Zombies!!

Bahh!! Zombie pumpkins! Grab your shotgun, machete and canned goods and head for the roof! Zombie pumpkins are coming!

Yeah, OK, I am a huge nerd, but this pumpkin makes me think "zombie." Boyfriend and I discussed making a jack-o'-lantern out of one of these guys, but the irony was too much for me. I mean, am I really going to carve out zombie brains?!? Mmmmm, brains.....

Maybe I am taking this too far, but speaking from a purely gastronomical point of view, zombies seem to have veered away from the all-brain diet lately. Have you noticed? The recent batch of zombie movies seem to indicate that the zombie palate is expanding to appreciate skin, intestines or pretty much anything living, even non-humans. This shift made me wonder, are zombies appetites becoming more distinguished or less? Are they intrepid eaters or browsing billy goats? I'll leave you to ponder than one on your own.

HAPPY HALLOWEEN!

Interstellar Renegades and Cast Iron Cookware

So I learned something about myself since starting this blog. I really enjoy watching Sci-Fi while I bake. I know; I'm baffled by it, too. I think it has something to do with the fact that when I first got big into baking, I coincidentally received Star Trek The Original Series season one on Blu-ray. It goes without saying that I was watching Star Trek more or less non-stop and there just so happened to be baking involved. Now, I have some sort of Pavlovian association between baking and Sci-Fi. Stranger still, it totally doesn't carry over to savory or meal type dishes. Figure that out.

Recently, someone reminded me how much I love the now defunct series Firefly. If you haven't seen it, Netflix it. It is wicked awesome. So, I thought, what could be more appropriate for a Western set in Space than a little cooking with cast iron, right? I said to myself, Self, if I'm ever an interstellar renegade, hopping from third world planet to third world planet, I am sure as shootin' gonna be clinging to my cast iron cookware. You never know when you might need it, for cooking or self defense.

"We're not gonna die. And do you know why? Because we are so very pretty." 

I love tomatoes. I really really do. Fruit, veggie, whatever. I will never get tired of the tomatoes. Tomatoes as a dessert was too darn temptin' to pass up. You mean I can sneak tomatoes into a whole 'nother course? Hot damn! This dessert was a leap of faith, but I was handsomely rewarded. It was sweet and fresh tasting, with a funny kind of dessert pizza feel. Enjoy!

Tomato Tarte Tatin
(Adapted from this August 2010 Bon Appetit recipe)

8 or 9 large roma tomatoes
3 1/2 tbsp. unsalted butter, room temperature
3/4 cup sugar
1 tsp vanilla extract
1 sheet of frozen puff pastry dough, thawed, (rolled out, if necessary) and trimmed to a 10" round (to suit the size of your skillet)
1 cup heavy whipping cream
2 tbsp confectioners sugar

Preheat oven to 425 degrees.  Fill a medium saucepan with water and boil. While the water is warming up, cut a shallow X in bottom of each tomato. Blanch tomatoes, a few at a time, until skins begin to peel, about 15 to 30 seconds. Using slotted spoon, transfer blanched tomatoes to a bowl of ice water to cool. Repeat with remaining tomatoes. Peel tomatoes, halve lengthwise, cut out cores and remove seeds. (This step takes a few minutes to do). 

(These tomatoes totally look like the eggs from Alien, don't they?)

Slice butter and spread over the bottom of an ovenproof skillet. My skillet is a 10" cast iron skillet, but any size, give or take an inch should work. Sprinkle sugar evenly over the butter. Arrange tomato halves, rounded side down, bottoms pointing out, in concentric circles.

Warm skillet to medium heat. Cook until sugar and butter are reduced to a deep amber syrup, about 25 minutes. Move tomatoes around occasionally to make sure they aren't burning or sticking.

Meanwhile, tackle the pastry. I used the better part of a 14 oz. frozen pastry sheet, which was a little smaller than the diameter of my skillet.  If you need to roll out your pastry a bit, do so on a lightly floured surface, using a floured rolling pin. Once you have to size you like, cut pastry into a round a little bit bigger than your skillet.

