Outdoors Come In

Reasons to keep a chunk of outdoor ice in your freezer:

1. It probably contains DNA!

2. It's going to make a really good icepack after I fall on the other ice outside and need the swelling to go down.

3. It's crunchy and delicious when the attached sand covers other things in the freezer.

4. It's really convenient if Matthew runs out of ice for his drinks while I am out of town.

5. It's a good reminder of how cold and icy it is outside, because I keep forgetting that we're in the middle of a 6-month long, dark, impossibly freezing winter.

6. It's a nice puck for kitchen hockey.

7. It will be a good weapon in case of an intruder.

8. It will be a good tool with which to explain slipperiness to a young child.

9. It will be a good tool with which to explain the Bergeron Process to myself or other adults.

10. Ice harvesting is coming back into style.

11. It's a perfect addition to an icebox, should I receive one as a gift.

12. With it, I can lay the foundation of the first Chicago Ice Hotel.

13. The outdoors just got a little less hazardous!

14. It will remind me of my dear Meghan, who chose the ice hunk from all the other ice hunks and carried it home from our beach walk because, well, carrying home ice hunks is important.

It Was Christmas

 

Birthmark

Yoga For Skeletons

Girl Vs. Onion

 
Onions and I, we have quite a history.

I've spent many years (by this I mean my whole life) feeling really, really particular about onions. And I would like to announce right now that I am NOT proud of it. Even when I was a faux-meat-loving vegan for awhile, even when I was vegetarian for a much longer while, I've never felt so strongly about not eating a certain food. It's been a bumpy road, but I'm here to tell you that things are getting better. In the past few years, I've really come around, and I'm trying to get away from my onion aversion. I am working on a new respect for this creature, this force, the Onion. It's insane, really -- there are some onion formats that I am currently so in love with that I would spread them on my body and eat them three times a day, but others still make me wince a little. But you should hear the whole story.

I need to start by saying I have absolutely no idea how or why I started the war. And that's the odd, odd thing with food relationships -- they are so complicated, and usually there is no logical explanation for our feelings about certain items. When it's something very potent or textural or overwhelmingly odorous, we have a bit more of an excuse. It just all seems especially strange when the Food In Question is something as benign as an onion. And it's even more ridiculous when you consider my first encounter. It all goes back to (you guessed it) my childhood. I'm certain my mother could give you a more complete play-by-play, but I'll see if I can muster up some sort of truth.

Okay, so it was the onions in the meatloaf. That's the first memory of feeling completely averse to a food. I saw the tiny, tiny onion bits inside the meatloaf, and I wanted to die. I couldn't stand the thought of those bits. They didn't taste like very much, but they were so obtrusive, and they froze me in my tracks. I refused to eat them. And I mean refused. Oh, my poor, poor mother, the abused chef. Just trying to put a dinner on the table, and look at what she gets! A total whiner. An onion-fearing, inconsolable lunatic at her table. Such abuse I inflicted, such unnecessary dinner table antics. Why did my parents keep me?

I could identify an onion a mile away. Okay, um, four miles away. There was no sneaking an onion by me. It couldn't be done. I would sort through my meatloaf with the hands of a tiny surgeon, reducing the whole thing to rubble on my plate. There were so many tiny pieces that I'd get exhausted halfway through and give up on the meatloaf completely. I remember wanting so badly to not be bothered by them, the awful onions. And, even then, I was truly confused about why I was so disturbed by them. I had no wretched history with onions. They had never done anything to me. At that point, I really hadn't ever even eaten one, for crying out loud! How on earth could I know that I didn't like it?

I'd sift through soup and spaghetti sauce, too -- anywhere there might be an onion was a place that onions needed to be extracted from. Raw, cooked...get it out of there! My mother was patient beyond belief. She was likely boiling on the inside, growling through clenched teeth to my father when I was out of earshot why won't she just eat the damn onions! But, with me she was patient, and when a fib didn't work (those aren't onions in the meatloaf, honey! They're crackers!) she obliged me and made some of the muffin-tin meatloaves without onions. She had read the books. She knew that it (supposedly) takes a child up to seventeen tries of a food before they like it. But I'm sure she had no idea that "seventeen tries" actually meant thirty-one years.

I didn't want anything to do with raw onions for years and years. Eventually, about a decade ago, I came to understand the scallion, and we've been madly in love for years. I've tried to get on board with the other kinds of raw onions, and discovered that they give me a horribly pained belly, although at this point it's much like the boy who cried wolf, and I'm not sure anyone actually believes me when I tell them that. I might not even believe myself. There are some extreme mind games involved with me and the raw onion. So acidic! So pokey inside my body! So smelly on the breath! So smelly on the hands! So offensive! So invasive! So pungent!

