FOOD ON THE FOOD

The Many Shades of Beet

Well, I had to show my face at my CSA eventually.  Sure, these posts got around.  To everybody.  Who cares?  Not me.

With no Farmer in sight as I arrived at the pickup, I braked hard, dumped the nearest crate of vegetables into my trunk (13 Hubbard squashes?  Fine.), did a few quick, high-pitched doughnuts to reverse direction, and was all set to get the hell out of there, when…doh! 

That’s okay.  I played it cool, as is my way, by, first and foremost, soiling myself.  And then throwing any remaining composure out the window while I waited for the conversation to turn to sexual harassment charges.  It never did.  Maybe that mix tape I sent in the mail hasn’t arrived, yet?

Anyway, here’s how I’ve been making a dent in my as-yet-uninterrupted vegetable supply.

Roasted Butternut Squash and Farro from 101 Cookbooks

Yet another use for just about any kind of winter squash you have lying around.  Between the squash and the farro, this dish is meaty enough to not need meat, which is really saying something coming from me.  Husband disagrees with this assessment, but guess whose blog this is?

Beet Salad with Horseradish and Fried Capers at The Wednesday Chef

I have to say, I never would have thought of pairing beets with horseradish, but the combination works well.  It’s damn ugly, though.  Like a study in psychedelic fuchsia.  Just keep your eyes on the fried capers and you’ll be just fine. 

Parsnip and Rosemary Arancini

You asked for more parsnip recipes, and, goddamnit, you’re going to get them.  Boy, did I like this risotto.  But do you know what I liked even more?  Deep-frying this risotto. 

Day-old risotto often congeals into a sticky mass in the refrigerator.  When that happens, you have a choice.  You can either remoisten with stock or water when you reheat it, or you can use the situation to your advantage.  Meaning form the risotto into little balls, dip them in flour, then egg, then bread crumbs seasoned with a little salt and pepper.  Fry them up in two inches of canola oil heated to 375°F until the outsides get all crispy.  Drain on paper towels and season with more salt.  Eat RIGHT AWAY.  If all goes well, the insides will be all molten and oozy.  Lordy.  Everything is better fried and you, my little parsnips, are no different.

Fudge Addict

When it comes to addictions (drugs, porn, farmers), you really have to be 100% disgusted with yourself before you can move on.  I know because that’s how it is for me every holiday season with fudge. 

I make two kinds: chocolate fudge and a sort of buttery, caramel-flavored fudge with pecans.  Then, I spend the remainder of the year trying to decide which I like better.  I can’t seem to break the horrible chain of events.  I make the fudge.  I eat the fudge.  I make fudge to give to someone else.  But, then I end up eating it.  So, I have to make more.  Which I then eat. 

So, that’s where I am at this point.  Thoroughly.  Completely.  Disgusted.

Send help.

 

Boston Cream Candy

You need a candy thermometer for this one.  Also, I hope you like stirring, because there’s going to be a lot of that.  A lot.  Furthermore, if you live at high altitudes, you’ll need to consult someone smarter than me to figure out how to adjust the temperature.  Or just hold off until you move to sea level.  It’s awesome down here.

4 Tbsp. unsalted butter, plus more for the pan
2/3 cup chopped pecan pieces
¾ tsp. baking soda
1 tsp. vanilla extract
2 cups sugar
Pinch salt
½ cup light corn syrup
¼ cup half-and-half
¼ cup heavy cream

Butter an 8x8-inch baking pan.  Line the pan with enough parchment paper to hang over the sides.  Butter the paper, too, which will help it stick to the pan.  Have your pecans, baking soda, and vanilla all measured out and ready in their own little bowls by the stove.  Also, have your oven mitts and candy thermometer within arm’s reach.

