My, What A Nice Hat You're Wearing

A Messy Romance

About a month ago, we fell in love.

It just happened. We weren't expecting it. It was just that I came home from Saturday morning errands, and I was much too tired to cook anything for lunch. The stove looked like a cumbersome beast, anyway. And I was already hot. And making a salad sounded like the most difficult thing on earth. My bags contained six thousand vegetables, a dozen bagels, and, as it turned out, this sandwich. My new love. My weekend fling!

It doesn't hurt that a toasted everything bagel is at the very top of my list of favorite things. Then add cream cheese and some particular spring vegetables, and magic is made. Here's what I like: toasted bagel! cream cheese! chives! spinach (or butter lettuce)! radish slices! black pepper! That's it. That's all. And yes, I have shocked even my own sandwich-snob self with its sheer simplicity. I like this sandwich with hot milky coffee, and, most importantly, with no one else around.

Really, let's get serious for a moment. Have you noticed how nice it is to eat a sandwich when you're alone? Let's face it. Sandwiches are terribly messy, and sometimes impossible to set down. If you're going to give a sandwich what it deserves, then you need to hold on tight and stay really focused. This means giving the sandwich your full attention and, in many case, getting sandwichy bits all over your face and lap and shirt. It's so hard not to! And the more delicious a sandwich is, the messier it usually is. And so, I like to be alone with this sandwich when we're engaged in our cahoots.

My Saturday mornings are starting to be defined by this sandwich, in fact. (Some Sunday mornings, too, but no need to talk about how obsessive I can get. That's certainly not very becoming!) This week was particularly insane (due to the fact that it's the time of year when I am placed in the constant charge of approximately 80 humans, 60 of whom are children, many of whom subsist on Lunchables and candy, thereby making their small bodies twist and wriggle incessantly with the confusion of processing food dyes, sodium diacetate, high fructose corn syrup, cottonseed oil, and "cheese product") and I admittedly shortchanged myself on the whole breakfast thing, so I dreamed of this sandwich every morning.

Then finally, Saturday! Today. Just me, my sandwich, my coffee, and a foot-tall stack of magazines that has been waiting for me for weeks. But, of course, the sandwich was messy, which means turning the page wasn't much of an option. I was entertained by this, though, as I read the same page of my Saveur June issue over and over. I was happy, though -- for peace and quiet, for Saturday, for simplicity, for a sandwich I love, and, most of all, for the sandwichy hands and face that would put a child's messiness to shame. These, I think, are the makings of a true romance.

Just As Fresh One

Can you see this? Can you read this precious package? I know, I know, the glare on the plastic is awful. But the noodles! The noodles are my new favorite thing. I love that they are in little bundles inside, all tied up with this skinny, skinny string. I love that they cost a mere 74 cents at the Golden Pacific Asian Mart. I love how they cook really fast and are the perfect consistency (at least when I don't, um, overcook them). I love that they taste magical and look like translucent, thin, slippery snakes. And I really, really love that they have such an especially fancy package that says my favorite thing for a package to say: Just As Fresh One. Aw, rice noodles! Go on and marry me already. I'm waiting!

Sink Fruit

Once upon a time (well, Tuesday) I came across these locally grown, super-seasonal, amazing strawberries at Gene's. Aroma wafting! Sweetness pulsing! They were waiting for me so patiently there at the check-out counter, marked by a sweet sign that was (likely and hopefully) lettered by the actual farmer, announcing the product and the name of the farm they came from. I naturally entered my produce anxiety mode, thereby purchasing a pretty substantial amount of berries. But they looked so fine! So red! So real! And at a mere $2.50 per box, it was pretty much the deal of the century. The guy in front of me in line was equally as excited about them, and our energy was balanced, I suppose, by the folks in front of him who were buying the sad-looking, imported from God-knows-where strawberries, more milky white and yellow than red, the kind of berries we all buy when local berries aren't available. With audacity and fruit joy, Man In Front of Me suggested they buy some, too. Um, they said, frowning, but we don't know where they're from. We know we like this other kind.

Right.

Anyway, I ended up at home with these berries and, you guessed it, they were sink fruit. It's just that you start washing them, then you have to give one a try. And then, you have to try one more. Which turns into one more. And one more. And the next thing you know, you are not having sit-down fruit. You are having a whole box of sink fruit. It's only the best fruit that is worthy of the sink experience, you know. And these strawberries certainly made the cut.

We (okay, I) plowed through them in the next 24 hours, and then of course had to buy more at the farmers market, which have since suffered a new fate, called pound cake. This original recipe calls for lemon juice and lemon zest, and you're welcome to explore that path, although I encourage you to get these last existing bits of strawberries and rhubarb and make this cake, which is perfectly good as a plate cake, but could actually be a sink cake if you were feeling, you know, nostalgic.