But listen to this. When it comes to a cooked onion these days, I start to swoon. Yes, swoon! Melt with glee! Drown in my own saliva as I dream of them! Oh onions, as long as you are thoroughly cooked, I love you. I love you grilled onions, I love you fried onions, I love you onions in soups and sauces. I love you leeks! And shallots! I love you ramps! I love you powdered onions, dehydrated onions, and most of all, I love you caramelized onions. Marry me, caramelized onions!

I recently strayed from this "cooked is okay" rule, though. I found myself at a restaurant in San Francisco, eating a really special pad Thai, complete with all these super-fresh, local vegetables. Amazing things lurked inside this dish. Including onions. Barely cooked white onions. And I turned into a baby. I gingerly poked at them, dragging them as inconspicuously as possible to the side of the plate. This is rude! I told myself over and over. Stop doing this! This is terrible restaurant behavior! But I couldn't stop. Granted, after all these years of onion avoidance, I have gotten quite adept at such surreptitious onion-relocating strategies. But I appalled myself. I ate one to confirm that I didn't like it. Crunch, crunch...uh, no. Not good. But why?! It didn't taste especially bad -- in fact, it was flavoring the dish really nicely. It crunched, but I typically love things that crunch. It didn't look scary like kimchi or oxtail or a clam does. There was only one explanation. I was at odds with only the idea of the onion. Just the idea of it. It wasn't even that much of a relief when I realized this, because I just felt like a superficial brat. I was back in high school, surrounded by the stabbing words of The Snotty Girls. Oh, Tammy, it's not that I don't like you, I just really hate cheerleaders and you happen to be one!

On one hand, I feel that in order to be a reasonable grown-up, I need to learn to (semi-happily) eat everything. Part of me really is convinced that when someone doesn't like something, they just haven't ever had it prepared the right way. On the other hand, I feel that I should move on, that I don't need to waste my time worrying about not liking a certain food. Everyone has foods they don't like, right? Our palates all react to flavors differently, right? Even Matthew, who will eat from the garbage can if you let him, cannot possibly stand to eat a beet or "the crunchy part of the lettuce", and my dad doesn't want to deal with couscous or orzo or tofu. My mom will not touch oatmeal with a ten-foot pole, and my brother does not want you to give him a sweet thing, not a cake or a chocolate or a candy. My aunt does not want to even talk about tomatoes, and I have several friends who can't even be in the same room as goat cheese. A friend of my mother's doesn't want garlic in anything, ever, and I had a friend in college who really didn't want to ever see any sort of white, creamy anything -- dressings, sauces, cheeses. Another friend won't eat a mussel to save her life (oh, wait, that's me) and another friend won't even think about eating anything that has been pickled.  So I can have my onion policy, right? I am working on my redemption song. See?

Dear Onion,
I think you are really beautiful. I love your rings, and all the colors that you come in, especially purple. I like the way your layers peel away, and I like that there are so many metaphors in the world that use onions in order to teach us things. I appreciate that you have very large cells so that you can be easily examined with a low magnification, and I think it's pretty special that onions were even used in Egyptian burials and used for currency during the Middle Ages. Even though you make me cry when I cut you open, I have learned that you are only trying to protect yourself, and I guess that's okay with me. I like that you are very healthy, and extremely versatile. You are so neat, how you do all that growing underground and then you come up and say, What's up now, sucka! I think it's amazing that you have been growing in the world for so, so long, and I can store you for a long time, which is convenient. Even though you are toxic to most animals, you have a lot of human friends, so try not to worry so much, okay? I have had a hard time loving you in all your forms, but I am working on it. I hope you can understand.
Write back soon!
Love from Chicago!
xoxox

The Terrible Infection

December = Sugar

We all know it's true. December can't even really exist without sugar. It. Is. Everywhere. 

The second after we've gnawed the last bits of Thanksgiving turkey off the bone, we're lined up outside the market, loading our carts full of sugar bags, quaking under their weight as we lug them home so that we can pour them down our throats as quickly as possible. Okay, okay, so we typically dress the sugar up as cookies and candy, but, still. It feels very much like we might as well be standing underneath the C&H sugar factory's giant spout with our mouths wide open, bracing ourselves for a month of sugar intake. Willy Wonka, hold onto your hat.

