who's the picky eater now? huh? who?

If I'm eating out, pasta with sun-dried-tomato pesto is probably the last thing I'll order off a menu. Just before all the dishes that have mushrooms in them, and also anything with meat. And shellfish. I don't eat shellfish. So maybe the sun-dried-tomato pesto would be, like, the ninth-to-last thing I'd hypothetically order off a hypothetical menu in a hypothetical restaurant.

What I'm trying to say here is that there's nothing appealing to me about sun-dried-tomato pesto. In fact, I'm not a big fan of sun-dried tomatoes at all. So it's somewhat shocking to me how much I love this pesto I'm about to tell you about. I mean, I really love it. As in, the second time I made it, I doubled the recipe, froze a little, and then ate the rest, two to three times a day, for a week. I had it for dinner on pasta. I had it for breakfast on toast. I spread it on crackers and dipped tortilla chips in it. I put a little dollop on some rindless chèvre and served it to friends. Some of it may have been eaten by the spoonful while standing in front of the open fridge—you will never know.

So it's versatile, obviously. And a little addictive. Easy to make. It freezes well. Need I go on?

A few notes:

* The first time I ate this it was on some gnocchi my stepmom prepared. She'd learned to make both the pesto and the potato pasta at a cooking class taught by Lee Duberman of Ariel's Restaurant in Brookfield, Vt. But since then I've eaten it with other pastas (mostly spaghetti, and mostly whole-wheat spaghetti, if you must know), because in spite of having my own personal lesson, I'm scared to try making gnocchi on my own. But I still employ the technique my stepmom used to toss the gnocchi with the pesto: Cook the pasta (to al dente if it's not gnocchi) in very salty water and reserve a cupful of the water before draining. Drain the pasta, heat a frying pan over medium-high heat, throw in a hefty dollop of the pesto and a splash of the pasta water, stir them together while they sizzle crazily, then toss in a serving or two of pasta, mix it all up, add more pesto or cooking water as needed, and eat.

* Like I said, the pesto is versatile. Eating it on tortilla chips is probably not for everyone, but at room temperature on top of goat cheese it's a real crowd pleaser.

* The recipe calls for pistachios, which my stepmom complained about having to shell. They do sell them unshelled, but hazelnuts might make a good substitution. Try it at least once with the pistachios; they're really not that much work.


* At the cooking class Lee Duberman apparently suggested a particular brand of sun-dried tomatoes, from Costco. I bought some, but I imagine any SDTs in oil would do.


* Rumor has it that Lee Duberman has a cookbook coming out soon, which I hope is true. In the meantime, I'm looking forward to a trip to Ariel's, which I've never tried, though Mark Bittman appears to be a big fan...

* And lastly, it turns out I really like to take pictures of pistachios, so I'll get another one out of the way here:


Sun-Dried-Tomato and Pistachio Pesto
From a cooking class by Lee Duberman

½ cup sun-dried tomatoes in olive oil
½ cup shelled pistachios


1 tablespoon chopped fresh basil
¼ cup grated Pecorino Romano cheese
½ teaspoon salt, or more to taste
¼ cup oil from the tomatoes
¼ cup olive oil

Place all the ingredients except the oils in a food processer or blender.


Turn on machine and purée ingredients for about 1 minute. With machine still running, slowly drizzle in both oils.


Store pesto in the fridge for up to 1 week or freeze.

guten morgen, bitches

Sometimes I worry that people who don't see the inherent hilarity of the word bitches won't understand why on this bl*g they're frequently addressed as bitches. Other times I don't worry about this at all.

Some Monday morning reading, bitches.

[Via jshu.]

we're maple people

This Sunday afternoon I'll be on a family bowling outing in the southern part of the state (naturally), but if I was going to be in town I'd make some maple gruel and enter it in the maple cook-off at the University of Vermont.

Curried squash soup sweetened with maple syrup seems obvious. So do spice cupcakes with maple frosting. A variation on farro gruel with a maple balsamic dressing, topped with Doe's Leap feta? Too subtle/gruelish, maybe.

It doesn't matter: I'm not going to be here, but I'm hoping to experience the cook-off vicariously through some of you. The deadline to register is Friday at 5:00, though you don't have to have your (hopefully prizewinning—there are some great prizes) gruel ready until Sunday. Let the best GFD reader win.

the nomadic oven

At the farmers market this weekend my stepmom stopped by a table of beautiful baked goods and got into a conversation with the baker about macarons—chewy versus soft, a certain bakery in Paris, blah blah blah...I spaced them out, contemplating the pile of whoopie pies. Not because I don't like macarons; I do. But I've eaten plenty and they've all been basically the same, variations on this theme: A pair of soft-yet-slightly-chewy, almost-meringue-like, pastel-colored cookies sandwiching a thin layer of filling.