In a heavy-based 3 qt. saucepan, combine the butter, sugar, salt, corn syrup, half-and-half, and cream.  Stir with a wooden spoon over low heat until all of the sugar is dissolved.  It takes a while and you can’t really tell by looking at it.  The best thing to do is drag your finger along the spoon and rub the mixture between your fingers.  Yes, it’s hot.  Listen, no one said addiction was going to be easy.  If there’s any graininess at all, keep stirring until it’s gone.

Once the sugar is dissolved, turn the heat to medium and cook, stirring, until the mixture foams to a boil.  Add the baking soda.  Lower the heat and stir like mad.  Your oven mitts are right there if you need them.  The mixture will double in volume, and then gradually subside and take on a golden hue.  At this point, hook your candy thermometer onto the pot.  Stir over medium-low heat until the temperature just registers 240°F.  It takes a while and will hover at 239°F before jumping up, so pay close attention.  You must remove the pot from the heat before it passes 240°F.

Okay, so with the pot off the heat, you can take out the candy thermometer so it doesn’t keep getting in the way of the stirring.  Which you need to keep doing, fast.  What you have will look like loose caramel sauce.  Add the vanilla and stir carefully (it may spit).  Add the pecans and continue stirring quickly.  Now, you really have to pay attention, again.  Keep stirring.  I’m serious, if you stop, you’re screwed.  You’ll notice that it seems to be getting thicker and lighter.  Then, it will start to make this squeaky, sticky candy sound.  I don’t know how else to describe it.  You’ll know it when you hear it.  When the spoon starts making a path on the bottom of the pot, you’re almost there.  Yes, keep stirring.

The moment you notice that the mixture is starting to lose its gloss and turn kind of matte, start pouring into your buttered baking dish.  You’ll have about 15 seconds to debate this with yourself.  If you wait too long to pour, the mixture will get too dry or, worse, harden in the pot.  If you stop stirring too soon, it might not solidify at all, so then you’ll have the best caramel sauce ever, but no fudge.  So, go ahead, make a decision.  I’m sure I’ll hear all about it in the comment section.  Let cool until fudge-like (you can refrigerate it), and cut into squares.

Die and go, hopefully, to heaven (or whatever other plans you might have for the afterlife).

Source: Fine Cooking, from an article written by Kay Fahey.

Christmas Redux

I’m somewhat ashamed that I felt the need to post to my blog on both Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, itself.  Why, it’s almost as if I have no life whatsoever. 

We did actually have company both days: my in-laws (the lucky recipients of a butternut squash), as well as my brother-in-law and his Turkish wife.  Oh, and Mickey the Third who stopped by for a little Camembert to go with Slow Death.  I couldn’t make out his last wishes, but I’m pretty sure it wasn’t for his sooty gray corpse to be flung conspicuously onto the white, white snow for the viewing pleasure of all future guests from now until springtime. 

Oh, wait, that was Husband’s last wish.

Things went pretty smoothly after that.  I guess there was nowhere else to go but up.  I roasted two ducks on Christmas Day with a luscious sauce of prunes and juniper berries.  (If you’re grossed out by the very idea of prunes in anything, then you and I really need to talk.) 

When I told the Preschooler that I would be cooking ducks for Christmas, he asked in all of his trademark earnestness, “Do we have to go to the pond to get them?”  I explained that the ducks had already died, and that right now the store was taking off the feathers so they would be all ready to cook.  He seemed okay with this.  Of course, this is also the kid that once asked if we could scoop fish out of the river and bite right into them like the bears in his nature shows.  That’s my boy, I said.  As long as it’s not the Charles.

I kept things simple with the vegetables: oven-roasted potatoes, boiled and mashed turnip, and, of course, butternut squash.  And, in the spirit of ramming as much squash down everyone’s throats as possible, I made a Hubbard squash pie for dessert.  One with cognac, and cardamom, and a gingersnap crust. 

It could have used more brown sugar, but it was still really good.  I have enough Hubbard for 23 more pies, so I’ll get it right eventually.

Hope you all enjoyed yours!

Hostess with the Mostest

Nothing says “Would you care for some wine and cheese” like a half-dead mouse convulsing in the middle of your kitchen floor. 