The first immense sugar rush of the season came to me on Friday night, when I posted myself at a bake sale table, surrounded by a harrowing cloud of sugar all night long. I had pretty much already put myself in sugar smell overload the night before, when I baked myself into a dither. My olfactory system was so overwhelmed by the sugar that I didn't even taste a single thing that I made that night (I know, I know, huge tactical error -- good cooks always taste their wares before sending them out into the world -- but I couldn't possibly put one sugar smidgen inside my body. I couldn't!) 

The next day was the bake sale, and I made another mistake called not eating dinner before sitting down at the bake sale table for four hours. Agh! Five minutes into the whole thing, I became quite willing to give an arm for a non-sugar food item. But, you know how this turns out. I pulled through! I took one for the team! I sold that sugar like my life depended on it! I even ate cookies for dinner because that's what champions do! Ah, but let me tell you -- it was all completely worth it because our proceeds went to a really amazing cause, First Slice, which is a non-profit that provides hot, healthy meals to the hungry and homeless here in Chicago. They are starting a 3-meal-a-day program for homeless teenagers in January, and, well, I was just honored to help. Even if it was only by cooking up some sugar and selling it to my fellow December sugar-vacuums.

Highly Versatile Blondies
This is one of the things I made for the bake sale. They are so good. 
The recipe is adapted from a Cooking Light recipe, which is pretty much the same as this one except it calls for egg substitute instead of actual eggs. I've tried it both ways, and I think I like the egg way a little bit better. I don't know how a recipe with this quantity of butter and sugar made its way into Cooking Light magazine, but I suppose that isn't my mystery to solve. I'm just the baker, for crying out loud.

2  cups all-purpose flour  

2 1/2  cups firmly packed light brown sugar
2  t baking powder
1/2  t salt
10 T unsalted butter
2 eggs
cooking spray 

Preheat oven to 350°. Lightly spoon flour into measuring cups and level with a knife. Combine flour, sugar, baking powder, and salt in a large bowl.

Place butter in a small skillet over medium heat. Cook for 6 minutes or until lightly browned, stirring occasionally. Pour into a small bowl, and cool for 10 minutes. 

Combine butter and eggs, stirring with a whisk. Pour butter mixture over flour mixture and stir just until moistened. Usually when I get to this point, my mixture is still pretty dry and crumbly, so I add in about 1/8 cup water so that the batter will hold together. Now you can add in extra bits! I used walnuts and coconut, which was a perfect combo. You could try any kind of a nut, or chocolate, or maybe white chocolate. Or confront the Sugar Demons head on and add in broccoli! Peas! Cauliflower! (Okay, don't really do this.)

Spoon batter into a 13 x 9-inch baking pan coated with cooking spray and smooth top with spatula. It will be very thick, this mixture. Bake for 30 minutes or until a wooden pick inserted in center comes out clean. Cool in pan on a wire rack.

DANGER: BISCUITS

The problem is that biscuits are delicious.

The other problem is that I have finally perfected (well, nearly perfected) my biscuit recipe, which means I want to make them ALL THE TIME. It's been a long, hard road to biscuit perfection, and now that I've arrived, I feel like I really owe these biscuits some quality bonding time. I want them to be able to put up their feet and stay awhile, you know? Now, I am sure that you understand the trials that it takes in order to get something really, really right. When you love and appreciate something, it makes you want to reach for the stars. And, well, I've always loved a good biscuit. Although, let me be honest -- it's just not all that easy to be a biscuit maven like myself because, well, we all know that bad biscuits are a dime a dozen. But, hurrah! That actually means it's that much better, that much more exciting when you come across a really spectacular one. Let's keep in mind here that the key biscuit adjectives are light, flaky, and fluffy. The inside is what matters. (Oh my God, biscuits are like humans!)

I fell in love with the idea of baking biscuits when I first read Justin and the Best Biscuits in the World when I was eleven years old. (Really! Snatch up a used copy from Amazon for a couple bucks!) It's such a simple, yet well-spun story about the ten year-old Justin, who lives with his mother and sisters and is thoroughly convinced that pretty much all chores, including cooking, are, ahem, women's work. He then visits his cowboy grandpa on the ranch where he does, ahem, men's work -- he visits the rodeo, mends fences, and, best of all, learns to make his grandpa's famous biscuits. (Spoiler alert! Spoiler alert!) He learns, of course, that there really is no such thing as women's work or men's work, and that all work is valuable in its own way. He not only takes pride in taking care of himself, but also in learning his way around the kitchen. The biscuits become his pride and joy, and, by the time you're done with the book, you Must. Make. Biscuits. Immediately.

