which do you want first?

The bad news: The honey crisp apples are all gone, and I haven't hoarded a single one.

The good news: Satsuma mandarins are here!

The bad news: Satsuma mandarins are only here for, like, a month.

The good news: Bacon. In a scone. Who knew?

The bad news: I was supposed to be saving that bacon scone for the yachtsman.

The good news: The yachtsman's love for me is unconditional.

The bad news: I'm pretty sure he would have felt the same way about the bacon scone.

i never thought i'd be on a boat

The yachtsman. On an actual yacht.


Well, on a boat, anyway. A boat, wonderful company, a refreshing swim, delicious food, and a picture-perfect sunset—the only thing missing was T-Pain. [Thanks, J&D, for including us!]

the mark bittman minimalist club: no-knead bread for monkeys

According to the data I have been collecting here at the high-tech, state-of-the-art GFD lab, one out of three meals I consume consists of leftovers, usually reheated on my Bunsen burner. I'm currently surviving on leftovers from a dinner we made for friends on Saturday night, so for the rest of the week I'm going to share with you some of the menu items from Saturday night's dinner, as well as their later incarnations (which are sometimes identical).


Let's start with the bread, a collaboration (you could call it a threesome) among my husband, the yachtsman; my boyfriend, Mark Bittman; and some other guy. I've never actually made this bread, but the yachtsman tells me it's so easy, a monkey could bake it, which is good news for all of us who own monkeys. It does require 24 hours of lead time, but other than that, effort is minimal, and the results amazing (soft, chewy interior, and a golden-brown crust that shatters). Making this bread is like inviting a supermodel to your dinner party; the bread gets all the attention. Slather a warm slice with salty butter and it's like slathering the supermodel at your dinner party with butter, except not all pervy like you're thinking. It's just really good, really good-lookin' bread, and this is the best butter ever.

No-Knead Bread
Adapted by the yachtsman from the New York Times

3 cups all-purpose, more for dusting
¼ teaspoon instant yeast
1½ teaspoons salt

1. In a large bowl combine flour, yeast and salt. Add 1 5/8 cups water, and stir until blended; dough will be shaggy and sticky. Cover bowl with plastic wrap. Let dough rest at least 12 hours, preferably about 18 [the yachtsman sez the longer the better], at warm room temperature, about 70 degrees.

2. Dough is ready when its surface is dotted with bubbles. Lightly flour a work surface and place dough on it; sprinkle it and your fingers with a little more flour and fold the dough over on itself once or twice, then gently shape it into a ball. [The yachtsman puts his ball into a proofing basket but says this is not necessary.] Generously coat a cotton towel (not terry cloth) with flour; put dough seam side down on towel and dust with more flour. Cover with another cotton towel and let rise for about 2 hours. When it is ready, dough will be more than double in size and will not readily spring back when poked with a finger.

3. At least a half-hour before dough is ready, heat oven to 450 degrees. Put a 6- to 8-quart heavy covered pot (cast iron, enamel, Pyrex or ceramic) in oven as it heats. When dough is ready, carefully remove pot from oven. Slide your hand under towel and turn dough over into pot, seam side up; it may look like a mess, but that is OK. Shake pan once or twice if dough is unevenly distributed; it will straighten out as it bakes. Cover with lid and bake 30 minutes, then remove lid and bake another 15 to 30 minutes, until loaf is beautifully browned. Cool on a rack.

The morning after he baked it, the yachtsman used his supermodel bread to make his haggish wife a griddled egg sandwich. Griddled, bitches. Happy leftovers to me.

holiday dessert wishlist item #1: cakes that have appeared on the cover of the december issue of bon appétit

Like most agnostic half-Jews, the yachtsman loves Christmas. Like most recovering Catholics whose parents are divorced, I don't. But being married to a man who takes such great pleasure out of listening to Handel's Messiah and shopping for his nieces and opening presents on Christmas morning (and one year getting a little drunk on Christmas Eve, putting a Band-Aid on his face, and insisting that I call him Nelly) has brought me around from relying on Valium to make it through the day to almost sort of liking it. And it certainly doesn't hurt that that husband of mine can bake.

