a sign of spring

Or at least a sign that the anniversary of Our Lord Jesus Christ's resurrection from the dead is just around the corner: my Greek stepmother's koulouria, delicious little biscuit-like cookies that have something, I have no idea what, to do with Easter.


(I just realized that Jesus was a zombie; I also realized that, in spite of the fact that I attended Catholic church every Sunday growing up and went weekly to CCD, I cannot for the life of me recall what Jesus did after he rose from the dead—I'm assuming he didn't eat anyone's brains [I'd definitely remember that]; MAYBE HE ATE KOULOURIA?!?)

guest post: my greek stepmother

[This is the first of a few guests posts you'll be seeing over the coming months, this one from my Greek stepmother, one of the best cooks I know.]

I’ve been fixated on sour cherries since last year when some friends told me they make the most delicious cobbler ever. I scored two quarts at a farmers market, baked that cobbler, and was in love. But when I returned for more, their short (two weeks? two days?) season was over.

This summer, when I spied trees laden with tart cherries at a local farm, I bought all the farm stand would sell me (believe it or not, there was a waiting list for those cherries)


and spent the next 24 hours pitting, cooking, and freezing the little darlings (frozen, pitted cherries are nearly as delicious as fresh), in hopes that maybe, possibly, this year I will eat my fill.

The chore was not easy. I mean, it’s not like lifting heavy rocks, but it still left me with a stiff back and neck. Each one of those soft, tiny orbs needed to be stemmed and the pit removed, preferably without damaging the fruit’s fragile shape. This job requires patience, at least three back-to-back podcasts of This American Life, and a superior ability to multitask so that when your granddog escapes out the front door midway through the process you can launch a search party (I’m looking at you, Chester Arthur Miller).


I acknowledge that I am one of those people who enjoys the obscure, the hard-to-get, the fleeting. That tiny character flaw has brought me more trouble more often than I would like to (or will) admit.

Sour cherries, however, are completely worth it.

As a reward for pitting all those cherries, I treated myself to a Sour Cherry Gin Muddler, courtesy of last week’s NYTimes.


Then I made Sour Cherry Clafoutis, a light, airy dessert that was perfectly complemented by the presence of tart cherries—delicious.

By the time you read this, the ridiculously short, fragile sour cherry season will probably be over, and I will be harvesting my freezer to try Claudia Roden’s Little Meatballs With Cherries.

Just to be completely clear, my freezer is chained and locked.

Note: I used Montmorency cherries, a variety of tart cherry that is bright red with clear juice; the other type is Morello, which are purple with dark, staining juice and more sour. Both are delicious and will work in these recipes; just wear a rubber apron when you pit the Morellos.

Sour Cherry Gin Muddler
From Melissa Clark at the New York Times, who calls this a cross between Kat Kinsman’s sour cherry cocktail and a classic aviation cocktail. I call it a delicious way to drink gin, which, to be completely honest, is perfect straight from the bottle.

1. Place three pitted sour cherries and a thin lemon slice in the bottom of a rocks glass. Add half a teaspoon or so of sugar and muddle until the cherries are smashed up but not pureed.

2. Pack the glass with ice and top with gin. Float a teaspoon or two of maraschino liqueur on top (or the juice from a jar of maraschino cherries, assuming you have high-quality ones without a bunch of dye and additives; which of course you do, if, like me, Manhattans are your winter drink of choice.)

Sour Cherry Clafoutis
From Gourmet Magazine, May 2008, created by Dana Cree of Veil, in Seattle

5 egg yolks
¾ cup sugar
¼ cup Amaretto
½ cup flour, sifted
½ teaspoon salt
3 egg whites
¼ cup sugar
1 cup heavy cream
About 2 pounds (1½–2 quarts) fresh sour cherries, stemmed, and pitted

1. Preheat oven to 375 degrees. Lightly butter a large baking pan (round is nice if you have one) and cover the bottom with cherries.

2. With a stand or hand mixer (I used a stand mixer, which was quick and easy), whip the egg yolks and sugar to a thick pale ribbon. Whisk in Amaretto until combined. Fold in the flour and salt. Set aside.

3. Whip the egg whites until they form stiff peaks. Add the sugar and continue whipping until stiff and glossy. (I did this first because I was too lazy to wash the egg yolks off the beater, but if you, too, are lazy, proceed quickly with the rest of the whipping so it doesn’t sit around very long.)

