is to write about Sufganiyot. For the uninitiated, these are the jelly doughnuts that seem to have overtaken latkes as the Hanukkah food of choice in Israel.

How, you wonder, did they make the leap from potato pancakes to jelly doughnuts? It’s all in the story of Hanukkah.

After winning a battle against a supposedly unbeatable foe, the Jews went to re-light the eternal flame in their decimated temple. They found enough oil to keep the flame burning for only one day. Retrieving more lamp oil required an eight day round-trip ride. Miraculously, the oil lasted for eight days, keeping the eternal flame lit until the refill arrived. This is the miracle that is commemorated on the dreidel, the little top that kids spin during the festival. The letters on the four sides of the dreidel are the initials of the Hebrew words that translate as, “A Great Miracle Happened.”

It is the oil in this legend that Hanukkah foods all have in common: both the latkes and the jelly doughnuts are fried. Sephardic Jews fry fritters, and the Italians eat fried chicken. (Leave it to the Italians to really get it right.)

Which brings me back to my initial issues about frying: I really didn’t want to. One session of frying will smell up my apartment for days. Besides I operate under the shaky assumption that food fried at home will be bad for me; I only eat fried food in better restaurants. I trust them more. I am deluded.

I kept thinking, “I wonder if there is such a thing as a baked Sufganiyot?”; “Why don’t I just try to bake a doughnut recipe?”; “Google Baked Doughnuts.”

In the midst of all this I went to the dentist. Sitting in her chair, waiting for the Novocain-induced haze to wash over me, I opened her copy of “Good Housekeeping” magazine, and, boom! flash! a holiday miracle: a recipe for baked Sufganiyot. That was my divine signal, my rainbow, my tap on the shoulder.

Setting to work on their recipe (triple tested in their kitchens!) I found myself giddy with anticipation. I could practically taste the fluffy little puffs of sugar-dusted, jelly-filled Hanukkah happiness. My thoughts went to a long-ago trip to Nantucket and the legendary subtle doughnuts from the Downyflake Restaurant. My Kitchen Aid did its work, the yeast then applied its airy lift to the sticky dough, and my oven baked them to a pale toasty brown. I eagerly cut little pockets into them and filled them with strawberry jam. After dusting them with powdered sugar, I stepped back to survey the finished result which looked so simple and beautiful. Finally I lifted one to my mouth and took that magical first bite.

How can I best describe this decisive moment in my baking experience?

My sufganiyot. Yech...

Easily: these Sufganiyot tasted awful. I’ll add a “Yech” to erase any lingering doubt. The cinnamon in the recipe was overpowering and the hoped for lightness was a missing. In its place was a heavy, bready, overly sweet lump. Yes, doughnuts are supposed to be sweet, but this was sweetness without balance. Sugar usually boosts the other flavors in things, but here it was all dressed up with no place to go.

So where’s my Hanukkah miracle? I think this year it came in the form of the realization that if you want a jelly doughnut, then have a real jelly doughnut. One fried doughnut once a year isn’t going to kill me. I’ve never been a doughnut guy; they don’t temp me at other times of the year. And if you don’t want to fry doughnuts, seek out the pros who do (I’ll be getting mine at Silver Moon Bakery, a wonderful place in my neighborhood.)

It was with a heavy heart (probably caused by the awful Sufganiyot) that I also discovered a “truth” about myself, a moment of self revelation, as it were. At the checkout counter of my local Duane Reade I spied their yearly stock of Hanukkah gelt, the little web bags of chocolate coins. I bought a couple of bags—mostly with the purpose of photographing them for this blog posting (I swear!)—and realized as I snapped open the coins and ate the chocolate inside, that I can live without jelly doughnuts, I can forego latkes, but I can’t imagine being without chocolate. The Israelis can have their Sufganiyot, the Sephardim their fritters, the Italians their fried chicken; henceforth my Hanukkah commemorative food will be chocolate.  

You don’t have to fry chocolate.

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A Cookie Triptych

This past weekend I made cookies for my friend, the artist Laura Loving’s Holiday Open Gallery. I could not help but to be inspired by her iconic art.

The cookies I made blended a little Christmas sensibility with her well known riffs on the Statue of Liberty and the Eiffel Tower. I added my own riff on an icon with little chocolate wreaths that were inspired by Wedgewood Jasper china.

More about Christmas cookies in an upcoming blog posting, in the meantime here are the cookies from Laura’s Open Gallery.

I thought you were buying the batteries!

The fall is a blessing to someone who writes a blog about food. After Labor Day, food-related holidays pop up, fast and furious, like wooden ducks at a carnival sharp shooter’s booth.