Fantastically Easy Strawberry-Rhubarb Pound Cake
adapted from Bon Appétit

3 cups cake flour (or AP flour)
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 cup (2 sticks) unsalted butter, room temperature
3 cups sugar
6 eggs, room temperature
2 C chopped fresh strawberries
2 C chopped rhubarb
1 cup sour cream

Preheat oven to 325°F. Butter and flour 16-cup tube pan.

Sift flour, baking soda and salt into medium bowl. Using electric mixer, beat butter in large bowl at medium speed until fluffy. Gradually add sugar and beat 5 minutes. (Really. Five minutes.) Add eggs 1 at a time, beating just until combined after each addition. Using rubber spatula, mix in dry ingredients. Fold in rhubarb and strawberries. Fold in sour cream. Transfer batter to prepared pan.

Bake cake until tester inserted near center comes out clean, about 1 hour 30 minutes. Let cake cool in pan on rack 15 minutes. Cut around cake in pan. Turn out cake.

Carefully turn cake right side up on rack and cool completely. (Can be prepared 2 days ahead. Wrap in foil and let stand at room temperature. It's also good when it's stored in the fridge.)

There's A Heaven for That

Goodness, look at that! Spring onions! Green garlic! Spinach! Asparagus! Nepitella! Chives! Green! Green! Green!

The farmers' market is back, and I am one incredibly happy lady.

I recommend getting thee to such a market as soon as humanly possible, because this green stuff is currently in the realm of sheer perfection and impossible beauty. I have officially eaten asparagus every day for the past four weeks (I wish I was exaggerating), and I can't stay away! Strange smelling pee be damned, I need these stalks of happiness no matter what sort of havoc they cause. And it simply doesn't matter how many times asparagus taints the, um, scent -- I am startled and momentarily panicky every single time. And this, I think, is what spring is all about. You know, panic. And seeing those stalks in the refrigerator door every time I open it. It's a sort of panic-meets-peace. There's really nothing better.

But I have a problem. That is, a problem besides the whole commode thing. I become obsessive at the farmers' market. It is such hard work for me to exercise any sort of self-restraint. There are so many, well, farmers. So many treasures! So many gorgeous, delicious things! It's not like at the grocery store, where some things look good, and some things don't; where you have to systematically rifle through every single item in order to find the one that looks the least awful.

The farmers' market, it's kind of like entering a special heaven. Or, shall I say, a heaven for vegetable-obsessed nutcases like me. My current system, adapted just last summer after a few marketplace errors, requires me to walk through the entire market before I'm allowed to buy anything. This way, I've discovered, I have a little time to come down off my high and purchase things with a more rational mind. Once I've looked about, I move on to Buying The Produce. The whole time, I have to force the spirit of practicality into my every thought. You will not use eight pounds of spinach this week. Fourteen bunches of onions is too many. You don't need lavender or arugula because it's growing at home. This place is not cheap. This place is not cheap. Do not spend more than forty dollars. Do Not. Focus! Focus! Focus!

By the time I have made my transactions, argued with myself repeatedly, and convinced myself that the market will actually return in one week, I am exhausted. Considering that on any given day in Chicago between the months of May and September, there is a market somewhere nearby, this is all sort of funny. Do I really think that vegetables will run out? I mean, perhaps when the oil spill takes over the entire planet, or when I end up in prison, but not right away. There's nothing to worry about quite yet. Well, but I think in my brain, I can't help but remember those six months, those awful six months, of winter. Yeah, remember that thing? WINTER. Horrible, cold, hateful winter. When nothing grows except my dislike of the snow and my desire to drink away all my pain caused by the barren, icy landscape and the scraping of snow off my car morning after morning. But, dear reader, I digress!

My point here is that there should be a sense of immediacy with the vegetables and fruits of the farmers' markets in the Midwest. This isn't southern California or Florida or The Promised Land, where things grow outside all year long. Perhaps if I moved to one of those places, I could finally relax when I go to the market. Perhaps I could actually not feel like the farmers' market was a ticking bomb, and I'd be able to spend less than that forty dollars each time I went. Perhaps I'd be able to breathe with a more open set of lungs when I caught my first glimpse of the produce bounty each week. I mean, these things are probably all true. It'd all be more like a normal activity, perhaps even mundane. It'd be like less of a challenge, and I'd get a little less nervous. I could focus my energy on other things, like shoe cobbling and candle-making. But, really. Honestly. What's the fun in that?

Not Just Another Sandwich

I think you know where we're going with this.
I think you know about this cookie.
I think that you'll be crafting your own in, oh, say, ten minutes. Maybe fifteen. Depending on how fast you can read.

Oh, Oreos. You dear little sandwiches. Just the idea is smart. You know, it's two amazing things together in one place. A cookie, a sandwich. I can count on one hand how many people in the world don't like those two things. Those two foods, they're famous. Put 'em together, and it's sort of like a miracle.