Bet you didn’t think of that one, Martha Stewart.

I Wonder What This Could Be?

Any guesses?  (Hint: It’s not a bicycle.)

Happy Holidays!!

Cookbook Friday: Seven-Layer Cookies

What day is today?  Crap.  Let’s make this quick.

If these cookies look familiar to you, it’s because they’ve already been around the blogosphere here, here, and here.  They go by many names, including seven-layer cookies, Hello Dolly bars, and magic bars, but whatever you call them, they’re damn good. 

Nonni always made these for Christmas and, now, so do I.  Santa seems to enjoy them.  Plus, they’re the easiest cookies to make ever.  I’m not sure eating 17 of them all at once is a good idea, though.  I’ll let you know in about 20 minutes.

 

Seven-Layer Cookies (for an updated version of this recipe, go here)

Seven ingredients, seven layers.  Although, there’s been some debate about whether the condensed milk should count as a “layer.”  I think I need to get some other hobbies.

1 stick butter
1½ cups graham cracker crumbs
1 cup butterscotch chips
1 cup chocolate chips
1 cup walnuts
1 cup shredded coconut
14 oz. can sweetened condensed milk

Melt butter and mix with graham cracker crumbs.  Press into bottom of 8x8-inch pan. Sprinkle chocolate chips, butterscotch chips, and walnuts over crust.  Sprinkle coconut over the top.  Pour condensed milk evenly over everything.  Bake at 350°F for 25 minutes or until coconut gets brown and toasty in spots.  Cool slightly, then cut into small squares.

You can also use a 9x13-inch pan.  The cookies will be flatter but you’ll end up with more.  Nonni always made these dense, towering cookies, and so that’s what I like.

Dora [Barbaresi] Donroe
New Haven, Connecticut
1918 –

 

Next Recipe: Beanie Weenies

     (Previous Recipe: Raisin Cheesecake Cookies)

Very Important Vegetable Matters

I’m still trying to figure out why I joined Facebook.  After all, I already know who my real friends are, and I can still remember what they look like.  I have an address book, which is very out-of-date, and, therefore, gives me a good excuse for why I suck at keeping in touch with people.  Having easier access to my friends seems like a rather large tactical error.

But when Facebook asked if I wanted to know what vegetable I would be (if all of one’s human complexities could be reduced to a mere vegetable), I literally couldn’t wait to find out.  Being practically geriatric as compared to the average Facebook user, this was the equivalent of me sliding my walker slowly over to the rotary phone, hoping my Depends wouldn’t be around my ankles by the time I got the operator on the line.

The answer?  Parsnip.

I’m not sure what vegetable I expected to be.  An artichoke, maybe?  But, it certainly wasn’t a parsnip.  Now, I’m trying to figure out exactly what it is I have in common with a parsnip besides being very, very white.  The other thing, and this is where I really take offense, is that most people wouldn’t touch a parsnip with a 10-foot pole.  Are you trying to tell me something, Facebook?

Anyway, I actually do like parsnips.  Really, once you get to know them, they’re not so bad.  I like this soup because the parsnip flavor really comes through despite there being all kinds of other distracting stuff in there.  Like kielbasa!!!  I might even be so bold as to say you could leave out the kielbasa entirely.  But that might make it seem like I’ve been drinking again.  So, keep it in.  The parsnips won’t mind.  They don’t really like being the center of attention, anyway.

 

Hungarian Bean Soup

In case you were wondering what the Hungarians have done for you, lately.

1½ cup dried pinto beans, soaked overnight (local source: Baer’s Best at Russo’s)
4 Tbsp. olive oil
4 ribs celery, diced
2 medium onions, diced
2 parsnips, diced
2 carrots, diced
4 cloves garlic, minced
3 quarts vegetable stock (that’s 12 cups, to save you some math)
3 bay leaves
1 lb. kielbasa, cut in half lengthwise and thinly sliced
1 tsp. paprika

Drain and rinse beans, then put into a medium pot and cover with cold water by 2 inches.  Bring to a boil, reduce heat to medium, and simmer until just tender (maybe 45 minutes, but this can vary).  Drain and set aside.