With Thanksgiving having just passed, we are at my unofficial halfway point of this shooting match, and the beginning of the holiday season. December always brings to mind George Jetson walking his dog Astro on the treadmill. There is so much to do, there are so many people to see, places to go, and yes, good food to eat, that by the time New Year’s Eve has ended we are like poor Mr. Jetson yelling, “Jane! Jane! Get me off this crazy thing!”

I love the holiday season, but I know my Kitchen Aid mixer will be marking off each December day on the calendar in anticipation of a well-earned January rest.

Even my usually sedate calendar is frothing with obligations. Among other things, I’m scheduled to bake cookies for a couple of parties (and, of course, for Santa,) and I have promised to bake a “Buche de Noel” (the holiday Yule log cake) for a Christmas party.

So why is it that my mind has already skipped ahead to Christmas morning breakfast? Does the anticipation of all the activity on my docket make me think I need to start off with a good breakfast?

Could be. But it makes me realize that every December volumes are written about holiday cookies, cocktail party finger foods, and jokes about how to prop open your garage door with Aunt Dottie’s fruitcake. Yet Christmas morn gets nary a word: are people merely grabbing fists-full of Cheerios and gulps of coffee between bouts of gift wrap decimation? I hope not, because breakfast is my favorite meal.

So in recognition of the fact that most people have other things beside breakfast on their minds in the early hours of December 25, I’m here to lobby on behalf of a proper holiday breakfast.

Even if you’ve spent Christmas Eve in a frenzy of gift wrapping and bicycle assembling I’m here to tell you that a special holiday breakfast is no sweat. If it is just the two of you then your motivation should be even more apparent: breakfast can be intoxicatingly romantic.

The concept is to use a bit of pre-planning and light advance work to make a home-made breakfast appear on the table with a fleet-footed magic that is not unlike Donner, Dasher, and Blitzen. Kids won’t notice, but your house full of adult guests will be suitably impressed, and perhaps even envious. They’ll wonder if you made a special deal with Santa to bring breakfast along with all the other sleigh-borne goodies.

When I think of a proper breakfast, my mind’s eye sees toasty waffles with a puffy interior, and a stack of fluffy pancakes to keep them company. But if there’s such a thing as a “mind’s nose” then that’s what Christmas morning breakfast should tickle: the smell of really good coffee brewing, maple syrup warming, and something good cooking. If you have any chance of getting the kids away from their new Wii (with the Water Sport Resort module—are you listening Santa?) and over to the breakfast table, this is it.

So (you ponder) what’s the problem here? Stock the freezer, and then Christmas morning fire up the toaster, you say? No sir (or ma’am): no frozen waffles for this blogging breakfast maven. The prepackaged mixes seem like the breakfast version of mystery meat to me, so I’ll pass on those as well. Who knows what some of that stuff is, and anyway, you often still have to use your own oil, eggs, and milk, so what’s the point?

The dirty little secret is that there’s no magic here. Simply make the pancake batter the night before. Are you worried that you’ll feel chained to the pancake griddle when you should be firing up that new digital HD Camcorder (hello? Santa?) to capture your loved ones laying waste to several tons of wrapping paper and ribbon? Don’t worry, because we’ll let your oven do all the work.

The waffles are only slightly more labor intensive, but for a good reason: these are yeast waffles. For my money, if you haven’t eaten yeast waffles you haven’t eaten waffles. Period. (It occurs to me that I may have crossed some kind of foodie line here. I mean, when you get snobby about waffles there’s no going back…but what can I say? They are airy, tangy, and crunchy. They’re really good.)

The pancake is based on the Dutch Baby or Dutch Skillet Pancake recipe that’s been around for years, which is a not too distant relative of popover or Yorkshire pudding batter. The recipe is very simple, and the result is actually somewhat lighter than regular pancakes. Here is where I’ve added the vanilla and cinnamon to scent the air and help you call everyone to the table.

Christmas Eve, when not a creature is stirring you can whisk together a very few basic ingredients, and stash them in the fridge. In the morning, pour the batter in a preheated skillet and then just pop it in a hot oven. Fifteen minutes later a puffy brown pancake appears, no elves required. Slice into wedges like you would a pizza, and it is ready for whatever you want to throw on top. Even though there are sautéed apples in the pancake my topping of choice is even more sautéed apples and a snowy dusting of confectioner’s sugar. Eggs? Fine. Bacon? Go for it.

The waffle batter is slightly more challenging in that the addition of yeast requires a bit of planning. But the good news is that the yeast-infused batter will also be sleeping in the refrigerator while Santa does his work. Christmas morning someone will need to be on waffle iron duty, but truth be told, cooking waffles in a waffle iron isn’t much harder than reheating frozen ones in a toaster: once they’re working you can walk away for a few minutes.

(Obviously both of these recipes are perfect year ‘round for any special breakfast, and the waffles are also incredible with fried chicken.)