After confirming that the macarons at the farmers market were the special Parisian kind, my stepmother bought one, pronounced it the best macaron she'd ever tried, and gave me a bite. Bitches, these are not your run-of-the-mill macarons. They literally melt in your mouth.

These were prettier when I first bought them; this photo was taken after they'd spent a couple hours in my purse.

They were so good, in fact, I assumed the whoopie pies I'd been contemplating must be bad. As I've noted here before, whoopie pies should not be fancy, and the macarons were very fancy. So I purchased three magical macarons and one whoopie pie, which I didn't try until I got home, at which point I RUED the moment I'd decided to buy only one. That whoopie pie was not too fancy at all. In fact, it had all the best aspects of both the high- and low-brow versions. The chocolate-cake portion was moist, unlike most fancy whoopie pies, and the chocolate was dark and rich. The filling tasted like a classy version of Fluff—marshmallowy, with crystalline sugary bits—but without the waxy taste of shortening most low-end whoopie pies have. I approve.


So I have a new favorite, worth-seeking-out local baker in addition to beloved My Little Cupcake. I know the Nomadic Oven will be at the one remaining Burlington winter farmers market, and her website says she does the summer Old and New North End markets. Let the stalking begin.

i may not sip lattes, but i do eat an awful lot of kale

This weekend as I stood in my Vermont kitchen listening to "All Things Considered" and chopping kale for dinner, my refrigerator stocked with nickel bags of microgreens and artisan cheeses from the farmers market, I realized that I am a liberal cliché. Which is just fine with me: I'd rather pluck my eyes out than listen to Rush Limbaugh, and while I hope to one day sample a deep-fried Twinkie, I already know it will have nothing on a New York Times chocolate-chip cookie.

To the kale, then, comrades.

Awhile ago I told you about a braised kale dish that I'm pretty smitten with and cook on a regular basis. The one I made this weekend was conceived by the same cook and is basically the same recipe—sauté some garlic and onions, braise the kale, squeeze a lemon over the greens—sans the chick peas and served over pasta. For those of you kale-eating liberals who partake of the green on a regular basis, this new recipe is good for variety. But if you voted for John McCain and are only going to try one kale dish in your lifetime, it should be the old one. (Frankly, if you voted for John McCain that means you voted for Sarah Palin, which means there's no hope for you: Get in your SUV, drive to WalMart, and buy that case of Twinkies you've been eyeing.)

Don't get me wrong: The recipe below is also good, and reviewers on Epicurious.com raved about its ability to turn non-kale-eaters into kale lovers, but I don't need everyone to love kale, just like I don't need everyone to love health care reform (you may not love it, but it's here [barely]), and I think the chick peas are a better complement to the kale than the pasta.

Spaghetti With Braised Kale
Adapted from Molly Wizenberg's column in Bon Appétit, October 2009

1 pound lacinato kale (about 2 bunches), large center ribs and stems removed, cut crosswise into ½-inch slices
3 tablespoons olive oil, divided
1 medium onion, finely chopped (about 1½ cups)
8 large garlic cloves, thinly sliced
½ pound spaghetti
2 teaspoons or more of fresh lemon juice, to taste
finely grated Parmesan cheese

1. Rinse kale and drain the excess water, but don't worry about getting the greens dry; some water clinging to the kale will help with braising.

2. Heat 2 tablespoons of olive oil in a Dutch oven over medium heat. Add chopped onion and cook until soft and translucent, stirring occasionally, about 6 minutes. Add sliced garlic and sprinkle with salt; cook until onion is golden brown, stirring occasionally, about 5 minutes. Add kale and remaining 1 tablespoon olive oil and toss until wilted, about 3 minutes. Cover pot and reduce heat to medium-low. Cook gently until kale is very tender, stirring occasionally and adding water by teaspoonfuls if dry, about 20 minutes.

3. Meanwhile, cook spaghetti in medium pot of boiling heavily salted water until tender but still firm to bite, stirring occasionally. Drain, reserving ¼ cup cooking liquid. Add cooked spaghetti to kale mixture in pot. Add lemon juice and 2 tablespoons reserved cooking liquid; toss to combine, adding more liquid by tablespoonfuls if dry. Sprinkle spaghetti with grated Parmesan cheese and serve.

