Butter. Flour. Eggs.

Posts Tagged ‘Cookies’

Meyer Lemon Rosemary Biscotti

Remember Rosemary Focaccia? No, she wasn’t that friend of your Mom’s with the big hair. I baked it last week and wrote about it here. Well, I‘ve barely used any of the big hunk of rosemary (the herb, not the woman with the scary baby.) The rest has been sitting on my kitchen shelf, waiting for its next assignment. Every day as I walked by it I thought, “Don’t want to waste that, gotta use it in something.” I swear the rosemary kept eyeing me anxiously, like a Little Leaguer waiting on the bench for the coach to send her in to play shortstop.

Finally, I stopped and looked at the rosemary, and smelled its turpentine-soaked perfume for inspiration. Dubiously I thought, “Chicken?” Even the rosemary rolled its proverbial eyes at that one. I guess the world doesn’t need yet another take on Rosemary Chicken (the entrée, not your Dad’s prom date.)

Okay, I need to explain why I’ve been indulging myself here in cheap, vulgar word play which you tired of after the first instance. I have a friend who over the years has gotten me hooked on something we call “The Name Game.” I think you’ve gotten the unfortunate drift of how it works. I believe it started one day when he and a family member were assembling a piece of Ikea furniture. Stopping to decipher the instructions, they realized that the little tool that you use to assemble Ikea furniture had gone missing. Returning to the store they asked for a little replacement tool and the clerk answered, “Oh you mean an Allen wrench?”

I wasn’t there, but I’d love to have been a fly on the wall to see the clerk’s reaction when my friend replied, “Allen Wrench? I went to high school with him.” I imagine the clerk’s reaction was exactly the same as yours.

In the years since, my world has become populated by the likes of Chuck Steak, Bob Forapples, and the distinguished Count Yourchange.

The game is addictive, but I’ll stop and address the question at hand: what should I do with rosemary? (Now I’m restraining myself at great pain.)

I got to thinking that after January (my month of virtuous eating) I have been avoiding my best mate, the cookie. I’ve missed him so. That was all the inspiration I needed. My challenge was to make a cookie using rosemary, a somewhat grassy herb with a raucous perfume that is usually more at home as a savory note. An even better challenge, I thought, was to access my inner Alice Waters, and use whatever was fresh today at the market.

Since it is winter, the market wasn’t offering me any inspiration. So I wondered what would happen if I stole a page out of the chicken cookbook and made a Lemon Rosemary Cookie. I was intrigued but unconvinced. Just then, I spotted Meyer Lemons. (Okay, I’ll restrain myself, but c’mon, doesn’t that sound like a character Woody Allen would have played in one of his early movies?)

Rosemary; Meyer Lemon

I rarely see Meyer Lemons here in New York as they are not really the stuff of mainstream supermarkets. Meyer Lemons are delightfully odd in that they are a cross between lemons and oranges. They look like an orange, taste like a lemon, have strong undertones of lime, but lack a lot of the sourness of lemons.

Meyer Lemon Rosemary Biscotti would just hit the spot. I thought biscotti would be better than cookies because you can dip them in wine, taking advantage of the savory notes being sung by the rosemary.

I think a lot of folks who like to bake don’t realize that biscotti are really easy to make, and the flavor combinations are limited only by your imagination. And yes, even some of the sweet varieties are wonderful dipped in wine. A simple, light dessert? Biscotti dipped in a sweet dessert wine. Granted, not great for kids.

As biscotti doughs tend to be rich in eggs I knew that the aggressiveness of the Meyer Lemon and rosemary would be muted, resulting in a cookie that is just mildly sweet. My target was not to make the cookie equivalent of a Starburst candy.

Of course, if Starbursts are your cup of tea, you can drizzle the biscotti with a Meyer Lemon glaze that gives the cookies an almost drippy citrus zing. Meyer Lemon glaze has two ingredients. Does it get any easier? (No.)

The resulting biscotti were exactly as I imagined. They have a challenging crunch, and a vanilla heartiness that is merely “influenced” by the Meyer Lemon and Rosemary. The resident Butter Flour Eggs Oenologist (a/k/a my friend Marnee) recommends dipping them in the nectary sweetness of Mezzacorona Moscato – a more restrained Moscato than the “raisin-y” varieties that may be familiar to you.

If you prefer your fruit of the vine to be much less sweet, she also recommends the flowery Trader Joe Honeymoon Viognier or even the oaky darkness of Columbia Crest Grand Estates Merlot. I think the latter is where the Meyer Lemon Rosemary biscotti will shine.