Remove skillet from heat. Pour vanilla extract over tomatoes and transfer pastry round to skillet. It is ok if you're pastry doesn't exactly fit the skillet. If the pastry is larger than your skillet, tuck the extra pastry down with a knife or spatula. Cut a couple of slits in the pastry, and bake until it is deep golden brown, about 20 - 25 minutes. 

Remove from oven and cool in skillet for 10 minutes. While the tart is cooling, mix together confectioner's sugar and cream in a medium bowl. Using a hand mixer, beat together until stiff peaks begin to form. 

Loosen pastry around the edges with a knife or spatula. Place large plate over skillet. Using oven mitts, invert skillet over plate, and give a little shake until you feel the tart drop onto the plate. Carefully lift off the skillet. Rearrange any tomato halves that may have moved. Serve warm with a dollop of whipped cream.

A Mustard by Any Other Name

The Wicked Cranberry origin story #1.

I really like condiments: Mustards, hot sauces, A1, malt vinegar, Worceshire. You name it, I like it on something. I have been known, once, in a moment of extreme desperation, to put Grey Poupon on a Swedish Fish. (It was a rash and bold move, but not as much of a poor choice as one might think).

When I was little, I put ketchup on everything: turkey, rice and macaroni and cheese. In some circles I was known as the Ketchup Kid. I have since learned that putting ketchup on turkey is wicked gross. In high school, I took a big step and tried mixing up balsamic vinegar and dijon mustard for a delicious, if pungent salad dressing. In college, I carried bottles of Cholula and Worceshshire sauces in my knapsack to dress up the dining hall food. (Man, did I get funny looks pulling them out of my pack). And now, at any given time, there are about eight (yup, 8!) different kinds of mustard in my fridge. (Can you find all five in the picture?) One for hot dogs, one for burgers, one for sandwiches, several for sausages, and that doesn't include the miniature sample packs I've acquired over the last year (read: pretzel dippers). Whateva, I do what I want.

There was a big day in my life a few years ago, a day that knocked poor Ketchup down a peg or two or six. I met Brown Sauce. Malt Vinegar and I had a brief and tangy affair when I went to London for two weeks in high school. Brown sauce was there, like a dutiful wingman, present, but silent, but I only had eyes for vinegar. Then, when I moved to DC, I ran into Brown Sauce at a Irish bar in Alexandria and spent the whole night catching up over some shepherd's pie. I was smitten.

Thses early flavoring experiments and mistakes, we're like my first baby steps towards manipulating flavors and really cooking. For instance, I don't like Frank's Red Hot on pepperoni pizza, but if I mix one part Red Hot and two parts Worcestershire sauce, it an amazing pizza/bread stick dipper. And tuna fish always tastes better with a little dijon mustard thrown in. And if you wanna get a little weird, Wheat Thins taste really good dipped in cocktail sauce. Snackerrific!

These days, I've outgrown most of my craziest experiments, (I do put brown sauce on my Annie's shells and cheese, which Boyfriend tells me is gross), but sometimes I totally feel like Jennifer Connelly in the final scene of Labyrinth, when she is looking all sad and lonely, putting away her childish things, and all of a sudden Ludo is in the mirror, and Hoggle is all: "Should you need us." And it is comforting to know that I can still rely on my sauces on those days when I just can't face cooking anything particularly complicated. On those days, I just wanna open up my fridge and say, "every now and again in my life, for no reason at all, I need you. I need all of you." Then it's a party.

Moroccan Meatball Stew

I know it has been a while, but don't worry, I survived the Snopocalypse. Much to my chagrin, I didn't have time to hit the grocery before the panic-stricken hordes began picking the shelves clean of milk, cheese and toilet paper. I spent the week grazing and foraging through my pantry, which in addition to the usual pasta and canned goods had a good store of dried fruit, a box of clementines, some bread, some green beans and a bunch of frozen steaks (courtesy of Mom and Dad). After a week of making-do on slapdash dinners and Fluffernutters, I was actively fantasizing about a hearty meat stew.