So weeks ago I told the yachtsman that I'm pretty sure all Jesus wants for His birthday is this cake:

Doesn't this look amazing? It's called professional photography; please don't grow accustomed to it.

That beauty is the Peppermint Meringue Cake With Chocolate Buttercream that was pictured on the cover of December's Bon Appétit. Sadly, however, it's not getting very good reviews on epicurious.com, which will never do. The cake is for the Lord, for God's sake, and He deserves a dessert that received more than a three-fork rating.

Now I'm hoping to convince the yachtsman to once again attempt this glorious cathedral of chocolate, the Devil's Food Cake With Peppermint Frosting that was on the cover of last year's December issue of Bon Appétit.

Also taken by someone who knows what they're doing and owns a real camera.

The yachtsman tried to make this cake for Thanksgiving in 2008, only to have it collapse under its own weight (something I may be doing soon, as well). We ate it anyway, of course, and it was delicious: Chocolatey and minty with marshmallowy icing and what was essentially whipped cream between the layers. Perfect for the Lord Jesus Christ Our Savior who art in heaven, hallowed be His name, right? And because the only Jesus I would ever believe in is kind and forgiving and loves and accepts all of his children no matter what (this is sadly not the same Jesus I was introduced to at the Cathedral of Immaculate Conception), He would not care at all if His cake collapsed or that it was made by an agnostic half-Jew. He would not even care if I ate most of it, because as it says in the bible, It is better to giveth than to receiveth, to which I say, Thank you, Jesus.

the heat is on

I'm not singing a Glenn Frye song or trying to tell you that I'm wanted by the five-oh: The heat is literally on. For the first time this year. Woe (and cold) is me.

Also in the Woe Is Me category is the soup I made Sunday night.

The yachtsman just walked by, saw this photo, and asked, in a French accent, "Is that vomit?"

This photo really doesn't do it justice: What's in that bowl looks like it was dredged from the bottom of a swamp. Which is too bad, because it's quite tasty. So I'm going to fool around with the recipe and see if I can make the soup a little more aesthetically pleasing, and if I succeed I will post it here. In the meantime, I'm eating pond scum every day for lunch this week.

In the Puppies! category, I present to you Mr. President Peanut Jimmy Carter Poodle Chester Arthur POTUS Leo Rabbit Eugene Manny Luke Skywalker Manwhore Miller O'Neill.

The yachtsman just walked by, saw this photo, and asked, "Are you doing another post about the puppy? Maybe you should do a post about me."

The CEO is On the Road

GFD Readers:

I am sorry to announce that GFD Bl*g CEO Katherine M. O'Neill is away on business. Well, she is actually sitting at the table next to me, but swamped with freelance work (business) and has asked me, yes me, the Yachtsman, to fill in. Don't expect witty writing, or for that matter, correct grammar.

Instead, you get a Yachtsman Recommends. Submitted for GFD Bl*g readers' approval, Whistle Tips.

The first GFD reader to submit written and notarized proof of whistle-tip installation on their vehicle will receive a Yachtsman-baked Blueberry Buckle. The shit is good.

Whistles go whoo whoo,

The Yachtsman

blueberry buckle for breakfast

I don't know a lot about making it -- the man of the house does most of the baking around here. As well as the chopping of wood and sowing of fields and shooting of bears.

But I can tell you this about eating it: Blueberry buckle is good.

The man of the house goes a little Laura Ingalls Wilder with this one and uses a cast iron skillet instead of the recommended cake pan. It's pretty quaint times when he pulls that skillet of buckle from the oven, a dusting of flour and blueberry stains across the calico apron he made with scraps left over from fabric I bought at Olsen's Mercantile to make a new dress. You know, to wear when I teach Sunday school.