Now that my furnace has been suitably stoked with a hearty breakfast—or the thought of one—I’m ready to plug in my happy little pre-lit tree (it spins!) and get moving on my holiday fun.

And Santa, if you’re reading this, I’ve been extra nice and I’m serious about that Wii.

Click here for my Dutch Apple Pancake recipe, and here for my Yeast Waffle recipe.

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But my GPS said around the river and through the wood...

I would have been a lousy pilgrim. I don’t think they had chocolate. Thanks to their Native American hosts they had plenty of corn, yes, but somehow I doubt that John Alden was able to drown his sorrows in a Hershey bar.

Never mind: I’m here to give thanks.          

I love the time I spend in the kitchen. Even my tiny apartment kitchen can keep me fed for several days, including cookies—and I don’t have to load a musket for a hunt to keep it stocked. A few taps of my computer keys and food magically shows up at my doorstep. Sometimes I take it for granted, but when I walk the aisles of my supermarket and really pay attention to what is on the shelves it blows my mind. I’m thankful for that.

I am also thankful for family and friends who challenge, cajole, nag, amuse, indulge, include, and, best of all, feed me—you know who you are and which of the above applies you. (Yes, YOU.)

I am thankful for parents who infuriated, pushed, prodded, nagged, paid attention, worried (sometimes to excess), ignored me when appropriate (a/k/a “gave me my space”), and otherwise put their collective foot down—and continue to do so.

While we are on the subject of parents, I’d like to single out my mother for the moment of clarity she had many years ago that saved Thanksgiving. I recognize that this sounds like hyperbole, but for our family it is true: she saved Thanksgiving.  The moment of clarity happened when she realized that poultry cooking skills eluded her. “My turkeys were turkeys” is how she continues to describe those efforts. I prefer, “Bird 1, Mom 0.”

For several years she was saved from ruining cooking turkeys by the insistent Thanksgiving invitations of her formidable sister-in-law. Unfortunately the hospitality was extended to a rather dowdy, dusty, country club. The best way to describe the country club’s food is that every year when the invitation was extended, it included the news that there was “…a new chef this year.” To which we always silently replied, “New chef, same crappy food.”

Then one year came a flash of my mother’s inspiration and we found ourselves celebrating Thanksgiving at Longfellow’s Wayside Inn in Sudbury, Massachusetts.

The Wayside Inn is the oldest continually operating inn in the country. When you’ve finished reading these pearls of wisdom, follow the link to the Inn’s website. Be warned: that simple act will put you in the mood for their fragrant, juicy roast turkey and their soul-satisfying dressing. The inn was our Thanksgiving home for many years.

Okay, let’s step back for a moment. You’re thinking, “You write a blog about cooking and food, yet on Thanksgiving YOU EAT OUT?”

I understand that you may take exception to this, so let’s consider the average Thanksgiving dinner of turkey, cranberry sauce, dressing, and your preferred sides. Along with the fact that we pause each year to gather together, what are these items but an array of rituals? Yes, the players, the table, and the menu may change slightly from year to year, but the whole stays the same in spite of any varying parts.

My family’s ritual just happens to be slightly more codified than others’. This continues to delight us. Contrary to the rather jaded modern Thanksgiving image of a squabbling family choking down an unsatisfying meal, we are perhaps more content on Thanksgiving than at other times. My mother called me the other night to make sure that one of our yearly Thanksgiving activities is still on the itinerary—more, I think, because she was enjoying the anticipation than because of any particular worry.

By the way, if you think eating out is peculiar to my family, you should know that the Thanksgiving reservation book at the Wayside Inn opens every year on the Tuesday morning after Labor Day weekend, and is usually sold out within an hour or two.

As time has passed, our Thanksgiving ritual has undergone some changes. My dad has been gone many years, and our annual family picture standing in front of the inn’s fireplace serves as the photographic equivalent of pencil lines on a door post measuring my Baby Niece’s march to adulthood. The rest of us have not changed even one little bit.

As my brother and I made lives elsewhere and my mother moved south, we found a wonderful alternative to the Wayside Inn at The Elms in Ridgefield, Connecticut. An intimate, home-like setting, we have had so many Thanksgivings at the Elms, that each year it is like visiting family.

The ritual even allows me to invoke the memory of my Dad each year. He loved Baked Indian Pudding, having originally discovered it at Boston’s famous old Durgin Park restaurant. When it is placed in front of me for Thanksgiving dessert, my Pop is again seated at the head of the table where he belongs.

I am not going to advocate that you must include Baked Indian Pudding on your Turkey Day dessert roster. I think it’s delicious, however I recognize that compared to the other pies, cakes, jello molds, and sweets available, this milky cornmeal molasses mush is a bit plain. In fact, straight from the oven it is just a hop, skip, and a half teaspoon of salt away from being a side dish, like some supple spoon bread. For dessert you must dress it up with vanilla ice cream and a drizzle of warm maple syrup. It reaches its full potential as a humble team player.