Part of that fantasy might have been the result of my snowcation dedication to finishing The Eye of the World, the first book in Robert Jordan's fantasy series The Wheel of Time. While I wasn't crazy about the book, the characters really whet my appetite. (Think Tolkien, but a lot less action and a lot more running away and more running away). When the characters aren't surviving on dried meat and cheese, like you do when you are being chased by Darkfriends, Halfmen or other minions of the Dark One, they are scarfing down meaty stews at farms and inns. After four days I couldn't help myself. I needed some stick-to-the-ribs comfort food. Enter Moroccan Meatball Tagine with cilantro and lemon couscous.

Moroccan Beef Meatball Tagine from January's Bon Appetit.

Couscous with Fresh Cilantro and Lemon Juice








I know it isn't really fair to write this, being February and all, but this recipe was possibly the best recipe I made in the last year.*  I suggested bringing a serving into work the next day, but Boyfriend and I both agreed it would upset the precarious balance of sharing the leftovers. We were still circling and eyeing each other over who would get more meatballs or veggies on the third night. I kid you not. The combination of the sweet, savory and hot spices was perfectly balanced, which just a hint of the cinnamon and nutmeg in every bite. And so economical! With the exception of the saffron (which I simply couldn't justify buying for an untested recipe) most, if not all, of these ingredients are things I buy on a regular basis. I am sure that omitting the saffron is some kind of cardinal sin to someone, but saffron is so expensive and I really don't know how it could have improved on an already wonderful dish. AND, I got to make my couscous in the cute new sauce pan Mom sent me. Huzzah!

*Despite this admission, I fully reserve the right to choose a Best of 2010 recipe later this year. In fairness, I didn't pick one for 2009, so it should all even out.

Rapunzel, Rapunzel, Let Down Your Radishes

Do y'all remember Shelley Duvall's Faerie Tale Theatre? C'mon children of the 80s, who's with me? If you need a refresher, seasons 1-6 are available on Hulu and Netflix instant watch. You have no idea how excited I was when I saw these titles on Netflix. The series is a who's-who of 80s entertainment, with guest stars ranging from Robin Williams to Carol Kane to Matthew Broderick and even James Earl Jones as Aladdin's genie. The tales are dark and funny and with just a pinch of sexual innuendo, which, until now, went right over my head. And you can't beat the hilarious production quality, even for the 80s.

As I was reacquainting myself with the series, I stumbled upon a few episodes I had never seen, one of which was Rapunzel. Apparently, as the story goes, Rapunzel's parents find themselves in a bit of jam, when Rapunzel's mom (preggers with you-know-who) can't get enough of these magic radishes, which (say it with me) only grow in a witch's garden. Dotting husband (played by Jeff Bridges) treks over there, night after night stealing radishes and dodging witches, when little does he know, Witchy put the hankering for radishes in Wifey's head in order to exact a vengeful price - a baby-sized price, that is.

Good, now you are all caught up. So, why I am telling you this? Well, because this episode had a strangely alluring radish montage. That's right. I bet you never thought you would see it, but there is a radish montage, which inclues radishes eaten off the stem, radish kabobs, radish pie, radish fondue and culminates in a toothy, cannibal-radish nightmare. Fantastic. And you know what I realized? I've never eaten a radish before - in my whole life.

Roasted Radishes with Green Beans
(based on this Gourmet recipe)

1 lb. radishes, cut in half lengthwise, then crosswise
1 lb. green beans, trimmed
3-4 tbsp olive oil
2 garlic cloves, minced
salt and pepper

1. Preheat oven to 450 degrees. Place racks at top and bottom thirds of the oven. Toss radishes with about 2 tbsp. olive oil. (You could toss in a bowl or in a gallon storage bag. I tossed mine in a bag, so I could reuse for green beans and use less oil). Spread radishes on a baking sheet in a single layer. Sprinkle with salt and pepper to taste. Roast on top rack for 10 minutes.

2. While the radishes are roasting, toss green beans with remaining 2 tbsp of olive oil (or less depending on your taste). Spread green beans in a single layer on a baking sheet. When radishes have been roasting for ten minutes, put green beans in oven, on bottom rack, and continue roasting both for a further ten minutes.