Heat oil in a large pot over medium heat.  Add celery, onions, parsnips, carrots, and garlic.  Cook, stirring often, until vegetables begin to soften, about 10 minutes.  Add stock, beans, and bay leaves, and bring to a boil.  Reduce heat and simmer, stirring occasionally, until vegetables and beans are soft, about 45 minutes.

Add kielbasa, paprika, and salt (for the love of god, be generous) and pepper to taste.  Simmer 10 more minutes.  Discard bay leaves.

Source: Saveur.  This recipe evidently came from some cutting-edge San Francisco elementary school cafeteria that doesn’t serve Ring Dings as part of their balanced meals.  Flint and Zbinovsky seem to be the lunch ladies in question, from what I can gather.  Something about how they’re creating the food snobs of tomorrow.  Good.  It’s like learning a foreign language.  You have to start early.

Awards Recap

So. 

I guess Ruhlman’s going to be selling some books, then.

In case you missed it, the winners of the 2007 Food Blog Awards are up.  They didn’t make the vote tallies public, thank god, so I don’t have to be humiliated in front of all my friends.  Congratulations to all the great winners.  Even more congratulations to all the great losers who will not be receiving a prize package with a box of QuickSeals in it anytime soon.

But, seriously, this was fun.  You really can’t feel too badly when you get your ass kicked by French Laundry at Home.  I was laughing all the way to the (Carol to insert funny joke here).  Thanks to the judges and everyone else who either nominated this blog, put it on the short list, voted for it, or were supportive in any other way.  This includes all the nice e-mails from complete strangers, which always make me feel at once happy and a little suspicious.  But, mostly happy.  Just keep your hands where I can see them.

So, now I can stop trying to be funny and get back to this dour business of cooking.  Make sure you have some tissues handy.  You’re going to need them.

(By the way, am I the only one who can’t post comments on my blog?  If anyone else is having trouble…I don’t know, send me a telegram or something.)

In Which I Mistake My Son’s Birthday Party for a Bender

   

If you think I made this cake, than you’re drunker than I ended up being at the Preschooler’s 5th birthday party. 

Nope, this R2-D2 cake was all Husband’s doing.  In fact, he was responsible for planning the entire Star Wars-themed event.  I am in no way robot-oriented, and I think I’ve mentioned before how I feel about making homemade birthday cakes.  All I did was line the pans with parchment paper to increase his odds of success.  Came out pretty good, huh?

But, back to my misbehavior. 

First, let me start out by saying that I’m not a huge drinker.  I may talk a big game because I love my tequila, among other things, but I’m not generally indulging in large quantities of the stuff.  This is mostly because I’ve found that if Life sees you too happy, Life will spend the next week and a half getting you back.

This morning, the sky dumped a whole bunch more snow on top of us and threatened to break a small boy’s heart.  Global warming, you are a fickle friend, indeed.  If not for some neighbors with a sled and a few die-hard friends who were willing to risk their lives on the roads for a little cake and ice cream, it would have been quite a different sort of day.

Husband was busy frosting the cake in the hour before the party, so I went outside to shovel a path to our house, starting with our 4 million stairs.  At some point during this process, the snow changed to sleet, so I got to the bottom just in time to start from the top again with the heavy stuff.  Then, I frantically shoveled out what I thought would be parking spots for two cars.  Nope, just one and a half cars.  That rounds down to one car, in case you were wondering.  So, our friend Ed and I tried shoveling out a different snow bank for another half a car (rounding down to zero cars) and on and on.

I don’t usually start drinking at 11:30 in the morning, but, you know, it just seemed like a good time.  Turns out bourbon goes down smoother than expected when you’ve had nary a cool, refreshing drink of water after your exertions.  Here are the bits and pieces I remember from the party:

• The kids beating the crap out of each other with inflatable light sabers.  And me laughing.