I thankfully grew up with parents who welcomed all sorts of kitchen experimentation and collaboration, so between their kitchen, my grandma's kitchen, and, occasionally, my aunt's kitchen, I had multiple opportunities to try out some biscuit recipes. I became a pretty serious biscuit sampler, and I remember wondering how on earth each and every biscuit could taste so, so different from the next. It still confounds me, in fact -- so few ingredients, yet so much room for error! It is simply maddening, yet fascinating. The biscuit sirens called for me!

Growing up, we'd have lovely biscuits for breakfast sometimes on the weekend, and my dad (brilliant, clever, crafty-with-condiments dad!) would make a vanilla icing to apply to them. And, if that didn't gild the lily enough, cinnamon-sugar would go on top of that. Or, sometimes, jam. I've said it before, and I'll say it again: this guy really knows his spreads and layers. Then, because my parents always knew the best places to go, I found my favorite biscuits when we were on a family vacation to New Orleans. I fell quite in love with those biscuits at Mother's, and I still dream about the perfection of the obscenely buttery layers. Please, Mother's, draw me a bath of those biscuits. I'll never ask for another thing, ever! I swear.

I'll introduce you now to my newest biscuit recipe, the one that has me shackled to the butter and sleeping in the flour as I wait for morning to come so that I can make them. I shudder with happiness (and more than a smidgen of fear) when I think about the absurdity of spreading, um, butter on something that is made out of butter...but, really, would the biscuit gods approve of these butter qualms? Likely not. When faced with biscuits, you must embrace the Butter And Shortening Factor. You just have to. The original recipe calls for cake flour, which will definitely make them airy, but I have had great success with all purpose flour, so I'd recommend starting there. Work your way into the wackiness of cake flour whenever you're feeling frisky.


Biscuits For Loving
adapted from Brilliant Food Tips and Cooking Tricks by David Joachim, who did not actually call them Biscuits For Loving...although I believe that he would be really jealous of my new name for them


1 2/3 C all purpose flour (or 1 1/3 C cake flour + 1/3 C AP flour)
2 t baking powder
1/2 t baking soda
1/2 t salt
3 T cold unsalted butter, cut into small pieces
3 T cold shortening
3/4 C buttermilk (I use 3/4 C milk + 1 T white vinegar -- make sure you let it sit and curdle for about five minutes before using)

Preheat oven to 425 degrees. Mix the together the dry ingredients with a whisk. Add butter and shortening with a pastry blender and cut in until both are incorporated. It should look evenly mixed with no large clumps. Quickly stir in the buttermilk until just mixed -- but try not to overwork it. On a lightly floured surface, quickly and very gently knead the dough with just your fingers until it comes together. Press or roll out into a circle-ish shape that is about 1/2" to 1" thick. (This totally depends on how thick you like your finished biscuits to be. Experiment around a bit to see what you like.) Cut out biscuit rounds with a biscuit cutter. Gather up your scraps, gently roll them out, and cut out the rest of your biscuits. (I usually end up with 9-12 biscuits, but it might be less if you make them thicker.) Bake on ungreased cookie sheet until very, very light brown on the top, 8-12 minutes. Watch them carefully. You don't want them to be overdone because that means Dry Biscuits.

Serve with, of course, butter! And pumpkin butter or apple butter. Or jam. And scrambled eggs! Just make sure you are ready to eat them as soon as they tumble out of the oven! They will be best when they are very hot and very fresh. Gaze lovingly at your biscuits and your biscuit cutter. Say thank you.

I'm Thankful For

• the first text message I received on Thanksgiving, cryptic and hysterical: Kill A Turkey!
• waking up knowing that cooking is my only assignment for the day
• five days off + three days off with M.
• red slippers (and wondering if my mom is wearing her identical ones)
• the sound of the under-cabinet lights flickering on in the kitchen
• the red red red of cranberry sauce in the refrigerator light
• the clatter of measuring cups
• jazz organ + dancing all day in the kitchen with my very own Bill Cosby dance impersonator
• the sizzle of bacon in the oven
• coffee (and someone who likes to pour it for me and knows to put in two spoons of sugar) 
• the squeak of the biscuit cutter on the countertop
• eating said biscuits with pumpkin butter at the kitchen table
• Brilliant Food Tips & Cooking Tricks by David Joachim
• an empty dishwasher when I start cooking
• watching waves roll in while I wash dishes
• hot water (even though it's been smelling a little mysterious lately)
• parsley, sage, and mint in jars on the windowsill
• Mrs. Meyer's pine-scented soap
• a well-seasoned iron skillet
• a long walk on the sand and a handful of beach glass to prove it
• bacon-wrapped pork wearing a turkey costume
• Hendrick's gin wearing a martini costume
• pineapple-mint cocktails wearing no costume
• bare feet during Thanksgiving dinner
• not burning, overcooking, or undercooking ANYTHING this time!
• Beautiful Home Home Cooked Meal For Pure And Simple Living
• all this love + all this laughter + all this everything
• knowing my family and friends are safe and being loved, even though they aren't with me
  