All that’s left now is to set out a plate of the biscotti, uncork the wine, and enjoy a few relaxing moments with my friends Eileen Dover and her brother Ben.

Sorry. Couldn’t resist.

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Click here for the Meyer Lemon Rosemary Biscotti recipe.

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Write to me at the email address below with any thoughts you may have. Thanks!

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

Valentine's Day Cookies

A couple of classmates from elementary school “friended” me recently on Facebook. To protect the innocent I won’t say how many years have gone by since I’ve seen them. As happy as I was to hear from them after all these years, I also found that it raised some strange emotions for me. I think the passage of time has always had an ineffable quality for me; I can count the time passed in numbers but I can’t quite wrap my head around what it means.

One of these long lost school mates reminded me that when we were kids I always gave everyone in our classroom a Valentine’s Day card. I admit I found this a bit disconcerting:  you mean everyone DIDN’T give everyone in class a Valentine’s Day card?? What was going on there? Were they raised by wolves?

I remember vividly that every year there was the ceremonial carving of the shoe box: everyone decorated a shoe box with a slot cut in the top. Everyone placed them on their desks to serve as a Valentine’s Day mailbox. I remember a flurry of activity as everyone ran around the classroom delivering their cards. I do not remember why I was so generous with my little paper hearts and cupids. Was I sentimental or romantic? Was my Mom teaching me some early lesson about etiquette and letter writing? Maybe it was the simple math of me observing that there were twenty-something cards in the pack, and assuming that I was supposed to use them all?

Whatever the reason, it is a relief to know that for once, I had it covered. Phew.

Living here in New York, I am a witness every year to the adult version of this ritual. I always get a laugh out of seeing the long line of quietly panicked men at the florist and at the Godiva store much too late on Valentine’s Day. I never see women in those lines. I’m not sure why, but I got a hint the other day when my Baby Niece (or “B.N.”) called me – more than two weeks before Valentine’s Day – and asked if I would help her make a special treat for her boyfriend (lower case.) I think she’s trying to make him her Boyfriend (upper case.)

She wants to surprise him with cookies (he doesn’t read this blog so this won’t ruin the surprise.) I think this is a great idea. Anyone can go out and buy chocolate, but the extra step of making something or planning something is what makes a gift romantic on Valentine’s Day. It says, “I was thinking of you, and you mean enough to me that I took the time and planned something special.” I am not advocating stalking, rather, I am merely suggesting consensual obsession.

Nor am I advocating that you should forego including jewelry as part of your Valentine’s Day gift. If I did that I would likely be disinherited by my Mother and have to endure the scorn of the other women in my family, as well as countless others. Jewelers everywhere can now breathe a sigh of relief.

I was more than willing to bake the cookies for her and let boyfriend (lower case) operate under the delusion that she baked them – the sugary equivalent of Cyrano de Bergerac. (How’s that for romantic?)

But no, B.N., an intrepid young woman, insisted that she needed to do it herself under my supervision. My only concern was that my kitchen is a bit snug for two adults to comfortably work. Also, we were planning on dipping the cookies in chocolate; to bake them, wait for them to cool, and then dip ‘n decorate (can I trademark that term?) would mean perhaps a longer day than either of us was willing to give to the project.

In the past I have described my usual division of labor for projects of this type. To be brief, I prefer to break the work into pieces. For these Valentine cookies I decided that the pieces should be: A) I’ll make the cookie dough B) I’ll bake the cookie dough C) B.N. will decorate the cookies.

That weighty decision done, I unearthed a very simple, not too sweet, shortbread recipe I had cobbled together. This is one of those “double duty” recipes I always like. You can use it for cookies, but if you omit the egg it makes a great crust for lemon bars, or pecan bars. As B.N.’s boyfriend (lower case) prefers milk chocolate (I approve!), I thought this humble cookie would be the best delivery system for the milk chocolate.

We had a bit of time between “cookie day” and Valentine’s Day, so I knew I needed to be extra careful with the chocolate. During that time the chocolate could become streaky or discolored – especially if refrigerated. Tempering chocolate is a process that allows you to melt it and let it set again without streaking or discoloring. Tempering chocolate requires raising it to a particular temperature, then cooling it slowly by folding it over on itself on a cool marble slab. It requires a bit of skill, patience, and space. I’m one for three. Barely.

