FOOD ON THE FOOD

Vacation Bacon

TeenNiece hopped a flight home earlier this week. As her parting gift, she's sharing her recipe for candied bacon. Yes, you read that right: candied bacon. As if bacon weren't delicious enough on its own, TeenNiece wove slices of the cured pork into a meaty mat, sprinkled the whole thing with brown sugar, and baked it until crispy and caramelized. Then—and this is the best part—you break off pieces and dip them in Nutella. Have you had a heart attack, yet?

Listen, I never said I was going to be virtuous on vacation. I told you it was going to be ice cream morning, noon, and night. I just failed to mention the bacon part. My bad. The good news is that the kids fattened up quite nicely last week. As for the adults? Well, let's not talk about the adults!

Candied Bacon

You will be a ruined woman (or man) after eating this. Best to restrict it to vacation only.

1 pound bacon
1/4-1/3 cup light brown sugar
Nutella

Preheat oven to 350°F. On a rimmed, foil-lined baking sheet, weave bacon together like so:

Sprinkle the bacon with about 1 tablespoon of brown sugar. Bake 5 to 7 minutes. Remove it from the oven, sprinkle with another tablespoon of brown sugar, and bake 5 to 7 minutes more. Continue sprinkling and baking until the bacon turns golden-brown and crispy, and the sugar caramelizes, 20 to 30 minutes. Cooking time depends on the thickness of the bacon. Oscar Meyer will cook quickly. Thicker farm bacon will need more time and perhaps longer spacings between sugar sprinklings, say 7 to 10 minutes. The sugar may burn on the foil around the bacon—that's no big deal—but you don't want the actual bacon to burn.

Remove the bacon from the oven, and use a spatula to transfer it to a paper towel-lined plate to drain. Let cool 5 minutes. Seriously, let it cool—hot sugar burns! Then, break off pieces and dip them in Nutella. Swoon!

Snow Day 3: Maple Sugar on Snow

By the third snow day, I was pretty ready to be done with snow.  We had already spent the past two days doing every possible no-cost snow activity I could think of: shoveling, sledding, snowball fights, snow-fort construction, snow-fort demolition, and my personal favorite: cramming as much snow as possible up the sleeves of our coats and then crying about it. 

Still, we had all that beautiful snow, so I decided to try something new: making maple taffy (also known as maple sugar on snow).  Have you heard of it?  Basically, it's a soft candy made by heating up maple syrup to a certain point and then rapidly cooling it down.  That's where the snow comes in: you pour the hot syrup directly onto the snow.  Then, once cool, you take a popsicle stick and roll the taffy onto the end like a lollipop.  The cold temperature of the snow cools the taffy into a soft, sticky mass.  The snow also tends to stick to the taffy, making it as icy cold as it is sweet. 

A half cup of maple syrup makes a snack for 4 to 6.  Scope out an area of snow that is clean and not yellow ahead of time.  You want the snow at least two inches deep as the top layer will melt and sink when the hot syrup comes in contact with it.  You need a candy thermometer, a small pot, and a willingness to babysit the pot as it boils to make sure that the syrup doesn't bubble up and over the sides of the pot.  It really wants to.  Just lower the heat as necessary.  When the syrup reaches a temperature range of 234° to 238°F (recipes vary), turn off the heat and immediately bring the pot and your popsicle sticks outside.  Pour the syrup onto the snow in lines about 6 inches long.  Adhere a popsicle stick to one end of the amber ribbon and roll it onto itself.  Rest it in the snow while you complete the others.  Eat immediately (off its icy bed, the taffy tends to fall apart).  Once you're done, you can use the stick to dig any residual maple syrup out of the snow and eat it like a snow cone.  For me, this was half the fun. 

So there it is: possibly the only exception to the "Don't Eat Yellow Snow" rule!

 

Local Ingredient Sources:

Maple syrup: Williams Farm Sugarhouse, Old Deerfield, MA

Lemony Asparagus Hummus

 Have you gotten your hands on any local asparagus, yet?  I did.  At Verrill Farm.  Where else have you guys found it? 