3. Test doneness of radishes, they should be crispy but tender. Depending on the size of the radishes, they may take a few more minutes. Sprinkle garlic over green beans and roast another two minutes. In a large bowl, toss radishes with green beans and serve.

Despite the fact that Boyfriend warned, "If you've ever bitten into a salad on gone: 'Ick, what is that?' You've probably had a radish," I decided to try one raw for comparison. I was instantly sorry I had decided to roast them. If you don't know, radishes have a hearty, mushroom-like flavor (I think that kind of taste is called umami, but the term is still confusing to me) with a kind of cauliflower/broccoli stem crunchiness. And the pepper! There is a charming and surprising peppery kick at the end of each bite. After roasting, the pepperiness is gone (sad face), but the radish itself it sweet and crispy, kinda like roasted cauliflower (which is kick-ass, in case you haven't tried that). Overall quite delicious. - What a puzzling little, cherry red, flavor-bomb you are, Brother Radish. I very much enjoyed eating you.

It remains to be seen whether or not other episodes of Faerie Tale Theatre will inspire new recipes in my kitchen. Until then, nerd on!

Pear and Cranberry Pie

I did it! I made a pie. I. Made. A. Pie. It wasn't pretty, but it sure was tasty. Okay, so there is a definite Frankenstein-esque look to it, but I've never made a pie before.

Stop number one on my trip to pie-discovery: L'Academie de Cuisine for a course on (obvi) pies and tarts. Man, did our instructor make it look so easy. One, two, three: pie crust. Riiiiight. No one in the class was really buying that it could be that easy either. Throughout the class, we shared stories about personal rolling pin showdowns and pie crust disasters. (Ahem.) Once upon a time, Mom might have been known to grumble, yell and even swear at pie crusts. Such behavior may or may not have caused Dad to hide in the upstairs den, pretty much as far away from the sounds of the kitchen as possible. But don't quote me on that. My instructor also told a story of a woman in one of her classes who ran crying from the kitchen in the middle of class. So don't be discouraged (or run away); commit to the pie crust, as ugly as it may be. As Mom always said, after the alleged swearing and rolling pin slamming, "Well, it doesn't matter how it looks, does it? It will taste good, right?" Absolutely, right.

Crust for a Two-Crust Pie
(from Chef Christine Ilich, c/o L'Academie de Cuisine)
2 1/4 cups all-purpose flour
1 1/2 tsp salt
2 tablespoons sugar
2 sticks of unsalted butter, cold but pliable
1 egg yolk
1/4 cup cold water

In a large bowl, mix together flour, salt and sugar. Using your hands, mix in butter until the mixture resembles a course meal. Mix egg with water and add about a tablespoon at a time, mixing after each addition, until dough is just moist enough to hold together. Shape dough into two discs, wrap in plastic and chill 30 minutes.

It goes without saying that I enjoy these classes. There is a level of know-how that each chef brings to the class that helps me learn just what all this cooking business is about, such as the relative benefits of butter or shortening when making a pie crust or the affect of adding some egg to your dough. These kinds of explanations are the difference between knowing how to make a lot of recipes and knowing how to cook.

And I get to eat pie for lunch:

(From left to right) Sweet Potato Pie with Bourbon Cream, Maple Walnut Pie, Pear and Frangipane Tart and Apple and Cranberry Crumb Pie. And yeah, the pictures are fuzzy because taking pictures with my Blackberry kinda sucks.

Stop number two: my farmers' market for some sweet, juicy pears. I was so excited to make my first pie, I headed out into the rare D.C. snowfall last Saturday to visit my farmers' market in search of fresh pears. What a wise decision. These pears were the perfect ripeness. After tossing my crust discs in the fridge for a good chill, I sat down with my pears and the new "Star Trek" movie for some peeling, coring, slicing and avenging Romulans.