I don’t cook on Thanksgiving. I have no (pardon the pun) sage advice on roasting the best turkey ever, or whether you should smear butter under or over the bird’s skin.

I just know that I am thankful.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Click here for my Baked Indian Pudding recipe.

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Anadama Bread

My version of the legend goes something like this: a Gloucester fisherman comes home hungry after a long day of working on his boat. Bone tired, dead hungry, his mouth watering in anticipation of a good meal, he heads straight to the kitchen to see what his wife has waiting for dinner. Instead of his wife, he finds a note: “Out with the girls. Dinner in the ‘fridge – Anna.” Opening the refrigerator, he finds Anna’s culinary masterpiece, a bowl of cooked cornmeal and molasses. “Again!” he fumes, his anger boiling before he explodes with the plaintive wail, “Anna! Damn her!”

The happier version has it that the fisherman came home to the yeasty smell of freshly baked bread and a smiling, doting Anna. After sampling her newly created cornmeal-molasses bread, the fisherman shakes his head, and coos gratefully, “Anna. Damn her, she did it again.”

On reflection, the lazy wife in my first version sounds like one of those trashy attention hogs from a reality TV show they might have named, “I Married a Fisherman.” Apologies. My Baby Niece may have corralled me into watching one too many episodes of “Keeping up with the Kardashians.”

Anna and her malnourished hubby are actually the featured players in a food legend that is as old as it is apocryphal. The fisherman’s expletive, “Anna, damn her!” became “Anadama” as the cornmeal-molasses bread is now more commonly known. This bread has been a standby in New England for many years. When Pepperidge Farm was still a little regional bakery, their version was a staple in supermarkets all around the Northeast.

Suddenly its day had passed, the bread seemingly relegated to the category of Thanksgiving specialty.

Growing up, the bread basket at Thanksgiving dinner was something I anticipated long before the call to the table. In those days, its contents could have passed for dessert: sticky buns, corn muffins, and the obligatory sweet-something-studded-with-cranberries. For this kid those goodies were like Pooh’s honey pot.

Also huddled in the bread basket—and likely overlooked (pushed side would be more accurate) by my grubby little fingers—was Anadama bread. As a kid Anadama bread didn’t hold the same appeal as its icky-sticky basket mates, but as an adult, it has my apologies for years of snubs. It’s good stuff.

Our Thanksgiving tables are reflections of our ethnic and regional backgrounds, so if you grew up outside of New England you were unlikely to have had Anadama bread. But now that you’ve been indoctrinated in the lore, let’s eat, shall we?

Anadama bread is a case of promises fulfilled. It tastes exactly as it looks. The dark, chewy crust quickly gives way, making you pause only long enough to get a gratifying whiff of toast, while the caramel-tinted center is only delicately sweetened: first, with the earthiness of the cornmeal, then with the snap of the molasses that follows a few steps behind. It is full of Yankee self confidence and doesn’t need to show off like those flashy sticky buns. How did I miss this as a kid?

Maybe it was because some of the Anadama bread of my youth was supercharged with generous portions of whole wheat flour and a dash or three of uncooked cornmeal. These unnecessary additions made the loaf heavy on colonial ambiance, but light on appeal. If I want a lesson about early Americans I’ll visit Plymouth Plantation. In the meantime, keep your gritty mitts off my Anadama; mine is made with white bread flour to mellow the cooked cornmeal.

Baking Anadama bread is slightly different from baking other breads because you must first boil the cornmeal. Boiling the cornmeal softens it so that its natural grittiness melts away as it is kneaded with the other flours. Some older recipes require cooking the cornmeal for five hours, then letting it soak further overnight. That is unnecessary. A quick boil followed by a gentle cool down achieves the same end. You then add the molasses and yeast to the cooked cornmeal creating a sort of abbreviated version of a “biga”, the sponge used as a starter in denser Italian breads.

If you’ve never made bread before, don’t let all this techni-trivia throw you; you’ll find baking this bread is a fairly easy process. Just be prepared: this is a project that takes about five hours from start to taking the first bite. But the good news is that the labor is all front-loaded. The five hours includes two rises and the baking. Your participation in those steps is minimal at most; you are really only needed for the first 45 minutes or so.

If you’re new to bread baking and you’re also the Field Marshall of an entire Thanksgiving feast, you may want to do a dress rehearsal, or at the very least bake this bread a day or two in advance (store the tightly-wrapped loaves in the freezer, and gently reheat in the oven before dinner.) If you’re availing yourself of others’ hospitality, this is a perfect “bring-along.” Let someone else bring pie.