Blueberry Buckle
from Cook's Illustrated

Streusel
1/2 cup unbleached all-purpose flour
1/2 cup packed light brown sugar
2 tablespoons granulated sugar
1/4 teaspoon ground cinnamon
Pinch table salt
4 tablespoons unsalted butter (1/2 stick), cut into 8 pieces, softened but still cool

Cake
1 1/2 cups unbleached all-purpose flour
1 1/2 teaspoons baking powder
10 tablespoons unsalted butter (1 1/4 stick), softened but still cool
2/3 cup granulated sugar
1/2 teaspoon table salt
1/2 teaspoon grated lemon zest
1 1/2 teaspoons vanilla extract
2 large eggs, room temperature
4 cups fresh blueberries (about 20 ounces), picked over

1. For the streusel: In standing mixer fitted with flat beater, combine flour, sugars, cinnamon, and salt on low speed until well combined and no large brown sugar lumps remain, about 45 seconds. Add butter and mix on low until mixture resembles wet sand and no large butter pieces remain, about 2 1/2 minutes. Transfer streusel to small bowl and set aside.

2. For the cake: Adjust oven rack to lower-middle position; heat oven to 350 degrees. Spray 9-inch round cake pan with 2-inch sides with nonstick cooking spray, line bottom with parchment or waxed paper round, and spray round; dust pan with flour and knock out excess. [The yachtsman rather quaintly uses a cast iron skillet, no parchment.]

3. Whisk flour and baking powder in small bowl to combine; set aside. In standing mixer fitted with flat beater, cream butter, sugar, salt, and lemon zest at medium-high speed until light and fluffy, about 3 minutes; using rubber spatula, scrape down bowl. Beat in vanilla until combined, about 30 seconds. With mixer running at medium speed, add eggs one at a time; beat until partially incorporated, then scrape down bowl and continue to beat until fully incorporated (mixture will appear broken). With mixer running on low speed, gradually add flour mixture; beat until flour is almost fully incorporated, about 20 seconds. Disengage bowl from mixer; stir batter with rubber spatula, scraping bottom and sides of bowl, until no flour pockets remain and batter is homogenous; batter will be very heavy and thick. Using rubber spatula, gently fold in blueberries until evenly distributed.

4. Transfer batter to prepared pan; with rubber spatula, using a pushing motion, spread batter evenly to pan edges and smooth surface. Squeeze handful of streusel in hand to form large cohesive clump; break up clump with fingers and sprinkle streusel evenly over batter. Repeat with remaining streusel. Bake until deep golden brown and toothpick or wooden skewer inserted into center of cake comes out clean, about 55 minutes. Cool on wire rack 15 to 20 minutes (cake will fall slightly as it cools).

5. [None of this is necessary if you use the cast iron pan, except the cool and cut parts.] Run paring knife around sides of cake to loosen. Place upside-down plate (do not use plate or platter on which you plan to serve the cake) on top of cake pan; invert cake to remove from pan, lift off cake pan, then peel off and discard parchment. Re-invert cake onto serving platter. Cool until just warm or to room temperature, at least 1 hour. Cut into wedges and serve.

[martha stewart] living high on the hog

If I were Martha Stewart, which I basically am, I would have a section of this bl*g called "Good Things."

Good Things
The littlest sister crocheted me a scarf, which I predict will be an integral element of my Couch Jedi outfit this winter.



New vegetable brush: I no longer have to use my fingernails to scrape the dirt from carrots.



Pork to the motherf*cking chop.

That's right, bitches! We are Americans in this house. We eat pork chops for dinner. Meat and motherf*cking potatoes. We listen to Wayne Brooks or whoever and hunt moose on the weekends and voted for John motherf*ckin' McCain. There was corn. From the motherf*ckin' Heartland. Of America.

Am I reminding you of Martha motherf*ckin' Stewart right now?

I thought so.

Here's the story, dear readers. I ran into my friend Jonathan a couple of weeks ago at the farmers market, and he recommended pork chops from Boucher Family Farm, where, according to Jonathan, "their pigs live happy piggy lives until they practically beg to be put down and butchered so we can enjoy their wonderful porkiness." Which is how I like my pork: happy. To die.

This past Saturday, I followed Jonathan's suggestion. Because I've never cooked pork (or, with the exception of a chicken-roasting debacle a few years ago when I was still a leftie vegetarian Democrat, meat) before, I asked the nice lady at Boucher if she had any pork-cooking suggestions. She recommended Shake-n-Bake. Which, frankly, is a little more Sarah Palin than Martha Stewart, so I e-mailed Jonathan for advice. He had numerous brilliant ideas. I decided on "heat a sturdy pan, film with olive oil, sear both sides of the chops for about 4 minutes total, reduce heat, add about a 1/2 cup of liquid (wine, sherry, chicken or beef broth), cover and cook for 10 - 15 minutes turning the chops once or twice, add additional seasonings (lemon or vinegar, parsley or garlic or shallot, pepper and salt, apples or dijon mustard, a touch of worcestershire sauce -- you get the picture). You can also remove the chops and then reduce the sauce if you want it thicker."