Regardless of where your asparagus came from, have I got a treat for you.  I mean, besides roasting the spears with little more than olive oil and some salt and pepper.  Lemony asparagus hummus.  I can’t stop eating this stuff.  Luckily, I don’t have to because it’s just asparagus and chickpeas and a few other little things that aren’t bad for you at all. 

Just try and stop me.  I dare you.

 

Lemony Asparagus Hummus

Serve with simple olive-oil-brushed, salt-and-peppered pita chips.  Or try the dukkah-spiced pita chips that accompanied this recipe in Yankee Magazine.

2 cups fresh asparagus, cut into 1-inch pieces
1 15-oz. can chickpeas, drained and rinsed well
2 medium cloves garlic
2 Tbsp. tahini, sesame paste
Zest of 1 lemon
Juice of same lemon
1/3 cup extra-virgin olive oil

Bring a large pot of water to a boil.  Meanwhile, fill a large bowl with ice water and set aside.  To the boiling water, add a generous pinch of salt and the asparagus.  Return water to a boil and cook about 4 minutes, until spears are tender and bright green.  Drain asparagus and submerge in the ice bath for a minute or two to stop the cooking.  Drain and set aside.

In a food processor, puree the chickpeas, garlic, tahini, lemon zest, lemon juice, and asparagus.  With the machine running, slowly pour in olive oil and process until combined.  Season with salt and pepper.  Serve with pita (bread or chips) and vegetables.

Source: Adapted from Yankee Magazine in an article by Annie Copps. 

Dulcet Caramel, You Will Be Mine

Recently, a jar of Argentine dulce de leche caught my eye at Russo’s.  I didn’t even hesitate as I placed it lovingly in my basket.  After all, this is the time of year when I eat whatever the hell I want, from wherever I want, environment be damned.  It’s been a long winter and the summer is still achingly out of reach.  So, I figured, I could either fly the whole family down to Argentina for dessert or fly the dulce de leche up to me.  (It was a bitch of a flight, but I got the goods.)

This dulce de leche by La Salamandra, essentially caramelized whole milk, is by far the best I’ve ever had, with deep caramel tones and a full, rich mouthfeel.  Now the canned stuff will forever suck by comparison.  I spread it on crêpes for a mid-afternoon snack, then melted and poured it over ice cream for a mid-evening snack.  A banoffee pie even crossed my mind for a midnight snack, except by then I had already eaten the rest of it right out of the jar.  God, this stuff is amazing.

So, here’s a question.  Has anyone ever boiled cans of condensed milk for hours to make dulce de leche?  And did they explode?  Back in my twenties, I did this quite a few times without considering the dangers of cans under pressure.  Then I heard all of these second-hand horror stories about explosions and caramel-coated kitchens and I haven’t done it since.  Just curious what your experience has been.  David Lebovitz says you can make it in the oven without the can, which seems less controversial/exciting.  But I may never go back to cans again now that it seems like you can make better stuff with regular milk (do I hear local?), sugar, and baking soda in a pot.  Or at least the Argentines can.  As always, I will report back.  In the meantime, here’s a snack.

Crêpes with Dulce de Leche

My crappy 7-inch non-stick T-Fal from college makes awesome crêpes.  Don’t tell anyone.

2 eggs
1/3 cup flour
Pinch of salt
1 cup milk
1 Tbsp. butter
Dulce de leche

Whisk together eggs, flour, and salt in a medium bowl.  Slowly add the milk, whisking constantly, until smooth.  Strain batter into another bowl, cover, and refrigerate for 30 minutes.  The batter will seem like it's way too thin, but it's not.

Heat a 7-inch non-stick pan over medium heat until hot.  Grease pan with a little butter, then pour in ¼ cup of batter, swirling to coat the bottom of the pan evenly.  Cook 1-2 minutes, until the edges start to brown and the underside is cooked and developing toasty spots.  Flip crêpe and cook 1 minute more.  The first one always comes out like crap.  Persevere.

Transfer crêpe to plate and spread dulce de leche on half of it.  This is easier to do if the dulce de leche is room temperature.  If it’s coming from the fridge, you can nuke it slightly to loosen it up, but be careful or you’ll end up with a puddle that refuses to be wrangled.  Fold crêpe in half, then in half again, and devour.  Repeat.  Makes about 6.  (Also good with Nutella or whatever other fillings you might concoct.)