Oreos, they conjure up all sorts of memories for most people. I actually don't have a million memories of Oreos, or even ten memories of them, for that matter! I mean, I ate some of them when I was a kid, but I was never obsessed with them. I know kids nowadays who will sell their tiny little souls (or all their toys, princess outfits, and chicken nuggets) for a mere one-eighth of an Oreo. Children drool for Oreos, and when they finally get their druthers, they eat them in a way that leaves half the cookie on their face and half the cookie covering their teeth like they've just been gnawing on the contents of a coalmine for a half hour. It's darling, though, in a disgusting, our-baby-has-rotten-teeth kind of way.

This love for Oreos, well, it has roots. I imagine it's the whole marketing technique that involves commercials with grinning kids twisting and licking and dunking, accompanied by an adult who is also twisting and licking and dunking -- I think people are seriously drawn to that stuff, that whole togetherness-with-food thing. I mean, I'm drawn to that whole thing. I happen to know that food can connect people in the way that nothing else can. But even more than the togetherness opportunities that Oreos offer, I think people like to perform tricks with their food. I think everyone is pretty excited about finally being allowed to play with their food, if even a little bit. It's not every snack that allows such antics as destroying the food, licking or scraping one's teeth over parts of it, and submerging it in a liquid with one's hand.

But let's get to the core of the matter here, shall we? Oreo parts don't taste like much! Have you noticed this? This might be the point, though. The individual parts aren't that good, but they are at least better when the parts are combined. Plus, let's be honest with each other. Oreo ingredients aren't all that likable. Kind of gross, really. Not a thing you notice when you're a kid, but when I became an adult, I realized that this America's Favorite Cookie cookie was full of weird stuff that I didn't quite want to put in my body. Thus, homemade Oreos. These parts are individually delicious and, while they're not the health equivalent of a kale salad, they at least don't have any ingredients with thirty letters that sound like a chemical factory by-product. And, most importantly, these cookies are so easy to make, and not nearly as labor-intensive as you might be thinking.

So, here we go, then. I can't think of one single reason that you shouldn't make these right away. And if you want to hide them from all the children and keep them hidden under your bed, I won't tell. In fact, I will completely understand. I might even recommend that you go for Oreo-teeth, so that when someone finds you eating them alone in the closet, they will be horrified by your frightening black teeth, and they will run screaming. In which case, there will be more Oreos for you.

Oreo Cookies

adapted from Retro Desserts by Wayne Brachman

For the chocolate wafers:
1 1/4 cups all-purpose flour
1/2 cup unsweetened cocoa powder + 2 T dark chocolate cocoa powder
1 teaspoon baking soda
1/4 teaspoon baking powder
1/4 teaspoon salt
1 1/4 cups sugar
1/2 cup plus 2 tablespoons (1 1/4 sticks) room-temperature, unsalted butter
1 large egg

For the filling:
1 stick room-temperature, unsalted butter
1/4 cup vegetable shortening
2 cups sifted confectioners’ sugar
2 teaspoons vanilla extract

Arrange two racks in the middle of the oven. Preheat to 375°F.

In a food processor, or bowl of an electric mixer, thoroughly mix the flour, cocoa, baking soda and powder, salt, and sugar. Add the butter, and then the egg. Continue processing or mixing until dough comes together in a mass.

Take rounded teaspoons of batter and place on a parchment paper-lined baking sheet approximately two inches apart. Slightly flatten the dough with the palm of your hand.

Bake for 9 minutes, rotating once for even baking. Set baking sheet aside to cool. When cookies are mostly cool, remove to a cooling rack. Repeat with remaining dough.
To make the cream, place butter and shortening in a mixing bowl, and at low speed, gradually beat in the sugar and vanilla. Turn the mixer on high and beat for 2 to 3 minutes until filling is light and fluffy.

To assemble the cookies, spread a blob of cream into the center of one cookie. Place another cookie, equal in size to the first, on top of the cream. Lightly press, to work the filling evenly to the outsides of the cookie. Continue this process until all the cookies have been sandwiched with cream.

I ended up with about 36 sandwiches. I imagine you could make the cookies larger, though, and end up with fewer sandwiches. You could also put a bit more icing inside (than what you'll see in my pictures), as I ended up with about 1/3 C of icing leftover. Oh! And I also came across a recipe that called for evaporated milk in the icing, rather than the vegetable shortening, so that is an option. I must say, even though Crisco grosses me out in an extreme way, there is simply no substitute sometimes. It makes these cookies incredible. Most really delicious frostings have shortening, and it just adds a certain deliciousness that you can't get with butter. My advice is to use the Crisco and, while you're eating these cookies, try as hard as you can to forget about the things that lurk inside that insanely scrumptious filling. And when your friends gush over them, make sure you don't say things like, "Oh, I know! They are tasty! That's what happens when you use a whole can of Crisco!"