As with most Thanksgiving dinners, there are likely to be a lot of leftovers, although I doubt your Anadama bread will be among them. But if you’re lucky enough to have a few slices in reserve the next day, you’ll say, “Merci” for Anadama French toast.  

While we’re on the subject of leftovers: how about the “Plymouth Rock”? Turkey and stuffing, dab of cranberry sauce on Anadama. Thankful, indeed!

(By the way, I made up the name “Plymouth Rock.”  Feel free to name the sandwich anything you like.)

I’ll be munching on Anadama bread next week, but I’m not too proud to admit that I still hope there’ll be a sticky bun with my name on it…

Click here for my Anadama Bread recipe.

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Take a bow...

There’s a Broadway theater named the Lunt-Fontanne—maybe you’ve seen it if you’ve walked through Times Square? Lunt-Fontanne was actually two people: Alfred Lunt and Lynn Fontanne, husband and wife, perhaps the biggest stars of the early to mid twentieth century. I could claim they were the Brangelina of their time, but that’s not quite accurate. They may actually have been bigger; their Broadway plays were invariably hits, they dutifully took them out on the road playing cities of every size (a/k/a, “the provinces,”) and they were pioneers of a natural, realistic acting style. One night while channel surfing I happened to catch a kinescope of a play they had performed live on TV in the late fifties. Even then, in their late sixties, they had timing, humor, and chemistry that would be considered contemporary today.

What in the world does this have to do with food?

It’s a stretch, but bear with me.

Anyway, during their down time, “The Lunts” lived on a farm (now a museum) called “Ten Chimneys” in Genesee Depot, Wisconsin (Lunt was a Wisconsin native.) While there, Alfred channeled his artistic talent into the kitchen, becoming quite skilled in that venue too.

Blatz showed Lunt in his kitchen (left)

I found this out a few years ago, and was amused enough by it that I decided to name one of my recipes in his honor, giving it an imaginary “back story,” and the aura of mystery that goes along with it. (Food geek? Me? Hi! Have we met?)

The question was: which recipe? Then Thanksgiving rolled around. After a quick tour through my recipe file, the answer became obvious. For many years I have been making a pumpkin pie with a chocolate cookie crumb crust. The original idea came from seeing the pre-made chocolate cookie crumb crusts stacked near the canned pumpkin in the supermarket. It was as easy as asking, “What if I tried those two together?”

One year, I couldn’t find the pre-made chocolate cookie crumb crusts, and realized I would have to make my own. That’s when I found Nabisco Famous Chocolate Wafers. You may have seen those: they are packaged in a cellophane wrapped yellow box. A plain, simple, dark chocolate cookie, they are more than just a bit addictive, and, after a spin in the food processor, perfect in a crumb crust.

(If you doubt me that the cookies are addictive, I’ll admit that more than once I have had to run out and get another box because I no longer had enough to make a full crust. Oink.)

Although I have never been able to find out why the cookies are called famous, pairing the most famous stage actor / cook of the twentieth century with a cookie named “famous” just seemed natural to me. Could there be a better match? That’s how “Alfred Lunt’s Famous Pumpkin Pie” was born. The recipe is all mine, but its cachet is borrowed.

So, now, to the pie itself. I have written in this venue about a tendency I used to have to over spice pumpkin pie, a nasty habit swiftly broken by my mother’s insistence that she wanted to taste the pumpkin in the pumpkin pie. So I tempered my recipe, putting the pumpkin center stage, and relegating the spices to supporting roles. The spices are all still there; in fact I used a kitchen sink approach, just in smaller quantities, sometimes as small as a pinch. A restrained twist of orange zest adds a spring to the pumpkin’s step.

To give the pumpkin custard a bit of complexity I used three different sweeteners: white sugar, and smaller doses of maple syrup and molasses. The maple syrup adds a bit of smoke, and the molasses makes the sugar less cloying, effectively keeping the whole thing with two feet planted firmly on the ground. If you’re a fan of using sweet potato instead of pumpkin (and why wouldn’t you be?) I suggest using a bit less of each sweetener, and give some thought to employing them in different ratios than you would with pumpkin. Perhaps a bit less of the sugar and maple, and a bit more of the molasses?

I use a light version of the classic pumpkin custard, omitting the egg yolks, and using fat free evaporated milk. The remaining egg whites are whipped to soft peaks, breathing a bit of lift into what is usually a very dense pie. Pumpkin is rich enough on its own, so the resulting pie retains its heft, but you’ll have room for all the other goodies that are sure to find themselves under your nose on turkey day.

Because the pumpkin mixture is so liquid when poured into the pan, it soaks the chocolate cookie crumbs slightly, but the result seems like providence rather than poor baking skills. You get a dark, dense, mildly chocolate crust that sets off the rusty pumpkin better than a predictable pie crust ever could. Contrary to the expectation that the chocolate might upstage the pumpkin, they actually work together in a well rehearsed banter.