4. Whip the cream until it forms soft peaks.

5. Fold the cream into the yolk mixture in two batches. Fold the meringue into the batter in two batches.

6. Cover the cherries with clafoutis batter, pressing slightly as you spread and encouraging the batter to fill any crevices between the fruit. Bake 20–25 minutes (more or less, depending on the size of the pan), until golden brown and set. Serve immediately (best) with vanilla ice cream, or even cold, which is surprisingly good as well.


[Hello, bitches, it's me again, here to let you know that I was lucky enough to both taste the clafoutis hot out of the oven and eat a leftover piece cold the next day. For breakfast, if you must know. I highly recommend it either way. Or even better, both.]

the final frontier, & also easter

The yachtsman just had this conversation with himself while I stared at a blank bl*g post: "What are you doing? Writing a bl*g? About the space shuttle liftoff? There're more women in space than ever. More Japanese in space than ever. You know what that means: It means hamachi in space."

Yesterday was Easter. Jesus rose from the dead, and I rose from the couch and went to my Greek stepmom's. This year the cupcakes (aka the sin that Jesus died for) were made by Mojie.

Photo by Mojie.

You can read about last Easter and find the world's best spanakopita recipe here.

After a long diatribe about hitching a ride with the Russkies after the space shuttle program ends ("It's like taking the bus"; "That's not how we roll"; "I don't even think they have bathrooms"; "Do you know what the Russkies eat in space?"), the yachtsman emailed me this photo. "For your bl*g," he said.

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.

leftovers, part deux

Or should I say, part dos? Because I'm about to describe a delicious little shizzle that relies on a specialty ingredient from Spain. This is not a recipe, it's an idea, and a very good one.

Start with an Asian pear or two.


Peel and core the pears, then slice them into bite-sized wedges or chunks. Drizzle the chunks with the juice from one or two Meyer lemons and some olive oil (I used orange-scented oil), then sprinkle with a little bit of salt and the specialty ingredient, pimentón de la Vera. Toss the pears in this dressing and serve atop some arugula or watercress.

Or not. I had a few pieces of pear left over from Saturday night, which I ate on Sunday without any greens, and then I bought another pear, dressed it, and ate it for lunch this week, again without any greens.


When I made this on Saturday I got all of the ingredients, except for the salt and Meyer lemons, from my Greek stepmother (I'd first had the dish at her house, of course). But it was so good, I'm going to invest in my own pimentón and orange-scented olive oil.

Pimentón, or Spanish paprika, is ground from peppers that are smoked over oak fires while flamenco dancers with flowers in their hair twirl around the flames and handsome bullfighters watch from the shadows. The orange-scented olive oil my Greek stepmother says she purchased at HomeGoods. But I found both products online at Market Hall Foods. Wherever you do your shopping, be sure to buy pimentón "de la Vera," and I used agridulce, which is of medium spiciness. When you have your pimentón in hand, you could also try my boyfriend Mark Bittman's recipe for Grilled Fish With Pimentón Aioli or this Smoky Spanish Tomato Soup.

Part of what made the pears magical, versus just delicious, was the smokiness of the pimentón, but I tried a few bites as I went along, and Asian pears drizzled with Meyer lemon juice alone are delicious. I can't recommend other kinds of pears, since other kinds of pears are inevitably mealy, while Asian pears are almost always crisp.

Adios, amigos.

holiday dessert wishlist item #4: happy happy

Happy birthday, Candy!

It's my Greek stepmother's birthday today. I won't be with her to celebrate—she's in California for the holidays, I'm cold chillin' at the Shus in Maryland—so I'm going to give her a virtual birthday cake (actually, it's a virtual birthday dessert) with the promise of a literal version early in the new year.


Mrs. Snead's Snow Pudding is the lemony, airy confection my Greek stepmother asked for in lieu of cake on her birthdays growing up. I had it for the first time this past spring, and was immediately smitten. It's hard to describe this combination of frothy egg whites and rich custard, and I assumed it would be hard to make, too. But I was able to (literally) whip this up after work one night and bring it to friends' house for dinner; the snow and the pudding chilled while we ate.

I'm including it on my holiday dessert wishlist because it's the perfect dessert not only to celebrate the birth of my Greek stepmother, but also to ring in the new year (both events go well with champagne, too). It's elegant but unusual, festive, and quite delicious. So if you're looking to celebrate a momentous occasion—say, the beginning of a new decade or the birth of one of your very favorite people—get to your kitchen and start whipping.