• building a memory at the table
• falling (no, really, falling) into bed at the end of it all
• being headache-free in the morning and not having to go to work
• Thanksgiving for breakfast (sans martinis this time, I swear)

Loaves, Not Fishes

I'm pretty enamored with no-knead breads lately, and this is my new go-to recipe. It's a lovely, basic white sandwich bread, but there's a bit of whole wheat flour in there, too, so it's a little earthier and a little more dense than your average white bread. It makes outstanding toast, and I would not doubt you if you told me it made some pretty delicious french toast too. I made two loaves on Sunday, and we've been breakfasting on one of them since then; the other has been employed for the Thanksgiving stuffing, and is currently very busy drying itself out on pans in the kitchen.

This will make two loaves, so split it in half if you only want one loaf. BUT, the magical thing is that you can make the whole batch, bake one loaf, and save the other half of the dough. Just refrigerate it in a lidded (but not completely air-tight) container and use within 5 days. Incredible!  

A Nice Sandwich Loaf
adapted from Family Fun magazine

2 cups warm water
1-1/2 tablespoons (2 packets) yeast
1-1/2 tablespoons coarse salt or 1 tablespoon table salt
3 large eggs, lightly beaten
1/2 cup honey
1/3 cup vegetable oil
6 cups unbleached all-purpose flour
1 cup whole wheat flour

In a large bowl, whisk together the water, yeast, salt, eggs, honey, and oil, then stir in the flours.

Loosely cover the dough and let it rise at room temperature until it doubles in size, 2-3 hours.

Lightly grease a loaf pan. Dust the dough with flour, then quickly shape it into a smooth-topped loaf shape and place it in the pan.

Let the dough rest for 60 minutes covered loosely with plastic wrap.

Heat the oven to 350 degrees. Brush the entire top of the loaf with an egg wash (one egg whisked with a tablespoon of water), then use a sharp knife to make three cuts across the top. Place the loaf on the oven's center rack and bake it until it as brown on top and firm, about 30 minutes. (Set it for 25 and then watch it carefully. The original recipe said that it would take 45 minutes to bake, but mine took way less!) Remove the loaf from the pan and let it cool on a rack. Slice into it while it's still very warm, since that's when it will be in its most pillowy, divine state. Otherwise, you'll really only need some salted butter, a spreading knife, and one hungry belly.

The Patience of Bread

The Center

After the worst day, I want my kitchen.

I want to drive home with no diversions, no stops, nothing to keep me from remembering my goal or the place that I'm going. I don't want to listen to the radio, or even my favorite song, and I certainly don't want to involve anyone in my misery by calling them to whine about it on speakerphone (okay, this is a lie. Certain Moms Whom I Call At Times of Distress, you know who you are, and I'm sorry.) I want to get there, and I want to screech to a stop in my garage, gather my things, explode up the seven steps, hoping hoping hoping not to run into a neighbor this time. I want to feel the lock give beneath my key, and I want to spill into the house, where the temperature makes sense and the things I love are waiting. The light switch is part of my motion as I close the door behind me, and my bags will hit the ground, my shoes will come off. My eyes will dart around in their usual entering-the-house pattern, as I survey the state of affairs and let my mind tell me I'm home, as I let my feet feel this part of the earth that can always make me feel whole again.