Source: Adapted from Saveur, from an article by Melissa Hamilton (I think).

Constructing a Temple of Churros

Did you know that Churros y Chocolate was the name of my first Spanish textbook?  Are you surprised I remembered that?  Of course you’re not.  The prospect of deep-fried dough dipped in chocolate was a surefire way to get me interested in a foreign tongue if there ever was one.  Well done, textbook publishers.  You know your audience.

Thinking that, as a parent all these years later, I knew my audience just as well, I decided to make churros and hot chocolate for the kids on their snow day last week.  Just because I was pissed off that school got cancelled didn’t mean everyone else had to suffer.  (Although, if I have to pay for another day of Preschool that gets snowed out, Mother Nature and I will come to blows.  There are four days during the week with no Preschool.  Why can’t it snow then?) 

So, I proceeded to get the chocolate melting and the lard a-bubblin’.  I wasn’t worried.  I mean, what’s not to like?  Fried dough.  Chocolate.  Well, the children didn’t offer up any specifics, but the Kindergartener took one bite of his churro, calmly returned it to the tangled mass of remaining churros, and silently withdrew back into his imaginary Pokemon world.  The 3YO, in typical form, took his and smashed it on the floor in disgust.  If you ever want to push my buttons, Internet, this is a good way to start.  Disrespect something I just lovingly deep-fried for you and then walk away without a backwards glance.  That right there is a recipe for rage.  (Later on, when the neighbors came over, the 3YO ate about 20 churros once he saw his best friend/arch-nemesis eating some.  Chalk one up for peer pressure.)

We adults enjoyed the remaining 150 churros with rich, steaming cups of Taza Chocolate with a hint of cinnamon.  If you don’t know about this Somerville chocolate factory, you must educate yourself.  Quick, before the winter is up.  Start by converting their stone-ground disks of pure heaven into beverage form, and then you will understand why the Mayans built temples for chocolate.  Or whatever it was they built temples for.  Quiet, snowless days, perhaps?

Churros

This makes a giant plate full of them.  Invite snowbound neighbors over to help you eat them all because they truly suck the next day. 

10 Tbsp. butter
1 cup water
2/3 cup flour
3 eggs, plus 1 egg yolk
Grated rind of 1 orange
Lard (or oil) for frying
Confectioner’s sugar and cinnamon for dusting
Hot chocolate for dunking

Add butter and water to a medium saucepan, and heat until butter melts.  Bring to a rolling boil.  Meanwhile, sift the flour at least twice and, as soon as the water boils, add it to the pot.  Remove pot from heat and beat until the mixture forms a ball and leaves the sides of the pan clean.  Let it cool about 10 minutes before you add the eggs so they don’t scramble.  Then add the eggs, yolk, and orange rind.

Heat the lard or oil in a medium, heavy-bottomed saucepan to a temperature between 350°-375°F (or until a cube of bread browns in 30 seconds).  Adjust the flame as needed to keep the temperature more or less in that range.  Spoon the mixture into a pastry bag fitted with a medium or large star nozzle.  Pipe strands of dough into the hot oil, pressing the tip against the side of the pan to pinch off the dough.  Alternatively, if you can’t be bothered with a pastry bag, I don’t see why you couldn’t just spoon in the dough, beignet-style.  Fry until golden brown on each side, flipping once.  Remove with slotted spoon and drain on paper towels. 

Mix together cinnamon and sugar, and sift gently over churros.  Serve warm with hot chocolate, dunking liberally.

Source: Adapted from Bite-Sized Spain by Sharyn Conlan and Anne Crane

Remember the UPS Man

Have you ever made such a spectacular fool out of yourself that the more you try to explain, the worse it gets? 

Whenever this occurs (fairly frequently, I might add), it reminds me of the time I got my wisdom teeth pulled.  I was in my studio apartment in godforsaken Malden waiting for the Novocain to wear off when the UPS guy arrived.  He was cute and I was on pain meds, so I set about answering his delivery-related questions with much enthusiasm, forgetting, of course, that my mouth wasn’t working.  And, well, there’s no other way to put it…I sounded like I was retarded.  A retarded adult living alone with her two cats in a one-room, rent-controlled apartment in the middle of nowhere.  The more I thought about it, the more plausible it seemed.  And the more I gestured wildly about dental procedures and fumbled around for a pen and paper to clarify, the more he backed himself down the hallway, and the more I tried to sponge off the drool and reassure him that no, no, I’m actually not retarded, while sounding completely, 100% retarded. 