Mrs. Snead's Snow Pudding

Ingredients for the snow:
1 (¼-ounce) envelope unflavored gelatin
¼ cup cold water
1 cup boiling water
¾ cup sugar
1 tablespoon grated lemon zest
1/3 cup fresh lemon juice
3 large egg whites

Ingredients for the pudding [custard]:
2 cups whole milk
1/3 cup sugar
3 large egg yolks

Making the snow:
1. Stir the gelatin into cold water in a large bowl and let stand 5 minutes. Stir in hot water, sugar, lemon zest, and lemon juice until sugar has dissolved. Set the bowl in an ice bath and stir often until mixture is cold and thickened (consistency will be similar to that of raw egg whites), about 45 minutes.

2. Beat gelatin mixture with an electric mixer at medium-high speed until very frothy, 1 to 2 minutes. In a separate bowl, beat whites until they hold soft peaks.

3. Add the whites to the gelatin mixture and beat at high speed until tripled in volume and very thick, about 5 minutes (longer if using a handheld mixer). Transfer to a large serving bowl and chill until set, about 3 hours.

Making the pudding [custard]:
1. Bring the milk, sugar, and a pinch of salt just to a boil in a small saucepan, stirring until sugar has dissolved. Remove from heat and let sit for several minutes (you don't want the milk mixture to be so hot it curdles the egg yolks).

2. Put yolks in a small bowl and whisk about ½ cup of the warm milk mixture into the yolks, then whisk this new mixture back into the remaining milk in the saucepan. Cook over medium-low heat, stirring constantly with a wooden spoon, until custard coats back of spoon and registers 170°F on an instant-read thermometer.

3. Transfer custard sauce to a bowl and chill, stirring occasionally, until cold, about 2 hours.

Spoon a puddle of the pudding into a glass or bowl, top with snow, and drizzle with more pudding.

menage a fava

Or, fava beans three ways:

1. Fresh, grilled.



2. Dried, pureed, with sauteed arugula and Doe's Leap feta.



3. Fresh, peeled, blanched, peeled, with balsamic onions, basil oil, lemon juice and zest, and more Doe's Leap feta.


4. With liver and a nice Chianti.



My Greek stepmother, either directly or otherwise, is in some way responsible for three of these four fava bean dishes. Hint: Hannibal Lecter is not my stepmother.

you don't even have to be obsessed with eggs to think this is the best lunch ever

Like most brilliant ideas, this one was not mine.

Melt a little bit of salted butter in a small frying pan over medium heat. Crack in a fresh egg (purchased not from the grocery store but from the person who owns the chickens). Season with s&p. Scatter a few balsamic onions (you're a fool if you don't have some of these in your fridge) around the edge of the pan, out of the way of the egg. When the egg is a little crispy at the edges but while the yolk is still quite soft, slip it from the pan and set it on a bed of arugula. Scatter the warm onions here and there. Break the egg yolk. Eat. Wonder why you didn't make two.


Don't underestimate how delicious this is: The warm egg and onions wilt the arugula, the yolk and butter from the pan are the dressing...

The culinary wizard who thought this up called today with an updated version: Drizzle with basil oil (seriously, people, just make some) before eating. I'll let you know how that turns out.

i have a personal shopper, now i need a personal chef

For the rest of you it may have been Memorial Day, but in my world it was bring-your-prepared-food-dinner-to-work day; please meet my mediocre burrito, supplemented by fresh avocado.


But I did come home tonight to a farmers-market bounty -- microbasil, radishes, a multitude of beautiful greens, rapini, basil plants -- courtesy of my stepmom, who shopped for me on Saturday while we were out of town. So tomorrow will be make-yourself-something-delicious-for-lunch-at-home day, which presents its own set of problems, namely the part where I actually have to make something for lunch.

cooking bender, part 1

In spite of the fact that I eat peanut-butter toast every day for breakfast and an egg on toast every day for lunch, I am occasionally seized by a deep desire to cook. When this feeling comes over me, I don't just want to cook, I want to cook like crazy. I want to cook every recipe I've read in the past six months. I want to cook a random assortment of unrelated foods and eat a bite of each. I want to go on a cooking binge, basically.

I called my stemom on my way to the grocery store to shop for a cooking binge tonight, innocently asked what she was planning for dinner, and then insinuated myself into her evening. "I'm thinking of making a chickpea salad," I told her when she mentioned she had some chickpeas in her fridge. I said I was also thinking of making a walnut crema to go with asparagus, she said she had walnuts. I told her I was on my way to her house, and then stopped on the way to get the ingredients for a lentil dish and dessert I'd been wanting to make, and some chicken sausage for the yachtsman.