The structure of my home is such that, when you arrive, the door empties you out into the kitchen. This works. This is my destination. The radio is welcome now, and I choose the Dizzy Gillespie station and hope that it will Pandora-itself into that one song that has all the idioms in it. It connects, and I scoff at the Glade ad that comes on first. Chances are good that there will be dishes in the sink from breakfast, and I will find myself washing them in my coat or vest, water splatters on the nylon and no wonder I'm getting so hot in here. The kettle goes on and the best mug comes out from its cabinet, and the refrigerator opens, the cabinets open. Just once, then closed. Everything is just how I left it. Good. Dinner ideas pile up in my head, but I remind myself that I am allowed to breathe first. Breathe first? What? Why would you do that? Oh, that. I breathe, not too solidly, but meaningfully, and I try to decide if my feet are hot enough to take my socks off. I scour the room with my eyes, hunting for small things to accomplish. Tiny accomplishments are like medicine. (Uh, sometimes they are actually medicine.) Dishwasher emptied! Yesterday's mail opened! The always-neglected area behind the breadbox dusted! Coffee pot washed out! Orchid watered! Bowls stacked! Toaster unplugged! Three Motrin swallowed! It's time for tea.

I sniff my options. Echinacea tea? Helpful but disgusting. At work I was certain I was getting sick, but now that I'm far away, I'm pretty sure it was the plague of non-profit disorganization that was cramping each and every one of my organs. Not echinacea tea. Chamomile tea? For God's sake, I don't need a tea telling me to calm down. Shut up, tea! Pomegranate Red Rooibos tea? So I can spill it on my light gray shirt and make my day a little worse? Um, no. Apple cinnamon tea that tastes like the very part of autumn that I actually love, not the part that makes it get dark at four o'clock in the afternoon? Yes. Yes, please.

I haven't even changed into my play clothes yet because, well, I have forgotten to leave the kitchen. Or, rather, I haven't found a reason to leave the kitchen. The other rooms have fallen dark, and I make my rounds, turning on switches and welcoming the rooms into the evening. The living room light comes on, and as the dimmer rises, I startle all too easily in reaction to seeing our coy, new-ish roommate, Frankie, on the floor. (How many times will I have to look at the scraped-up-from-life-in-the-dumpster, armed-but-hands-less torso before I stop having the initial reaction of --Jesus! Fuck! There's a naked, muscular, stiff-bodied, arrogant-looking half-man on the floor with real-man eyelashes and accurate eyebrows! Help!--?)

The phone rings and, thankfully, it's my mother, who has the sort of power that enables her to make me feel better no matter what she says. I swear to you, she could call to say, what a terrible sweater you're wearing, and my day would improve drastically. She doesn't say that, of course, and I sit at the kitchen table as she tells me about -- yes, this is a funny coincidence -- the kitchen renovations they're undergoing. I smile as she recounts the horror that dozens of evil aliens (okay, contractors) can bring into a home in a few short days, and my heart curls up when she says that she misses all the things in the kitchen, which has been rendered inaccessible for the week. It's the hub, she says fondly of the kitchen. We don't need any other room more! I am, I know, clearly this woman's daughter. What an incredible honor this is, I think, and I picture us having a slumber party on the kitchen floor, laughing as we drag bare mattresses into the kitchen, smooth mattress bottoms up against my hardwood floors or her shiny new tiles.

I return to the kitchen, padding around, thinking about how much I love to be at home, how much I love this kitchen and all the things in it. The cobweb in the high corner makes me roll my eyes, and I mentally add it to my list of things to do over the Thanksgiving holiday. The scratches in the red table (you know, that red table) shine under the light flickering from a candle, and the ice maker rumbles inside the freezer, and I'm thankful that it's not one of the eighteen things that broke this week. The glasses in the cabinet shake slightly against each other in reaction to the vibrations of the light fixture that lives underneath it, and I picture a silver bullet lightening train whizzing through the kitchen, romantically rattling all the dishes against each other, then settling as I hear the train moving into the distance. I have my tea, and I poke around at bowls and pots and pans, trying to decide which ones will be best for mixing the lamb kefta, cooking the couscous, serving the salad. It suddenly sounds so complicated, this dinner I had planned, and I try to list all the reasons not to order take-out.

I eye the clock courageously and decide to deal responsibly with whatever numbers it has for me. Seven thirteen. I calculate how many hours until Matthew comes home, and my worries of the day start to roll back over my skin as I think about the things I need to accomplish before bedtime. I try to prioritize, to list, to plan, but instead I end up lifting up my mug of tea that has cooled off considerably, and I try to both breathe in and breathe out before the lukewarm swallow of cinnamon. I stare down the sounds of the Mel Lewis Jazz Orchestra, then close my eyes to think. I lift my glasses off a bit to rub the bridge of my nose, and I open my eyes skeptically, which makes me laugh at myself. Surrounded by my tool shed, my wares, my safe spot in an otherwise prickly day, I find my strength again, and I stand up, stretch into my body, and move towards action, towards the safety of building something, the tranquility of cooking the dinner.