• The kids enjoying their pizza with Marvin Gaye’s Sexual Healing playing noticeably in the background (the kids didn’t bat an eye; meanwhile, all the adults were giggling like sixth graders).

• As the cake was finally unveiled, me screaming at Husband, “Stop trying to show me up on my own blog,” and storming out in a jealous rage.  (Did that even happen?  Maybe I just dreamt that when I was passed out after the party.)

Anyway, it all kind of reminded me of that 30 Rock party scene (the one where Tina Fey’s character vomits on somebody and immediately stuffs another cupcake into her mouth).  Except that I was the only one who was drunk, and most of the other guests were under 5. 

I don’t know what the Preschooler thought about how this party compared to the others in his short life, but as far as I’m concerned, it was the best one EVER.

Cookbook Friday: Raisin Cheesecake Cookies

These are one of my faaaaavorite cookies (maybe even more than these).  I didn’t even know they existed until Nonni pulled them out of the fridge one day a few years ago and I was all “where have you been all my life?”  Better late than never.

Fabulous as these are, I can only imagine how much better they would be if you soaked the raisins in a little something.  I always forget to do this when I’m making them, which makes no sense, so I’m planting that seed in the hopes that you might take more initiative.  Maybe a little brandy or rum.  Even bourbon.  Watcha got? 

You can get the raisins good and drunk because there’s no way your kids are going to eat these.  They’re NOT cookies, declared the Preschooler.  The Toddler spit out his mouthful in solidarity.  Excellent.  More for me.  And if your husband should happen to hate raisins, well then, even better.

Raisin Cheesecake Cookies

If you’re anything like me, you will be tempted to eat these right out of the oven.  Don’t do it.  They’re better cold and you’ll regret that you ate most of them at less-than-optimal deliciousness. 

1/3 cup butter, softened
1/3 cup brown sugar
1 cup flour
½ cup raisins
½ cup walnuts
1 8-oz. package of cream cheese
½ cup granulated sugar
1 egg
2 Tbsp. milk
1 Tbsp. lemon juice
½ tsp. vanilla

Preheat oven to 350°F.  Have an 8”x8” pan at the ready.

Cream butter and brown sugar until fluffy.  Add flour, raisins, and nuts, and mix until crumbly.  Take half and press lightly in pan.  Bake for 15 minutes.

Meanwhile, mix the cream cheese and sugar.  Add the egg, milk, lemon juice, and vanilla, and blend until smooth.  Once the crust comes out of the oven, pour in filling, and sprinkle remaining crust on top.  Bake 25-30 minutes.  Let cool and then chill.

Dava [Barbaresi] Catone
New Haven, Connecticut - Hamden, Connecticut
1921 – 1998

Next Recipe: Seven-Layer Cookies

     (Previous Recipe: Chocolate Balls)

Pants

Husband went on an overnight business trip yesterday and, as he was packing, we had a little conversation:

Him: I’m just going to bring extra underwear, socks, and a shirt.

Me: What about pants?

Him: I’ll just wear the same jeans again.

Me: You should bring an extra pair of pants just in case.

Him: I hate to tell you, but I’m not a girl.

Me: But, what if something happens? 

Him: Like what.

Me: What if the waiter knocks your dinner onto your lap by accident?  Or on purpose.

Him: I’ll just do laundry at the hotel.

Me: Well, what if you pee yourself on your way to the client site?

Him: I’m not going to pee myself.

Me: How do you know?

Him: Because why would I pee myself?

Me: Nobody ever expects to pee themselves, and, yet, at this very moment, someone, somewhere, is surely wishing they had an extra pair of pants on hand.

Now, it’s snowing like a bastard out there and his flight back was cancelled.  In my mind’s eye, I envision the announcement causing an unexpected loosening of his bladder right there in the terminal.  I wonder if he listened to his wife? 