A few notes: Reviewers on Epicurious suggested adding red pepper flakes, which I didn't try here but think would be a suitable addition. I used whole-wheat spaghettini and didn't measure the pasta; reviewers on Epicurious suggested that the kale would be enough for a full pound of pasta but I disagree—the higher the ratio of kale to pasta, the better. I added way more than 2 teaspoons of lemon juice and was liberal with the Parm, as well. The yachtsman, shockingly, wouldn't touch this with a ten-foot Cheeto, but the ample leftovers reheated well (I added a fresh squeeze of lemon juice each time), both on the stove and in the microwave.

spring in vermont

Out our windows this morning.

At the big chain grocery store this afternoon.

Tonight, this.

if you can't beat 'em, walk a mile in their shoes, which are actually quite comfortable

In spite of the fact that I spend my days unwashed and wearing what basically amounts to pajamas, there have been certain lines I wouldn't cross. For example, if I'm going to an event that takes place at night and has a ticket price of $15 or more, I will not wear any fleece (unlike most Vermonters, who will show up decked out in their best fleece vests). And I've always resisted clogs, because with the exception of winter boots, shoes are not meant to be comfortable or practical, they should to be pretty and crippling. But then I tried on my sister's clogs. I tried on my sister's clogs, tried to hide from her the fact that I was wearing them, and got angry when she asked for them back. And the next day I spent the gift certificate I'd planned to use to buy some foxy new boots on what are basically slippers I can wear to work. Up next: fleece pants at a dinner party.

trust-your-instincts gruel

I realized the other day that most of my food-related posts lately have been about cake, cupcakes, cookies, or doughnuts. I blame this on February, or as we call it around these parts, Hang-Yourself-in-the Barn Month. February lasted for ninety-two days this year, and during that time I relied on recipes I'd already shared with you, gruel I know I love and know I can count on. Because winter in Vermont is not a time to try new things, unless they involve dough or batter and are baked by someone who does not suffer from Seasonal Affective Disorder. No, winter in Vermont is a time for stiff upper lips and sweet tooths and old standbys and seeking succor wherever it can be found. For example, in a cake.

But it's been springlike here lately: warmer, sunnier days; that extra hour of daylight; crocuses. Foolish crocuses that will surely die when spring rips off its mask and reveals that it's really still winter. There will be more snow, of this I'm sure. But the worst is behind us, I think. Oh, who knows. Anything could happen: A blizzard. Locusts. Crocuses.

One of the few new dishes I did make this past interminable February (for myself and, unfortunately, six people we had over for dinner) was very...blah. The recipe was from a cookbook I love and trust, but while I was making it I had a bad feeling: It wasn't well seasoned, the proportions seemed off, certain ingredients didn't make sense. But I trudged through the recipe as it was written (welcome to winter in Vermont) and ended up with a bland soup that I was a little embarrassed to serve. Lucky for my guests, there were warm chocolate chip cookies for dessert.

But instead of writing the soup off as a bust, I've been thinking about it every since, cursing myself, in between bites of cake, for not trusting my instincts. Because the dish had potential, and included some of my favorite gruelish ingredients: creamy beans, chewy bites of farro, kale... So when false spring arrived a couple weeks ago, I gave it another try. The recipe below is less a recipe than a set of guidelines. It reflects what I did the second time I cooked the soup, but next time through I'm sure I'll tweak it some more. For example, depending on what the weather brings I may add sauteed locusts.

A few notes:
* As I mentioned above, the first time I tried this soup it was quite bland, so my goal this time was to build flavor. There are numerous ways to do this with a soup, and I used several of them here: I added a bay leaf, garlic cloves, and salt to the water in which I cooked my beans; I cooked the soup in a combination of both water and stock; I sauteed the onions, garlic, carrots, and celery for longer than originally called for; I added some sage, a bay leaf, and a Parmesan rind. Not all of these steps are necessary, though my soup didn't suffer from their aggregate use.
* For beans I used some beauties I bought at the farmers market. They looked like this,

but any white-ish bean (e.g., cannellini) would do. I used 400 grams (~2 cups), but next time I'll probably use less beans and more farro. Canned beans would also work just fine.
* I cooked the onions with a sprinkling of dried chili flakes, but next time I might try that pimentón I told you about awhile ago.
* I cut the carrots and celery into smallish bite-sized pieces. The original recipe also called for potatoes, which I have no use for in vegetable soups, but if you'd like some, add them when you add the carrots and celery.
*I used a combination of store-bought veggie stock and water as a base (probably about half and half); next time I might try some of my favorite bouillon instead of the stock. I also added some chopped fresh sage because I had had it and a Parmesan rind, but a second bay leaf could replace the sage and the Parmesan isn't essential, just nice. The amount of liquid you're going to need will depend on how much beans/farro you use, and whether or not you want a more soup-like or stew-like dish. I went for more of a stew this time, as I'm no crocus.
* There are no rules here. It may or may not be spring. Trust your instincts.