Someday, they’ll find an antidote for bruised pride—something better than time, which takes too long.  Until then, take my advice and remember the UPS man.  Shut your trap, and don’t open it again until you're alone with a plate of turnovers sitting in front of you.  Cranberry cardamom or fig with blue cheese and walnut, for example.  You’ll thank me later.

Cranberry Cardamom Turnovers

I love these as is, but one of you should put a little orange rind in there and see what happens.  For the fig version, simply slice fresh figs into thickish ovals (no pre-cooking required), overlap three or four to a turnover, dot with blue cheese (I wished I had used more), and sprinkle with chopped walnuts before sealing them up. 

Crust
2 cups flour
1 Tbsp. sugar
1 tsp. salt
12 Tbsp. cold unsalted butter, cut into cubes
10-12 Tbsp. ice water

Filling
1 cup cranberries
½ cup sugar
¼ cup water
½ tsp. cardamom

1 egg, beaten

For the crust, mix flour, sugar, and salt in food processor.  Add cold butter and pulse in 1-second beats until butter is the size of small peas (around 20 pulses).  Dump mixture into a large bowl and add ice water, a few tablespoons at a time, fluffing with a fork until gently absorbed.  You don’t want it wet and sticky, but if there’s too much dry flour, the dough won’t come together right.  It should just hold together when you press on it.  Don’t knead or it will become too tough.  Tear off two pieces of plastic wrap.  Dump half of the dough mixture in the middle of each, and flatten the mixture into disks (or rectangles or rhombi) about a half-inch thick, using the plastic wrap to help shape and compress them.  Wrap tightly and refrigerate until ready to use (or at least a half hour to let the gluten relax).

Meanwhile, in a small pot, bring cranberries, sugar, water, and cardamom to a boil and simmer on low, 15-20 minutes, until berries burst and thicken.  Let cool.

Preheat oven to 425°F.  Line sheet pans with parchment paper.  Flour your counter and rolling pin well (the dough shouldn’t stick at all).  Take one of the disks (keep the other refrigerated) and roll it out about ¼-inch thick.  Roll from the middle out in all directions.  Don’t grind the dough down into the counter—push it out to the sides.  If the dough sticks, sprinkle more flour.  A bench scraper comes in really handy for loosening stuck dough.

Cut dough into rectangles about 3 inches wide by 9 inches long, or whatever looks like a reasonable turnover size once you fold it in half.  Place filling on one side of dough, leaving space all around the perimeter to seal it up.  Fold dough over and press edges to seal.  If the dough doesn’t stick to itself, run a wet finger in between.  Crimp edges with a fork.  Cut steam vents in top crust with a knife.  Brush with beaten egg and set gently on parchment-lined pan.  Repeat with remaining dough (any leftover scraps can be gathered up and re-rolled).  Bake 15-20 minutes, until crust turns golden brown.  Let cool.  Makes about 12.

First Impressions

Last week, I got together with a group of neighborhood moms I had never met before.  They just welcomed me right into the fold with nary a background check.  They may soon be sorry that they did.

I tried to get on their good side with some homemade pita chips and tzatziki, a Greek yogurt dip with garlic, cucumber, and mint.  If you’re ever wondering what to do with the rest of one of those big containers of plain yogurt, this is one idea.  And same for pita bread that’s been in the fridge drying out just a hair too long.  I’m not saying that the pita I used in this particular situation was stale.  I’m just saying, you know, if it were, you’d be toasting it anyway so no one would be the wiser.

Anyway, here’s the recipe.  I sure hope they invite me back.