So, if you happen to see a pantsless man wandering around the Raleigh airport tonight, you’ll pass along a message, won’t you?

Am I Popular, Yet?

Only 49 more hours until the polls close.  Just saying. 

The problem with popularity contests, of course, is that it helps to be popular.  Especially when one or more of your esteemed competitors has 52 times more Bloglines subscribers than you do.

Crap, I’ve got to get me some new readers, STAT.  Existing readers, I may need you to take the rest of the week off from work to do a little stumping.  I know you hate your boss and, anyway, I’m sure you have some holiday shopping to do.  If you could pick up a few extra computers to give away while you’re at it, that would be great.  New recruits need not speak English.

The last time I was at the mercy of the popular vote was in high school.  I was running for Treasurer against an impossibly athletic, much taller girl who didn’t wear glasses.  I don’t know what possessed me other than I had just had my headgear removed and was feeling on top of the world.  My campaign slogan — One Stingy Mother… (with a graphic of a tightly clenched fistful of cash) — still applies today.  My posters were small.  I made no speech.  I didn’t choreograph an elaborate dance to Jamiroquai.  And, yet, there were nods of approval among all the other high school losers as I walked down the hall.  The tension was palpable.

I lost, of course (this ain’t the movies).  My science teacher, who ran the school elections and who was not unfamiliar with their dynamics, pulled me aside after class to tell me that he had never seen anything like it.  I had lost by two votes.  I never knew if he was just being nice.  Actually, now that I look back on it as a (mature?) adult, I’m pretty sure he was lying.  But, what a way to lose!  My head was held high all the way to the orthodontist to have my braces tightened for another year.  (Thanks, Mr. Wendall.  I owe you one.)

Anyway, I know the moral of this story is hard to find, buried as it is under layer upon layer of nuance, so let me spell it out for you.  For God’s sakes, people, make it close.

New Favorite Squash

Wow, there’s nothing like a humor award nomination to suck all the funny out of your writing.  Every sentence I type seems to take a sharp left turn into the darkest, most depressing subjects you can possibly imagine.  Ain’t that just life for you?

Well, while I’m already crying, let’s talk about squash.  We still have too much of it.  When that happens, it’s very important to play favorites.  At first, I thought my favorite squash was butternut.  As the only squash I ever ate, naturally, it was my favorite.  Then, I tried delicata.  That became my new favorite because peeling it is optional.  But, duh, you can roast any kind of squash in the oven and then eat the flesh right out of its skin to avoid peeling it altogether.  Which brings me to acorn squash. 

MY GOD.  The Farmer really outdid himself on the acorn squash, let me tell you.  I don’t know what the hell kind of songs he was singing to those plants (trees?), but I can only assume it was James Brown.  And I know I’m not supposed to talk about it, because all the wives/husbands of all the farmers across New England have taken out restraining orders against me, but I can’t help it.  Jail me if you must.

All I did was cut them in half, scoop out the seeds, turn them cup-side down in a baking dish with about a quarter-inch of water, and roast them in a 375°F oven for, what, 45 minutes?  I don’t even know.  Until they smelled good.  There was no magic involved.  I don’t know if it was the squash itself, or the cultured butter with sea salt we slathered in each half, or the wine we were drinking, or my low standards, but that was GOOD squash.  Real good.  I’m beginning to wonder whether or not I actually hate squash.  I guess only time and 45 more posts about it will tell. 

Next on my list is to figure out what to do with the gigantic Hubbard squash I have.  I’m pretty sure I lack the necessary tools to open it, but I’m anything if not scrappy.  A roll down the 26 or so icy, concrete stairs from our house to the car ought to do it.  Then, maybe I’ll back the car over it a few times for good measure.  But then what? 

I specifically picked the smallest Hubbard of the bunch, but you could still stuff a small pig inside it.  Hmmm…not a bad idea actually.  I wonder if you could improvise a Hawaiian pit-roasted pig by enclosing it within a Hubbard squash and sticking it in the oven for three days?  Another surely fabulous idea that just occurred to me would be to stuff it with the 16 other remaining squashes I have.  Squash-stuffed squash. 