The result was that I had expert help and wonderful company on my cooking binge, and the three of us had a dinner of delicious but completely random dishes. I'm going to post all four throughout the day, starting with the superstar of the evening, asparagus with walnut crema. MAKE THIS NOW. It's freakishly delicious.

The asparagus with walnut crema is also a soap opera star
and prefers to be photographed through a steamy lens.

Asparagus With Walnut Crema
Adapted A16: Food + Wine, via Orangette

This was the best dish of the night; the walnut crema is creamy and rich and delicious with the asparagus, though it would also make a nice dip or go well on pasta. We used manchego cheese instead of the Pecorino that is called for, and any kind of onion will do; we used part of a Vidalia.

For walnut crema:
Kosher salt
1 1/2 cups raw walnuts
1/2 cup + 1 tablespoon extra virgin olive oil
1 small red or sweet onion, diced

For asparagus:
a large bunch of fat asparagus
Extra virgin olive oil
Kosher salt
Hard-ish cheese, such as Pecorino Romano, Pecorino Tartufo, or manchego
Lemon wedges

To make the walnut crema, bring a pot of salted water to a boil. Add the walnuts, and boil for 10 minutes, or until tender in the middle. Drain the walnuts, reserving at least 1/4 cup of the cooking water. Set aside separately.

In a small skillet, warm 1 tablespoon olive oil over medium heat. Add the onion and a generous pinch of salt, and saute until golden brown and softened. Remove from the heat.

In the bowl of a food processor, combine the walnuts, 1/4 cup of the reserved cooking water, and the onion, and process until creamy. Add salt to taste. With the motor running, slowly add 1/2 cup olive oil, processing until blended. The crema should have the consistency of a creamy hummus. If it seems too thick, add a little more of the reserved cooking water. Taste again for seasoning, and set aside. (Crema can be stored, tightly covered, in the refrigerator for a few days. Bring to room temperature before serving.)

Snap the tough ends from the asparagust spears, drizzle them with olive oil and sprinkle with salt, then roast them on an aluminum-foil-lined baking sheet in a 500 degree oven for around eight minutes.

To serve, spoon the crema evenly across the bottom of a plate or platter, arrange the asparagus spears on top, and shave the cheese over the asapargus. Finish with a drizzle of olive oil and squeeze of lemon and serve immediately.

why i'm lucky

In the past two days I've received two different care packages that were mailed to me in Colorado and then sent on to me here.

1. When I noted here that I'd broken my favorite little cup, my stepmama sent me another pair so I could throw a tea party.

2. Like most crack dealers, mine "worships at the altar of...the Barefoot Contessa." And thank god for that. I received a second care package from my Tonto this afternoon, which included the Barefoot Contessa's Outrageous Brownies and Paula Deen's Brown Sugar Chewies; I've eaten an undisclosed number of each since then.

The Brown Sugar Chewies are almost like blondies but more chewy and caramel-y, and though this recipe does not appear to call for any cinnamon, I swear that was cinnamon in the batch I received. Delicious.

But what I cannot stop eating (literally CANNOT. STOP. EATING) are those brownies, which I believe are the best I've ever had. And I'm sort of a brownie aficionado (everyone should be good at at something; my expertise lies in the eating [not the making] of chocolate desserts). They're moist, super-chocolate-y, and appear to obey Suzette's three rules of brownie making.

1. Use good chocolate.
2. No nuts.
3. No fucking nuts!

If I were you, I would try to get adopted into my family and then go away to an art colony or summer camp or something and wait for the care packages to arrive. I was thinking of posting online adoption applications, which I would process for a small fee, but my family's love and generosity have inspired the same in me. I will waive the processing fee, though submitting a batch of those brownies with your application would not hurt your chances of becoming my new relative.

Outrageous Brownies
from the Barefoot Contessa

Ingredients
1 pound unsalted butter
1 pound plus 12 ounces semisweet chocolate chips, divided
6 ounces unsweetened chocolate
6 extra-large eggs
3 tablespoons instant coffee powder
2 tablespoons real vanilla extract
2 1/4 cups sugar
1 1/4 cups all-purpose flour, divided (1 cup for batter and 1/4 cup in the chips)
1 tablespoon baking powder
1 teaspoon kosher salt

Instructions

1.Preheat oven to 350 degrees F. Grease and flour a 13 by 18 by 1 1/2-inch sheet pan.