Pear and Cranberry Pie
(recipe from Good Housekeeping Step by Step Cookbook)
3 tablespoon cornstarch
1/8 tsp cinnamon
3/4 cup plus 1 tbsp sugar
1 1/2 cup cranberries
6 large ripe pears (about 3 pounds), peeled, cored and sliced
2 tbsp butter

Preheat oven to 425 degrees. In a large bowl mix cornstarch, cinnamon and 3/4 cup sugar. Add cranberries and pears; toss to combine. On a lightly floured surface, using a lightly floured rolling pin, roll out one of the discs of dough. Try to roll out your dough to be a few inches wider than your pie plate. You can always do a little patching later. making sure that the dough is lightly floured so that is doesn't stick, gently roll dough around your rolling pin and transfer to pie plate. Using a butter knife, trim the excess dough from around the pie plate. Keep the scraps to patch any holes in the bottom or top crusts. Spoon pear mixture into pie crust. Place dabs of butter over mixture. Roll out second disc, and place over filling. Cut a couple of slits in the top crust to allow steam to escape. Sprinkle pie with 1 tablespoon sugar.

Place sheet of foil underneath pie plate, folding up edges of the foil to form a rim. The foil will catch any sticky drips. Bake 20 minutes. Turn oven temperature to 375 degrees. Open the oven a crack for a minute or so, (don't walk away!) to allow the oven temperature to reach 375 degrees, close oven and bake 60 to 70 minutes longer, until filling is bubbly in center. Cool pie on wire rack for 1 hour. Serve warm.

Stop number three: my belly!

Brunch at the Blue Duck Tavern

Although the Blue Duck Tavern is not a place I am likely to visit outside of the affordable confines of Restaurant Week (yikes!), my aunt and uncle were in town helping my cousin set up her new apartment and graciously invited me to the Blue Duck for an interesting brunch.

Interesting could be the watchword for this restaurant. Walking in was like entering a scene form Stargate. I felt like I was entering the foodie temple of the Sun god. The entrance itself is a set of huge, black, double doors that a) don't look like they open, and b) have no discernible sign that they lead to the restaurant. (Leap of Faith?) Once inside, one immediately goes up and down a series of small stone steps, while sunlight floods through a wall of windows. We had seats by the kitchen, which apparently is the place to be, so one can watch the chefs as dishes are prepared and served.

If anything Anthony Bourdain writes it to be believed, having an open kitchen must be absolute hell for a chef. I was expecting a milder version of Bourdain's wild, profane kitchens or even the fast-paced world of Bill Buford, but what I got was more akin to a sedate episode of Iron Chef America. Frankly, I forgot they were there. Perhaps it is a little more exciting for dinner service, instead of a sleepy brunch, but let's be serious here, folks, we all know I was more interested in eating the food. Luckily, the food was as interesting as the ambiance.

We started with mimosas and croissants, which were excellent. The jams, cream and honey were perfect. I ordered the sour dough pancake with port poached figs and fig molasses. (!!) The tangy and gooey chunks of fig combined with the light and fruity fig molasses (oh my), balanced the denseness of the pancake, keeping it from feeling too heavy. It was a sin to leave a morsel on that plate, which was not even a plate. My giant pancake was served in an equally huge skillet. In the succinct words of my uncle: "Big? That thing is a Buick." After croissants and jams, it easily defeated me.

My one reservation about this restaurant, as I mentioned, was the price. My aunt's eggs benedict looked a little on the small side for $17. Now, I know I am not brunching at Denny's or IHOP and that the best ingredients cost a little more, but I am still going through vicarious price shock for this brunch. (Thankfully, my aunt and uncle were picking up the tab).  Sure, I had a truck of a pancake, but I have to wonder if I had ordered another, smaller, dish, would I have left hungry and poor? Perhaps the added cost is a necessary offering to the Sun god. That being said, I loved my fig pancake and would be happy eating here again.

Fluffernutter Fans Unite!

I absolutely, positively love the Fluffernutter. Check out this effort to make it the official sandwich of Massachusetts. If you have not tried this Northeastern delicacy, believe me, my friends, you are truly missing out. Nothing complements peanut butter like a sweet, sticky layer of Marshmallow Fluff (which is very low in calories. Bonus!). When I was a kid, my mom and grandmother used to make these babies for me, always cutting them up into triangle-shaped quarters because I was convinced they were more filling (and fun!) that way. My dad and I used to eat them together with an extra layer of grape jelly to make lunch time extra specially ridiculous.