Calling All Bunnies

Nice Buns

This past summer, I fell in love with these amazing buns, these dreamy, perfect, fluffy buns. I discovered this bun wonder at Eat Spot in Northport, Michigan, where it contained roasted turkey, provolone, pesto mayo, and roasted red peppers and was purely magnificent. I do not lie when I say that my mother and I fell in love with this sandwich and we had, I think, eight of them (sheesh! not sixteen total! eight between the two of us!) during a mere one week this summer. The bun holds other sandwiches, too, like the chicken bacon swiss, the hamburger, and the roast beef -- all very dreamy in their own right, but the turkey one is just so nice. When I returned to the Bun Mecca again in October, I had the sandwich, of course, and I later found myself traveling home with an entire bagful of the buns. I took a bit of a plunge that day when I sheepishly asked the clerk for the recipe, but imagine my delight when she assured me that the owner would certainly part with the recipe -- he gives it out frequently! -- and he would be happy to send me the recipe. Ha! Brilliant! My very own buns. Perfect buns were coming to my very own kitchen!

So, I need to actually tell you about these buns. And my bun history. I'll spare you the gory details, but I'll tell you the most important bits. They are light, so light, and dusted in flour. You poke the bun and it sinks softly and generously under your finger, but then instantly rises back up. The inside is airy but still very substantial, the perfect consistency. Now onto this whole onion thing. At first, I didn't really read this bun as an onion bun because the onion-ness is so slight, but I've learned that that is what makes them so amazing. The slight aroma of onion, the tiny onion bits strategically placed throughout, the whispering onion aura...the most unterrifying bun you could imagine! The bun could survive deliciously without the onion, but the onion just takes it higher. Higher!

My bun-making history is a bit grim. I've tried several times, but it just didn't work. And by "not work," I mean they ended up resembling evil, horrible rocks. You may remember a post from last winter -- perhaps a sausage adventure post? -- in which Meghan and I made buns that ended up as weapons, not edible food. It was rather embarrassing, yet funny. Not delicious. That was one of my first bun times. I vowed afterward that I would get it right, and I did get it better, but not right. I think I like to act like the recipe was the fool, not I, but that's awfully silly. I tend to think about all of the buns out there, and how many are stale or tough or just nasty, and then I think about the glorious buns, which, honestly, are few and far between. When I met the onion bun, it took me by the shoulders, shook me madly, and told me GET ME INTO YOUR LIFE. IT'S TIME. So I've been doing that. You have to listen to what buns tell you. You just have to.

I've been experimenting with the onionness. The first batch was way too oniony; I used 2 small onions, diced, but I didn't dice them nearly small enough. The buns were studded with loads of onion bits that really didn't cook as much as I thought they would, so they were still crunchy, which grossed me out a little. I decided that if I was going to proceed with the raw onion thing, I would need to mince the onions to hell. Alternatively, cooking or caramelizing them seemed even more practical. Most importantly, less would turn out to be more. I tried these approaches, and it worked, but they still just weren't quite right. Somehow the Eat Spot bun's onion bits really work, and mine needed help. I ended up finding a solution that really makes me thrilled out of my mind, and it's called...dehydrated onion flakes. You can plop some into the dough while you're mixing it up, or you can just sprinkle them on the top so that they stick to that oil you sprayed on. (Try not to be confused when you gaze up at the photo -- it's from that first floppy batch with the onion-boulders, so you won't see the onion flakes. Use your imagination, you talented chefs!)

Onion Buns
recipe courtesy of Bruce Viger, owner of Eat Spot in Northport, Michigan

Try not to be nervous! These are not tricky buns to make! The recipe is staggeringly simple, and you don't even have to knead them! You will be astounded by the complete ease of bun-ness.


1 1/3 C warm water
1 package yeast
1/4 C honey
4 C flour
1 tsp salt
1/4 C oil
dehydrated onion flakes (other options are sesame seeds, poppy seeds, garlic, caraway seeds, or even a combination!)