That settles it, then.  Party at my house in 6-8 hours.

Did Somebody Say Prizes?

The Food Blog Awards are in full swing, which means it’s time for everybody to start sharpening their knives.  Let the vicious backstabbing begin.  Oh, yeah.

So, thanks to everyone who nominated my little Boston blog.  I was thrilled/ confused to find Food on the Food on the ballot for two categories: Best Food Blog – Humor and Best Food Blog – Family/Kids.  I’m a little worried that the judges didn’t do their homework on the Family/Kids one.  I do have kids, last I checked, but shouldn’t there be a lot less swearing going on in a family-friendly blog?  I mean, I’ll take it.  Just surprised is all.

As for the Humor category, that is freaking fantastic considering I’m just about the least funny person you’ve ever met in your life.  But that’s one of the great things about this here Internet.  You never have to know that. 

So, here we are.  Just you and me.  Each of us waiting for something funny to happen. 

Well, this is painful.  I got nothing.

And still nothing.

I’m going to go make myself a snack, okay?  Be back in a few.  In the meantime, do your civic duty, and be sure to check out the other nominees and categories while you’re at it.  You might find something you like.

Wanted: Sleep

We had another fun-filled night of no sleep with the Toddler who seems bent on returning to the Bad Old Days of 2006/Early 2007.  The ones with no sleep ‘til Brooklyn.

We adults painted skin and rags onto our corpse-like forms in broad, messy strokes, and slumped downstairs to the breakfast table.

Husband: Do you want a sip of my coffee?

Me: No.  You know I hate the way caffeine makes me feel.

Husband: You mean awake?

Exactly.

Cookbook Friday: Chocolate Balls

Well, that’ll teach me to post on three hours of sleep.  Nice.  That’s okay, it’s only the Internet.  It’s not forever.  Sooner or later, al-Qaeda will succeed in its plot to blow it up into much, much smaller nets.  Either that or the Iranians will slowly start unraveling its frayed edges with their many forks.

But, you came here for a belated cookie recipe, and a cookie recipe you shall receive. 

As you know, I had some problems with the recipe last weekend.  Fifty percent of those problems have been resolved and that’s good enough for me.  The chocolatiness has been dramatically improved.  However, the cookies are still not ball-shaped in the strict sense of the word. 

I tried refrigerating the dough.  That didn’t work.  I formed them into balls and then froze them.  That helped a little.  Not a lot.  They still ended up looking more like chocolate snickerdoodles, which isn’t the worst thing in the world.  As Inne of Vanille & Chocolat suggested, if you want something perfectly spherical, just sandwich two of them together with frosting. 

That’s damned right.

Chocolate Balls

Who really cares what they look like, anyway.  They’re good.

1½ stick oleo (or butter)
¾ cups brown sugar
2 oz. semi-sweet chocolate, melted
¼ cup milk
1 egg
1 tsp. vanilla
2½ cups flour
½ tsp. baking powder
¼ tsp. baking soda
½ tsp. salt

Icing
1 cup confectioner’s sugar
½ cup cocoa
5 Tbsp. milk

Preheat oven to 350°F.  Line cookie sheets with parchment paper.

In a large bowl, cream oleo (or butter) with brown sugar.  Add melted chocolate and mix well.  In a small bowl, mix together milk, egg, and vanilla.  Add to the sugar mixture and blend until it really just looks like you’re not making any progress at all.  It’ll look gross; it’s just temporary.

Add flour, baking powder, baking soda, and salt.  Stir until incorporated.  Form into small balls (smaller than a golf ball, bigger than a marble).  Bake 10-13 minutes, until tops start to crack.  Cool.

For icing, mix together confectioner’s sugar and cocoa.  Add milk as needed to get an icing that coats well without being gloppy.  You may need to thin it with more milk as you go along.  Dip tops of cookies into icing and let sit until firm.