Trust-Your-Instincts Gruel (d/b/a White Bean and Farro Soup)
~2 cups dried beans, soaked in water overnight
4–8+ cups of stock and/or water
5 garlic cloves: 2 peeled and smashed; 3 peeled and finely chopped
2 bay leaves
olive oil
2 onions, peeled and chopped
red chili flakes
2 celery sticks, chopped
2 carrots, chopped
a few sage leaves, chopped
1 Parmesan rind
¾ cup farro

My new 5-pound bag of farro; jealous, bitches?

1 28-oz. can of tomatoes and their juice [I buy whole, canned San Marzanos and chop them, but there's probably no real reason not to buy any old can of diced tomatoes.]
1 bunch of lacinato kale, roughly chopped
a few drops of balsamic vinegar, a splash of good olive oil, a dollop of pesto, or a sprinkle of Parmesan to finish

1. Drain the beans and place them in a heavy-bottomed saucepan. Add enough water to cover the beans by a couple inches, throw in the 2 cloves of smashed garlic and the bay leaf. Cook the beans over medium-low heat, adding some salt after the beans have started to soften a little bit. Cook until the beans are soft but stop before they fall apart (is there such a thing as al dente beans?); they're going to get some more cooking time in the soup. Drain and set aside.

2. Over medium-low heat warm a few glugs of olive oil in a Dutch over or other pot that is large enough to comfortably hold all the ingredients. Add the onions, a sprinkling of dried chili flakes, and a pinch of salt. Seat gently until the onions are soft and translucent, then add the carrots, celery, and garlic. Saute three or four minutes and then add the farro; saute for another couple minutes. Add the tomatoes and their juice and a couple pinches of salt. Cover and simmer over a low heat for awhile; 20 minutes, maybe.

3. Add the cooked beans and enough broth/water to at least cover everything in the pot. For a soup, add more liquid. For a more stew-like pot of gruel, don't. Add a bay leaf, the chopped sage, and the Parmesan rind to the pot.

4. Cover and cook on low heat until the farro is done to your liking and the vegetables are all soft. The amount of time it takes to cook the farro in the soup will depend on whether it's semipearled; for me and my unpearled farro this took about an hour.

5. Add the kale and cook for a few minutes until it is soft but still toothsome.

6. Eat as is or garnish with a splash of balsamic vinegar or good olive oil; a spoonful of pesto; or a sprinkle of Parmesan cheese.

for whom the bee stings

I'd intended to write and post something here tonight, but it's 1:30 a.m. and I just got home from my one-day-a-week job (I need to ask for a raise). So apropos of nothing I'd like to share with you my new favorite poem, the Schmidt Sting Pain Index, which my friend (and cocktail-boat captain) Kate D., who's taking a beekeeping class, recently sent me.

Schmidt Sting Pain Index
1.0 Sweat bee: Light, ephemeral, almost fruity. A tiny spark has singed a single hair on your arm.
1.2 Fire ant: Sharp, sudden, mildly alarming. Like walking across a shag carpet and reaching for the light switch.
1.8 Bullhorn acacia ant: A rare, piercing, elevated sort of pain. Someone has fired a staple into your cheek.
2.0 Bald-faced hornet: Rich, hearty, slightly crunchy. Similar to getting your hand mashed in a revolving door.
2.0 Yellowjacket: Hot and smoky, almost irreverent. Imagine W. C. Fields extinguishing a cigar on your tongue.
2.x Honey bee and European hornet: Like a matchhead that flips off and burns on your skin.
3.0 Red harvester ant: Bold and unrelenting. Somebody is using a drill to excavate your ingrown toenail.
3.0 Paper wasp: Caustic and burning. Distinctly bitter aftertaste. Like spilling a beaker of hydrochloric acid on a paper cut.
4.0 Pepsis wasp: Blinding, fierce, shockingly electric. A running hair drier has been dropped into your bubble bath.
4.0+ Bullet ant: Pure, intense, brilliant pain. Like fire-walking over flaming charcoal with a 3-inch rusty nail in your heel.

my ship has come in

I have excellent news, my friends, excellent news indeed.