Mix water and honey with a whisk. Add yeast and mix. Add flour, top with oil and salt. Mix with wooden spoon until incorporated but try not to overmix. Portion out the buns by pulling off pieces and rolling them gently into balls; you should end up with 9 or 10 of them. Spray a cookie sheet (or two) with cooking oil. At this point, you can lightly dust the buns all over with flour, but it's not crucial. Place buns approximately 4 inches apart and spray a bit of oil on top of each bun. Cover all the buns with plastic wrap or a lightweight tea towel and let rise for an hour or until doubled (or almost doubled) in size. I like to turn my oven on and place the cookie sheet on the back burners so that the warmth radiating from the oven helps them rise. As with any kind of bread, if your kitchen is really cold or really humid, it could affect the rising, so keep this in mind. Sprinkle tops with dehydrated onion flakes and place in a preheated 350 degree oven for 16-20 minutes or until very slightly golden on top. I'd say that you might want to start with 10 minutes and then keep an eye on them. If the tops get brown, that means the insides will be too dry! Take buns from oven, remove to a cooling rack and let them cool for 14 seconds or until you can't possibly stand to wait anymore! Eat one! Burn your mouth! It's worth it!

Freak Show!

 

These are the longest radish tails in the world.

For Dad

Q. When is a food blog not a food blog? 

A. On a Thursday, of course, when you're celebrating the birth of your favorite dad you ever had using photos that will make him really happy. 

Last One Standing

The Power of Love

Out of the Maize

Oh, cornbread, you little devil! You impossible little thing! I've spent years trying to get you just right. For some reason, it hasn't come so easily for me -- the perfect consistency, the perfect crumb...oh, and it should actually taste amazing, of course. Years and years of dry, sad, pitiful cornbread caused me to almost give up. I eventually discovered an exemplary box of cornbread mix, but I still wanted to make my own. I tried skillet cornbread, corn muffins, loaves, everything. It just was never outstanding. It wasn't, in fact, even ever good. It was tragic.

I'll cut to the chase, though. You know where this is going, don't you You've started drooling, right? You've got your pencil at the ready, anxious to jot down this very clever recipe? Excellent. So, yes, I've come upon the magic cornbread mathematics. I'm no longer lost! I have arrived! And I really want to share it with you.

Disclaimer: this is actually a very short, very simple, very easy recipe, but it looks L-O-N-G because I have made a lot of notes. So don't be turned off by the length. Much of it is just me babbling about specific cornbread ins and outs.

The Cornbread Solution

1/2 C unsalted butter
2/3 C sugar
2 eggs
1 C buttermilk*
1/2 t salt
1 C cornmeal**
1 C flour
1/2 t salt

*I don't really believe in buying buttermilk, unless I am going to use a gigantic quantity of it. My substitution alternative is a tablespoon on white vinegar added to a cup of milk (I wouldn't advise using skim milk here). Just stir it and then let it sit for five minutes or so before you use it in your recipe. It will thicken and sort of curdle -- that's exactly what you want.

**Use the best cornmeal you can find! It will make a difference! I have certainly used plain old Quaker cornmeal many times in this recipe, so don't feel like a total loser if that's all you can find, but try to use something of higher quality. I have been buying this killer stone ground cornmeal by Three Sisters Garden in Kankakee, Illinois -- for all you Chicagoans out there, you can get it at Green City Market or (I think) City Provisions. It's pretty much the most stupendous cornmeal ever.

Here's what you do.
Turn your oven on to 375 degrees.

Grease (with butter, spray, or, mmmm, bacon grease) a round or square 8" or 9" Pyrex pan. (I am so sorry to get all America's Test Kitchen on you here, but I have tried this recipe in a lot of different pans, and this is the kind that has worked best for me. Don't make it in a dark-colored aluminum pan; this will dry it out too much. A cast iron skillet might work, and it might not -- I've had mixed results. The thing that will work is muffin tins, either regular or baby size.)

Melt butter in a deep skillet. Remove from heat and stir in sugar. Quickly add eggs and beat with a fork until well blended. 

Combine buttermilk with baking soda and stir into mixture in pan. 

Stir in cornmeal, flour, and salt until well blended. Pour into pan.

Bake 20-30 minutes or just until a toothpick inserted in the center comes out clean. (I'd suggest starting with 20 minutes and then keeping a VERY close eye on it. Overcooked cornbread is a bad, bad thing.)

Remove from oven and let cool on a rack. Dive in whenever you can't stand it anymore. Dress with salted butter. Eat as much of the cornbread as you can. It will be good tomorrow, but not as good as the day it was made.

A few more notes:

+If you use muffin pans, bake them for WAY less time. My baby muffins were done in 7 or 8 minutes!

+Remember that bacon grease I mentioned at the beginning? Well, you were frying bacon, weren't you? I'd suggest chopping up that bacon and adding it to your cornbread batter. There you go! Now that is a miracle. Oh, and you? You, little cornbread baker, you are a miracle as well.