Dava [Barbaresi] Catone
New Haven, Connecticut – Hamden, Connecticut
1921 - 1998

Next Recipe: Raisin Cheesecake Cookies

     (Previous Recipe: Anginettes)

A Conversation with My Therapist

Actually, Typepad is my therapist, but let’s just pretend Dr. Typepad has a comfy red couch upon which I’m reclining.  Stiffly, like spaghetti just into the pot.  Take it away, Doc:

Him: So, what brings you here today?

Me: I think I’m in love with my farmer. 

Him: Interesting.  You know, I’ve been looking for a good CSA…

Me: He’s mine, all mine.  Find your own farmer.  He’s sold out, anyway.  HA!

Him: Okay, well, let’s get right to it, then.  What’s your relationship with this farmer?

Me: He grows our vegetables and I give him money.  For the vegetables.  Nothing else.  And then I cook them.  Then, I eat them.  That’s really it.  There’s nothing dirty going on if that’s what you’re getting at.  I mean, there’s actual dirt on the vegetables.  From the fields.  You have to wash them off…

Him: All right, settle down.  So, you see this farmer, you see him, and then what happens?

Me: I get hungry.

Him: Uh-huh.  And what does your husband think about this?

Husband: I’m okay with it.  She's been cooking A LOT.

Me: (to Husband) Could you stop looking over my shoulder when I’m on the clock?

(Husband goes back to his own special brand of therapy: fighting heroic quests in an imaginary troll world.)

Me: (to the doctor) You were saying.

Him: Do you suppose it’s possible that you’re transferring your feelings toward the food you eat onto the person responsible for growing it? 

Me: I’m sorry, I don’t understand the question.

Him: Well, if you’ve never had a face attached to your food before, it’s understandable that you might make certain…associations.

Me: I can see your lips moving, but…

Him: Look at it this way: What is food to you?

Me: Ummmm…love.

Him: And how do you define love?

Me: Food?

Him: Do you see how you just came full circle there?

Me: You’re not making any goddamned sense.

Oh, well.  No breakthroughs today.  You can’t expect success overnight.

What the World Needs Now…

It’s a little bit awkward when you fall in love with your farmer.  Especially when you’re already married.  When you love food, it’s easy to get confused.  Like this:

Me: I love you.

Farmer: What?

Me: Your celery root, I mean.  I love your celery root.

Farmer: …Thanks.

Me: Your carrots aren’t half bad, either.  And your beets are sooooooo sweet.

Farmer: Uh-huh… (backing away)

Must be an occupational hazard.

Now that the New Oxford American Dictionary has made “locavore” its word of the year, expect more of this phenomenon.  Mark my words, by next summer, celebrity chefs will be out and celebrity farmers will be in.

The First Snowfall…

…marks Fall’s slow death.

Stupid Sunday

Sunday, you got here too fast.  Yes, I made the cookies as promised for Cookbook Friday, but YOU try making cookies while re-enacting that vomit scene from Stand by Me.  They did not turn out well (though they were blessedly leech-free).

At first glance, the cookies might seem passable.  The frosting wasn’t bad.  But the family recipe I was testing was called Chocolate Balls.  Which means they should, at the very least, be ball-shaped and, I imagine, chocolatey.  As you can see from the unfrosted cookies, they're barely even brown.  I swear I put chocolate in there.

Anyway, the confusion had to do with how much exactly is two squares worth of chocolate when no other clues (like weight) are provided.  I made a guess.  I guessed wrong.  I think I took the square root instead.

Now I have these vanilla mounds with chocolate frosting and they taste pretty good but they aren’t going to cut it.  I have to test the recipe again.  I’m sorry.  I know this isn’t going to help my case in the forthcoming elections.  However, just remember who provided you with cookie recipes every other Friday for at least a month or two.  So did everyone else, you say?  Well, that’s just grand.