Instead, I found a shortcut technique in a really beautiful book titled, “Baking At Home with The Culinary Institute of America.” Their shortcut involves simply melting two thirds of the chocolate on top of a double boiler, then adding the remaining un-melted chocolate and allowing it to melt while stirring until the chocolate reaches 84˚F to 87˚F. Sounds convoluted? The fault is in my description, it is really very simple.

B.N. and I had a blast. This is a really low stress project. One of the reasons for the lower stress is the sheer scale of the project: at Christmas you feel compelled to bake enough cookies to feed a small country. On Valentine’s Day you can get away with as few as three or four and as many as a dozen. Unless you’re baking enough for the whole class.

You can see samples of our collaboration in the picture above. The question remains: will boyfriend (lower case) be promoted to Boyfriend (uppercase)?

We’ll see. But for now I’ve got another Valentine’s Day covered. Phew.

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Click here for my recipe for chocolate dipped shortbread cookies.

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Write to me at the email address below with any thoughts you may have. Thanks!

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

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.”

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

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.

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

Hermits

I am a big fan of the fall. Yes, a lot of it is because I am more comfortable in the cool weather. I’d also be lying if I didn’t admit that I love the fall because it is time to eat all the foods I love. Lingering in the back of my mind is that come January the slate is wiped clean—and so is my diet. So turn on the oven! It’s time to eat those Maple-roasted sweet potatoes, throw some extra noodles in the chicken soup, and pull out the butter, flour, and eggs and start baking.

(Do you like the way I worked in the name of the blog?)

A week or two ago on her Facebook page a friend of mine posted a picture of some heart-shaped brownies she had baked. They looked really good.

I’ve had a tough time getting those out of my mind.

I am a big fan of brownies. Throw in some ice cream and hot fudge sauce and I’ll jump up and down in unfettered joy (I promise that’s not something you’ll ever have to witness.)  But when all is said and done I’ll take my brownies “neat,” and very happily. My only rule is that I don’t like them hot or even warm. I like my brownies cool and day-old so I can taste the chocolate better. That’s just me.

All this talk of brownies got me to thinking that the next time I serve brownies I’d like to try serving them with something that compliments them.

No, not a friend telling them how great they are.

More like another cookie or bar that would serve as a contrast to the rich intensity of their sweet dark chewiness.

Often people pair brownies with blondies, but I always find those lacking somehow, as if their only purpose in life is to be just like a brownie but without the chocolate. I like the fact that blondies have similar chewiness, but I want to find something with its own chewy identity that will stand tall and proud next to the brownies.

Looking out my window at a tree whose leaves were just beginning to change color inspired me: fall is the time for hermits! Some of you know what I’m talking about; others of you are wondering why I have taken a sudden left turn into talking about a guy who hides away for months at a time. Well for those who didn’t know, hermits are cookies, and they are great in the fall because they have a chewy molasses-tinged earthiness that seems to fit a time of year when we’re just beginning to adjust to the chill outside. Hermits (thought I) are just the thing to sing the alto line to the brownies’ screechy soprano.

My only questions were 1.) What should I do with the raisins that are always part of a hermit? and 2.) What should I do with the molasses that is always part of a hermit?

The reason I ask about the raisins is that I really don’t know anyone who likes them in cookies. Everyone I know picks them out. But I like them. A good compromise would be to chop up the raisins, but that would add a fussy step to an otherwise simple recipe. What about Zante Currants?

No, Zante Currants was not a foreign exchange student I met in high school. Zante Currants are dried currants, very small (about the size of a clump of poppy seeds), with the requisite raisin flavor, but without the gooeyness to which raisins succumb after a visit to the oven. And no chopping required.

The molasses is a slightly easier question. Some people don’t like it, so I’ll use less. (Phew, that was easy.)

While they were baking I had a revelation: remember the old trick real estate agents used to use? The one where they’d bake apples and cinnamon in the oven while they were holding an open house? I recommend baking hermits at the next open house. Folks will move right in.

The result is a very basic bar cookie. Not too sweet. They reminded me of the classic “after-school” cookie. A little plain, but very pleasant, and likely nice when dunked into a cold glass of milk. Wholesome is the word they used to use to describe cookies like these.

(Does anyone still dunk cookies in milk? For that matter, does anyone still let their kids eat cookies after school? Who cares! You be the kid. Hey you’re done with school, right? In my book that still counts as “after school.”)

Like brownies (and revenge) hermits are best served cold, preferably after being allowed to sit around the house for a day. And yes, you’ll be fighting over the “edge” pieces.

So brownie-lovers, you are hereby notified that the next time I serve brownies, they’ll have company.

Try my recipe for hermits by clicking here.

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