And then I decided I had too much work to do any cooking, so I put my Texas-born husband on the case and proofread while he made me some pork chops. And roasted potatoes. And fresh corn. And motherf*ckin' blueberry buckle for dessert.

Worth clearing the motherf*ckin' table for.

Pork, corn, potatoes, blueberries, butter, flour, and tapwater: All from Vermont.

my old man

We've headed back to the Adirondacks to celebrate the yachtsman's 61st birthday. There will be champagne wishes and caviar dreams, jaunty hats, naked women jumping from cakes, circus peanuts, Lawrence Welk impersonators, limousines, ribbiting frogs, cigars, bubble machines ... the usual.

Happy weekend to you, too.

c. 1974

dumpster wars

When I sat down this evening to whip up a little bl*g post, I realized I had nothing. So I turned to the yachtsman and asked what I should write about. His answer?

"Seagull wars, and my jihad, and why I’m on the righteous path."

But of course.

The yachtsman has opened a new front in the dumpster wars: YouTube. But I refuse to post a link to his seven-minute video of seagulls recorded at 5:30 in the morning, because he is now targeting not only the crappy Brazilian restaurant in our lobby, but also the delicious Italian restaurant in our basement, and I want to be able to continue to eat at the latter without finding saliva in my gnocchi.

And really, the yachtsman's tongue is mightier than the sword, the pen, and the online video combined, so I offer you a few of his recent war-room comments:

"What do you think of me setting up a 24/7 surveillance for that back alley? I’m only half being not serious."

"Did you hear the garbage trucks at 3:15 this morning? 3:15. I’m going to booby trap the whole area down there. It’s going to be like Da Nang. I’m going to light up the sky."

YACHTSMAN: Victory is mine.
ME: It is?
YACHTSMAN: Victory is in the eye of the beholder.

as far as i know, there have not yet been any casualties

The Yachtman asked that I post this picture and call the post "dumpster wars." I'm not sure who, exactly, is at war, though I know it involves the dumpster in the parking lot behind our building, the crappy Brazilian restaurant in our lobby, a flock of seagulls (actual birds, not the band), and the Yachtsman.

The Yachtsman: "Write, 'Today is D-Day in the dumpster wars.'"
Me: "What does that mean?"
The Yachtsman: "They'll know what it means."
Me: "Who will know what it means?"
The Yachtsman: [IGNORES ME.]
Me: "Are you going to storm the shores of the parking lot?"
The Yachtsman: "Just write it."

cooking bender, part 5 (the yachtsman recommends)

When we got home from our cooking-bender meal last night, the yachtsman suggested that GFD should have a subsection called "The Yachtsman Recommends." When I asked what he would like to recommend, he mentioned the jalapeno chicken sausage that was his contribution to dinner. "And I guess I would half recommend that lentil thing you made," he added, which I believe is the highest compliment the yachtsman can pay to a dish that contains legumes.

the yachtsman recommends

awkwardfamilyphotos.com

i may not be working, but i'm not drinking, either

What I should be doing? Proofreading. What I am doing? Holding a little photo shoot with the Yachtsman's sake. It may taste like shizz, but this rice wine wears a handsome little hat.

i was only away for three weeks

Chris has been growing out his hair, which makes him resemble, depending on who you ask, a yachtsman (in the opinion of some guy at the grocery store), an unkempt Donny Osmond (according to me), or Hugh Grant (so says his mom). He claims this is the look he's going for; I'm nervous.


While he waited for his Devil Dog Cake to cool yesterday, Donny "the Yachtsman" Osmond watched every available YouTube video of the Most Interesting Man in the World and asked that I let you in on the secret the new Dos Equis ad campaign. If you do not find this funny, do not tell the Yachtsman or you will never be invited aboard his boat (if that is a euphemism, I have no idea what it's for).