This all reminds me that the holidays are a perfect time to bring some theater to the table. I bake this pie in a Springform pan. This serves two purposes: first, you pop open the pan and the pie is freed, easier to slice, and ready to do its job; second, the perfectly upright sides of the pan give each slice a pleasingly symmetrical discipline. Why not take the slices out of the pan and line them up on a rectangular platter, like a line of whipped cream-topped Rockettes ready to kick their way across your table. Ta da!

And the cachet? I’ll be telling folks that Alfred Lunt used to bake this pie every Thanksgiving at Ten Chimneys. So when I offer seconds, it is in the tradition of the man himself exhorting Noel Coward to, “…have another piece of pie, old boy.” You can make up your own story if it pleases you. That’s “thee-a-tah.”

Hmmm: I wonder what I did with that recipe for Kathie Lee’s Crab Cakes?

Click here for the recipe for “Alfred Lunt’s Famous Pumpkin Pie.”

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"The autumn leaves, drift by the window..."

You want scary? My friends and neighbors the Avatars have invited me to spend Halloween night with them and their adorable twins, Newton and Natick. The invitation came in the form of a favor: would I help with the food and beverage? Turns out they are throwing a Halloween party for the twins’ school mates (including three other sets of twins), their parents, and other assorted adults (of whom I guess I am one.) Boo!

They have dinner taken care of, no more cookies or cakes are needed, and I would not presume to try to one-up Mr. Hershey in the candy department. So what’s left? Adult beverages, of course.

Now, I worry that you’ll think that the Avatars ascribed to me an intimate knowledge of all things alcohol, and have thus asked me to choose a cocktail for the gathering. No, truth be told, I am a rather abstemious guy. The assignment was actually one of responsibility delegated.

Putting on my thinking cap, I pondered my options. What cocktail can I make that will land squarely in that magical intersection where Halloween appropriateness meets palate pleasing refreshment? I’d prefer to avoid drinks that look like blood, body parts, or that use “cutesy” effects like dry ice to reproduce a steaming cauldron effect. I want the cocktail to taste good, quench a thirst borne of an apartment full of screaming sugar-stoked children, and then look holiday appropriate.

As I looked out of my living room window at a big maple tree that had begun to blush with orange foliage I was taken back to another Halloween many, many moons ago.

(If it was that long ago, chances are I still had hair, so I like this story.)

I was bartending in a bustling hotel lobby bar. A blowsy, windswept woman dressed in shoulder-padded assorted animal prints landed on one of my bar stools and said, “Honey, Jeannie needs an Autumn Leaf.” I went with the immediate assumption that she was referring to herself in the third person.

Let me digress quickly to explain that I think all bartenders fall into two categories: those who know their booze from extensive personal experience, and those who know it from extensive study of the “Old Mr. Boston Official Bartender’s Guide.” I fell squarely in the latter group, often with a jarring thud.

So it was that I had to reveal to Jeannie the dirty little secret that I had no idea what an Autumn Leaf was.

Jeannie, clearly a patient, understanding sort, said, “Don’t worry, honey, we’ll use the point system.”

I could feel myself cringe at a suggestion of something called “the point system” as it implied to me a need for some kind of math-on-the-fly. Jeannie, sensing my hesitation, explained that all I needed to do was to get a martini glass ready, and toss some ice into a cocktail shaker. She’d take it from there. I did as I was told as if under some kind of spell.

Once I had complied and had placed glass and shaker in front of her, Jeannie pointed to the ingredients she wanted.

Ah. The Point System. Get it?

And what she pointed to made the drink we have all come to know as a Cosmopolitan but with a dash of orange juice for color. It reminded me of the Cape Codder (or Cape Cawduh as we say up north) which is a Screwdriver with cranberry juice added.

Back to present day (and my current lack of hair. Oh well.) I thought the Autumn Leaf might make a perfect cocktail for the Halloween gathering, but pondered a little update that would lighten its profile: In the intervening years since Jeannie landed on that bar stool, there has been an invention that I think will provide just the change the Autumn Leaf needs. I speak not of the GPS or the cell phone, but of white cranberry juice.

White cranberry juice provides the same slippery coolness as red cranberry juice, but is clear, giving you a blank slate upon which you can paint a cocktail’s palette. If you think that sounds a little highfalutin’ don’t forget that you eat (and drink) with your eyes too. White cranberry juice just lets you make drinks to fit any appealing color-scheme. Want an orange-tinted cocktail for a Halloween party? Bingo!

The dash of fresh orange juice provides a foliage-tinted blush to the White Cranberry juice that actually suits any autumn occasion. Since this is for a party, I’m adding a touch that Jeannie may have found unnecessary: I’m going to sugar the rims of the glasses with orange sanding sugar. The bonus is that the adults can then stick their orange-dyed tongues out at the little ghosts, princesses, and mini-Madoffs scampering around the party.