Lately, I've been bringing Fluffernutters to work for lunch. Let me state for the record, nothing takes the edge off that 20-something-being/dressing/acting-like-a-grown-up-sucks angst like sitting on a bench, reading a book and eating a Fluffernutter.

Risk: An Afternoon of Culinary Domination

OK, I am about to bring you in on a Wicked Cranberry secret. When cooking for people who are not my boyfriend or my immediate family, I am a hot mess. Unless I have made a recipe at least twice (and know where the potential pitfalls are) I won't prepare it for anyone outside my supportive circle. But this day was about Risk, and I knew I had to be bold if I wanted to conquer not only my nervous nellyism, but the hearts, minds and tummies of my opponents. Game on.

Spinach and Artichoke Dip

1 cup (light) mayonnaise
1 cup (light) sour cream
2 cups Asiago cheese, grated

1 14-oz. jar of marinated artichoke hearts, drained and finely chopped
5-6 oz. fresh baby Spinach, sautéed and chopped (or use frozen)
2-3 garlic cloves, minced
1 medium loaf of sourdough
1 baguette, sliced

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Mix together the first six ingredients in a medium bowl. Hollow out the loaf of sourdough to create a bowl. Reserve the top and insides of the bread bowl. Pour dip into bread bowl, replacing top and bake for 1 hour. Serve with baguette slices and chunks from the inside of the bowl.

I used regular mayo and sour cream, as I was serving it to a bunch of dudes, but Asiago is a strong enough flavor that you could easily sub out light mayo and sour cream and it wouldn't detract from the overall taste.

"Game on," quickly became, "Better safe than sorry." Between you, me and the lamppost, I did, in fact, purchase the ingredients for an auxiliary appetizer, Rachel Ray's Chorizo and Mushroom Queso. (In my defense, I had some extra jalapenos, red onion and cilantro, which would have dressed it up some). However, now I have a lovely bunch of Chorizo sausages for dinner some night this week, because this Artichoke dip was a huge hit. Soon enough, the boys were going at the bread bowl itself, using the hunks of bowl to scrape up any errant bits of dip. Bwha-ha-ha-ha!

After a few hours of gaming, just as my guests were lulled into a beer induced buzz, my boyfriend and I hit them with a one-two, buffalo chicken bites and pasta salad combo. Having soaked cubes of chicken breast in buttermilk and Crystal sauce overnight, my boyfriend dredged them in flour and deep fried them for about 8 minutes a batch, then doused them in butter and Crystal hot sauce. Yum. (These bites are a Fry Fest original recipe, (care of our Master Guest Chef SO) from our annual deep-frying theme party).

Sadly, the pasta salad (here), which included mozzarella, sun-dried tomatoes, fresh tomatoes and olives tasted bland to me. I even substituted some of the oil in which the sun-dried tomatoes were packed for a portion of the olive oil, but to no avail. Although I wasn't wild about it, it was a good, cool match for the hot and spicy buffalo bites. P.S. The boys seemed to enjoy it.

Finally, the pièce de résistance! Peach and Blackberry Shortcakes with Blackberry Cream. All who remained, the few, the brave, the hungry, were taken down by this dessert. I bided my time, rising early the day before to beat the berry lines at the Court House Farmers' Market. I braved the overly moist shortcake batter (too much buttermilk, ack!) which stuck to everything, abandoned my cookie cutters as useless, formed little shortcake patties in my hands and peeled, pitted and sliced 2 pounds of peaches. And it was totally worth it. Not only was this dessert fantastic, I have a little filling and blackberry puree left over. Ice cream toppings anyone?

Nerd-Culture Comes to the Kitchen

I am pretty sure that if someone made me this brownie mosaic for my birthday, I would be indebted to him for life. As it is, I am wicked jealous of my friend Daley, whose friends must love him very much. All I can say is:

"Master using it and you can have this."