I don't know about you all, but I've been going through mini-cupcake withdrawal since the end of farmers market season last fall. Starting this week, however, our days of jonesing for adorable little cupcakelettes with pretty dollops of frosting are over: My Little Cupcakes are for sale at Sweet Clover Market in Essex and City Market in downtown Burlington. As I told MLC, I'm going to be her biggest customer. Literally. Between the yachtsman's weekly cake baking and My Little Cupcakes a five-minute walk from my house, I'll be living large. I repeat: Literally.

One of the chocolate cupcakes with peppermint frosting Mojie and William got for my co-birthday party in January.

If you've already had a My Little Cupcake, you've probably stopped reading this and are on your way to the store right now. If you haven't (or even if you have), MLC is doing a product demo (read: free cupcakes) at the co-op this Saturday from 3:00-6:00 p.m., which is coincidentally exactly when I'll be doing my grocery shopping. I swear, MLC, I'm not stalking you: It takes me three hours to buy groceries every week, and I always push my cart back and forth, up and down the aisle where the free cupcake giveaway is happening.

the yachtsman does not recommend eye surgery

The yachtsman had to have a little outpatient operation on his eye today. I was hoping to share with you a post-op photo of the damage (I was told he'd have a badass shiner), but in fact his eye is too scary for me to look at directly, let alone photograph and post on a bl*g that is ostensibly about reading, writing, and eating. So instead I offer this pre-op picture of the doctor's initials indicating which eye he was going to maim.

And because this bl*g is ostensibly about, among other things, eating, I will tell you that the patient requested breakfast for dinner when we got home, specifically pancakes and bacon. And I will also tell you the secret to very fluffy pancakes: Separate the eggs and beat the whites before folding them into the batter. I learned that in medical school.

free beer. i mean, book.

I have a few book-related rules:

1. No hardcovers (bulky, expensive).

2. If by page 100 a book has no redeeming qualities, it's OK to put it down.

3. Avoid books with cute titles that include words like "sweetness" and "pie" and "secret life of bees."

4. Only read books with pages made of paper (no Kindles, no e-books, no stone tablets).

5. Buy local.

6. When a friend's book is published, buy a copy the minute it's released.

When my friend Creston Lea's book came out last week, I was so excited to follow rule no. 6 that I broke rule no. 5 and bought a copy online. I was so excited, in fact, that I apparently put not one but two copies of Creston's book in my cyber shopping cart. So I have an extra, which I'd like to share with one of you.

In case you're worried, Creston's book, a collection of short stories called Wild Punch, doesn't break rules 1 through 4.

1. It's not bulky or expensive. The stories are both generous and lean, rich with detail but without an extra ounce of fat. And the characters, who you'll want to save/shake/marry/go drinking with, are for the most part flat broke.
2. There's no way you'll want to quit after page 100. In fact, you'll reread stories as you go along, and as you near the end you'll read more slowly to make the book last as long as possible.
3. The title is not cute, and neither are the stories: They're smart and risky and well-wrought and dark (yet beautiful and somehow hopeful, too).
4. The copy I'm giving away cannot be read on a Kindle and will be sent to the winner through a thing called the mail (that's not a misspelling). The pages are made of paper, and the front and back covers feature illustrations by the talented Miss Sarah Ryan.

So if you're looking for a good read, send an email to gruelfordinner [at] gmail [dot] com by Friday, March 12, at 5:00 p.m. EST, and my assistant will randomly select someone to receive a copy. If that someone is not you, don't think of yourself as a loser, think of yourself as a good sport, and then go to your local bookstore and buy a copy. It's called Wild Punch, and it's by Creston Lea.

happy anniversary to us

That's right: One year ago today, Gruel for Dinner was born. One year ago today your bl*g mistress made not just her first but her first three posts here (someone was apparently quite bored on March 7, 2009). In the intervening 365 days, the readership of GFD has doubled from six to twelve people; I've made many pots of gruel; the yachtsman has made me fat on cake; and J Quizzle has made lots of comments, god bless him. To celebrate our first birthday, I'll be making not just one but three posts here this week. There will be gruel. There will be a free giveaway. And the most exciting Yachtsman Recommends segment to date. So set your bookmarks, clear you cache, and get ready to accept your cookies [whatever that means; the yachtsman wrote this part], 'cause it's year two of GFD.

Thanks for reading, bitches.

gateau gluttony guillotine

The yachtsman has made a cake a week for the past three weeks.

[I fear he's fattening me up for the kill.]

I think this is my favorite: fluffy yellow cake with foolproof chocolate frosting.

[Like a lamb to the slaughter.]