I always worry that there will never be enough to eat, so I decided to bake a little nosh to accompany the Autumn Leaf—just to tide everyone over ‘till dinner. I’m baking a simple Cheddar Pecan shortbread crisp. They look like cookies, but they have a salty savory crunch that will cut the sugary tang of the cocktails and fill stomachs emptied by wrangling costumed kiddies through chilly city streets to the party.

Now all that’s left for me to do is to figure out a costume. I wonder where I put my Zorro mask?

Click here for my Autumn Leaf and Cheddar Pecan Shortbread Crisp recipes.

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Don't be scared. It's only a cookie.

You want scary? You should see me carving a Jack O’Lantern. Don’t worry, this isn’t a gruesome or gory story; no blood has ever been spilled. Sadly, this is simply a story of a boring pumpkin carver. Me.

This is a realization many years in the making. I don’t remember carving Jack O’Lanterns as a kid. But when my Baby Niece (“BN” as I refer to her in this venue) was growing up I was always the designated carver. I haven’t asked her lately what her memories of our pumpkin carving are, but her lack of vocal nostalgia through the years speaks volumes. It’s not that my Jack O’Lanterns were bad or messy, it’s just that they were…tame. Two triangular eyes. A triangular nose. A jagged mouth. Zzzzzzzzzzz.

From the vantage point of time passed, I see a two-fold problem. The first is relatively simple. Tools are everything, and I always feel that the tools I have at hand are inadequate for the “art of the gourd.” Pumpkins are big and have tough skins (I’ve worked for people like that) and kitchen knives always seem too small or frighteningly too big (I’ve worked for people like that too. Hmmm…)

I have seen Martha Stewart go at the poor defenseless vegetables with all manner of electric drills and saws. Where’s the sport in that? Bringing electric power to bear here seems like performing open heart surgery with a jack hammer. (I’m a big fan of Martha’s, but the look of glee on her face as she went at the pumpkin with a hole saw was eye opening for more than just the pumpkin.)

Last year at Williams-Sonoma I saw an electric tool designed specifically for pumpkin carving. Where’s the finesse? Where’s the artistry? Besides, if I used that a friend of mine would have labeled me a “cheater” to the end of my days. (I have a couple of friends who like to throw pumpkin carving parties. Let’s just say it’s a tough room.)

If you sense some hemming and hawing on my part it is likely due to the second part of the two-fold problem. I tend to personify the pumpkins. When I shop for a pumpkin I don’t choose the first pumpkin I see. I look for one that is big, round, and, for lack of a better description, happy. For me, pumpkin shopping is not unlike adopting a big round orange mutt from the pound.

Let me digress for a moment. I have a friend who has a dog. One Christmas season, someone (not me!) had the inspiration to place a set of felt reindeer antlers on the dog. I will never forget the look of shame and disappointment on the dog’s face as he hung his head in shame. If the dog could have spoken, he likely would have said, “Antlers? You’re kidding, right? I thought you were better than this.”

I look at my beautiful, happy pumpkin, and can’t help but feel the same attitude coming from him—I mean–it. So, my instinct is always to enjoy the fat, happy pumpkin as is.

But social obligations being what they are, when invited to a Jack O’Lantern carving party one must arrive with the makings of a Jack O’Lantern. That’s where some butter, flour, and eggs come in handy.

Yes, if there’s a holiday and a party, it’s likely that I can find a cookie to suit the day. In this case a Jack O’Lantern cookie isn’t a cheat, no; it’s a creative swerve into another lane on the highway. All you need is a Jack O’Lantern cookie cutter.

The first time I made Jack O’Lantern cookies, I used a tangy maple-flavored dough, sprinkled them with a dusting of maple sugar, and filled them like a sandwich cookie with chocolate buttercream. 

This year I thought it would be fun to go with tradition and use an orange colored filling. A chocolate cookie would be good, but a little predictable. I was in the mood for something else, so the cookies are mocha-flavored.

I was faced with a few choices for the filling, and decided to present you with an either / or decision. You can use an easy buttercream and tint it orange, but if kids are involved in the occasion, I thought it would be fun to make them into a kind of a Halloween S’Mores cookie. I painted the bottom cookie with melted chocolate, let it set, then topped that with a dab of Italian meringue (Marshmallow Fluff from the jar is a perfectly acceptable substitute) tinted orange. I closed the sandwich with a cookie whose eyes, nose, and mouth were cut out so the orange filling would show.

The trick? I didn’t have to carve a pumpkin. The treat? Cookies, of course.

Click here for my Jack O’Lantern cookie recipe.