2. Melt together the butter, 1 pound chocolate chips, and unsweetened chocolate on top of a double boiler. Cool slightly. Stir together the eggs, instant coffee, vanilla and sugar. Stir in the warm chocolate mixture and cool to room temperature.

3. Stir together 1 cup of the flour, baking powder and salt. Add to cooled chocolate mixture. Toss the 12 ounces of chocolate chips with 1/4 cup flour to coat. Then add to the chocolate batter. Pour into prepared pan.

4. Bake for about 30 minutes, or until tester just comes out clean. Halfway through the baking, rap the pan against the oven shelf to allow air to escape from between the pan and the brownie dough. Do not over-bake! Cool thoroughly, refrigerate well and cut into squares.

christos anesti!

I am not at all religious, but I love Easter, thanks to that Greek stepmother of mine. And yesterday was not as much about one religion -- there were Christians, Jews, lots and lots of atheists, a Muslim and a witch up in the hizzouse -- as it was about love and food.

Or as the martini-drinkin' deacon so eloquently put it, "Easter is a time of letting parts of us die and new parts emerge. What we let go of, hopefully, is our fear and terror that feed oppression and hopelessness and what we replace it with is hope and the ability to imagine and work for a world of justice, inclusion, and hope."

The martini-drinkin' deacon


My losing red egg


Handsome gentlemen in Easter ties


Curried salmon with fresh mangos & purdy flowers


Spanakopita


The sin Jesus died for?

Those cupcakes are the best thing that ever happened to me, other than marrying Christ. I mean, Chris. The recipe is here; I'm considering kidnapping the mister who made them and forcing him to be my slave baker, which I'm sure would have Jesus rolling over in his grave. Oh, wait...

And the spanakopita speaks for itself. Seriously; if you make it, it will talk to you, sort of like the burning bush, except more tasty.

The recipe is my Greek stepmother's, of course, and as she put it, "Don't measure anything ... there is nothing exact about this recipe."

Spanakopetes

2 medium onions, finely chopped
¼ c. olive oil
2 packages frozen chopped spinach, thawed, squeezed dry with your hands.
1 pound feta cheese
1 small containers small-curd, whole-milk cottage cheese
6 eggs, beaten with a whisk
1 lb. phyllo dough
clarified butter
a few whacks of fresh parmesan

1. Saute onion in olive oil for about 5 minutes to sweat. Add spinach. Simmer with the onion over a low flame, stirring occasionally, until most of the remaining moisture is evaporated.

2. Crumble feta with your hands into small pieces. Add cottage cheese and parmesan and blend well. Add beaten eggs and mix well. Add spinach mixture and stir to blend.

3. Using a 9 x 13 or 11 x 14 pan (or something close), butter the bottom lightly, add one sheet of phyllo dough, butter lightly, and repeat until you have about 10 layers. Spoon in the filling, place another sheet of phyllo on top, butter lightly, and repeat until you have 10 more sheets. Using a sharp knife, gently cut through the top layers of phyllo lengthwise to whatever size you will want the final squares to be. Bake at 350 (preheated) for about 30 minutes or until brown. Recut lengthwise all the way to the bottom of the pan, and then make horizontal cuts.

You can add dill or mint, and definitely add pepper. Sometimes you will need a little salt, but the feta is usually salty enough. Look for phyllo that is longer and rectangular if you have a choice. If it's frozen when you buy it, leave the phyllo on the counter for a few hours, then refrigerate.

koulouria

Unless you are lucky enough to have a Greek stepmother (or mother or giagia), you've probably never had koulouria, in which case I feel very sorry for you.


Koulouria (pronounced kuh-LOO-dee-uh) are Greek cookies that my stepmother makes every year a week or so before Easter and delivers to her family (including her brothers, who live in the South and send her the White Lily flower required for baking them). Koulouria are almost indescribable, and extremely delicious, the kind of thing you look forward to all year: somewhere between a cookie and a tea biscuit, koulouria are a little sweet, scented with orange, and sometimes topped with sesame seeds.

If she really, really loves you, my stepmother will make koulouria in the shape of your first initial and instruct you that while you may eat the others now, you must save your initial koulouria for Easter morning (although at the rate Chris and I are eating them, I'm not sure there will be any left by then).


My stepmother will also tell you that koulouria are meant to be dipped in tea or coffee, but I disagree. While a biscotti needs to be dipped in hot liquid because it's hard as a rock, koulouria have a wonderful, slightly crumbly texture and can be eaten alone, with tea, for breakfast, for lunch, while wandering around the kitchen procrastinating doing work, for dessert, before bed, after writing a bl*g post...