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Pumpkin Apple Praline Cake

No, I am not calendar-challenged; this Friday marks the beginning of the Jewish New Year holiday, which starts with Rosh Hashanah, and ends the following week with Yom Kippur. 

On the lunar-based Jewish calendar this year will be 5770, and yes, I agree, time flies: seems like it was just 5760.

Here’s the “Emily Post”: Yes, by all means wish your Jewish friends a Happy New Year, but do not say, “Happy Yom Kippur.” Yom Kippur is all about fasting to atone for your sins, and mourning those we’ve lost. Stick with, “Happy New Year” and you’re covered.

In spite of the fact that the holiday includes a day of fasting, as with any big holiday there is also a big meal. My baby niece (that’s what I call her in spite of the fact that she is a college graduate) is the event planner. I have been tasked with providing desserts. Baby Niece (or “BN” as she will heretofore be known) assigned me this task as much for my skills in the kitchen as for the fact that we are simpatico when it comes to our choice of which desserts should be served on any given holiday.

The tradition of desserts on this holiday is not a particularly rich one. Traditional Jewish New Year desserts include apples dipped in honey (a symbolic gesture of hope for a sweet new year,) Honey Cake, Sponge Cake, and Taiglach, which could be wonderful, but ends up being soup nuts coated with “honey” (I use that term loosely), and tossed with chopped almonds and a few confused-looking maraschino cherries. This is usually sold in a disposable aluminum pie tin.

Maraschino cherries in a disposable pie tin. Tempting. If you’re a smelter with a sweet tooth.

Jewish food is basically a reflection of the various places we have lived; for some this means a largely Eastern European influence, and for others a largely North African and Southern European influence.

As I am several generations removed from the Eastern European experience, I think it is time to reflect (and celebrate) the rich traditions of the place where I grew up.

Welcome to “Extreme Makeover: Jewish New Year Desserts” edition.

The sponge cake is the first to be shown the door. The role has been recast with Lemon Yogurt cake, a simple recipe from Ina Garten, a/k/a the Barefoot Contessa, which has a fizzy lemon intensity that belies its humble name. (My family and I do not observe kosher laws, so we can have a cake made with yogurt, a dairy product, in the same meal as meat.)

I have a few ideas for the Taiglach, but they’ll need some work in the lab before I can use them, so I’m moving on, for now, to the honey cake, which is joining its sponge cake buddy in blessed retirement.  Perhaps they’ll drop us a note now and then.

BN and my mom have been tempted of late by pumpkin which I think fits the harvest celebration aspect of the New Year beautifully.  But flabby, over spiced pumpkin loaf recipes abound, and frankly, with the homey simplicity of the Lemon Yogurt cake something equally rustic, but slightly more stylish is needed. There’s also the fact that I learned my lesson about over spicing pumpkin several Thanksgivings ago when my mom, between shovelfuls of my Pumpkin Pie paused long enough only to breathe and say, “Delicious! But I can’t taste the pumpkin.”

So, a light hand with the spice. The earthy intensity would come from the use of brown sugar and maple syrup which would sweeten the cake, and reflect my New England background. A few wisps of orange zest would supercharge the pumpkin flavor. With a nod towards the apples and honey tradition, there would need to be apples in the cake, but more fun I thought, if the apples could be sliced and end up on top of the cake. The goal is like the lovechild of a cake and a clafouti.

Then I had second thoughts.  It sounded good, but the lily needed a bit of gilding: the cake still seemed a bit plain, and I like things to have a bit of crunch, which, unless I was clumsy with an eggshell, is not something for which cake is usually known.

Hmmm…my mind lingered for a moment on the almonds and honey in the Taiglach. What if the honey and almonds could somehow be a source of crunch on the cake? This is frequently done using crushed praline, which is simply sugar cooked with nuts, then allowed to harden, and crushed into a powder. Why not do the same thing with honey and almonds?

The story, I’m happy to report, has a happy ending. A trial run revealed the need for a few adjustments: a bit less orange zest here, a slightly greener apple there, and the use of cake flour instead of all purpose flour to dry the crumb a bit. But all in all, a wonderful makeover for that tired old honey cake.

The cake, once cooled, was first dusted with confectioner’s sugar, then with the honey praline. The apples were cooked on the bottom of the pan so they would be on top when the cake was turned out of the pan. Combined with the confectioner’s sugar they formed a thin, almost “jammy” layer. The pumpkin cake retained the buttery brightness of the pumpkin and orange zest, but revealed the smoky sweetness of the maple syrup. The praline was the best surprise of all, starting and ending each bite with a toasty, honeyed crackle that said, “Happy New Year!”

And the good news is that the cake is perfect for any occasion during fall and autumn, from a gathering as big as Thanksgiving, to one as intimate as coffee with a chum.

Click here for my recipe, and “L’shana Tova!”