 

Tzatziki

1 32-oz. container plain yogurt, preferably whole milk
½ seedless cucumber, peeled and grated (or finely chopped)
1 tsp. salt
1 clove garlic, minced or pressed
1 Tbsp. fresh mint (or 1 tsp. dried)
½ lemon

Pour the yogurt into a fine-mesh strainer set over a bowl.  Let drain in the refrigerator until ready to use, preferably 8 hours, but whatever you can spare.  The more it drains, the thicker the dip will be.  Put the cucumber into another strainer over a bowl and sprinkle with 1 tsp. salt.  Let sit half an hour.  Press to squeeze out excess liquid and put into a medium bowl with the thickened yogurt.  Mix in garlic and mint.  Season with lemon juice and salt to taste.  Refrigerate until ready to serve.

 

Pita Chips

4-6 medium pita pockets
2 Tbsp. olive oil
Salt

Preheat oven to 375°F.  Using a pizza cutter, cut pita bread into 8 wedges.  Pull apart the two sides of each wedge for double the chips, and place in single layer on baking sheet.  Drizzle with olive oil and sprinkle with salt.  Bake until golden, 10-15 minutes.

Cookbook Friday: Fried Artichokes

               

This is my grandmother, Dora Barbaresi, posing on her wedding day with her mother-in-law, Margarite Donarumo.  I like the contrast between the New World and Old World in this picture, and the way Nonni has scooped up her veil so casually. 

Dora remembers how different the Italian cooking was between her northern Italian family and that of her Neapolitan husband.  She especially remembers the fried artichokes.  Margarite used baby artichokes.  Old, dried out ones were fine because you would only keep the hearts and throw away everything else (whereas, stuffed artichokes demand very fresh, large artichokes since eating the edible parts of the leaves is half the fun).  Though the recipe for fried artichoke hearts wasn’t written down, Dora watched Margarite make them many times.  This is how she remembers it.

 

Fried Artichoke Hearts

Prepare to eat all of these right away.  Restraint is utterly foolish.

8 baby artichokes, 4 regular artichokes, or a bag of frozen (or canned) artichoke         hearts (not marinated)
1 lemon
1 egg
½ cup flour
Salt, to taste
Vegetable oil for frying

Frozen or canned artichoke hearts are ready to use as is (you know, after defrosting or de-canning/draining them), so skip to the last paragraph.

To clean and trim fresh artichokes, snap off the dark, tough outer leaves at the base and trim the stem.  Cut artichoke in half and scrape out the fuzzy choke with a spoon, leaving just the heart and the tender inner leaves.  (Sam of Becks & Posh has a lovely pictorial guide that shows how to get to the heart of an artichoke).  Cut in half again so the baby artichoke heart is now in quarters (cut larger artichoke hearts into eighths).  Place the wedges into a bowl of water with the juice of one lemon. 

In a deep pot, pour oil to a depth of 2 inches.  Heat oil to 375°F.  Beat egg in a small bowl.  Mix flour and salt in another bowl.  Drain, rinse, and pat dry artichokes.  Dredge them in beaten egg and then flour.  Fry the artichokes, several at a time, and remove when golden brown.  Let drain on paper towels and season with salt.  Serve immediately.  And, now they're gone.

Margarite [Avallone] Donarumo
Naples, Italy - New Haven, Connecticut
1877 - 1956

 

Next Recipe: Clam Sauce

     (Previous Recipe: Zeppole)

Cookbook Friday: Friselles

The Barbaresi family in 1925.  Clockwise from left: Dora, George, Jean, Eva, Anne, Lydia, Edith, Septimina, and Dava Barbaresi.  According to Dora (my grandmother), she is pouting because she didn’t get to sit in a chair like her younger sisters.  Septimina died of pneumonia within months of this photograph.  Gerry, the only surviving son, was born two years later.

In Italy, there is a saying: “Better a corpse in the house than a Marchigiano at the door.” 

They couldn’t be more right.  Marchigianos are my people.  Northern Italians who hail from the often-overlooked Marches region of Italy, just across the tracks (in this case, mountains), from Tuscany.  I say northern Italian, but really it’s about five paces north of the Italian equator, if there were such a thing, but somehow this makes a big difference to my grandmother.

Anyway, the reputation Marchigianos had, as I understand it, was due to the fact that they comprised the vast majority of tax collectors at one time in the Old Country.  If the taxes weren’t paid, then there would be hell to pay instead.  And I can believe it. 

But my relatives weren’t tax collectors; they were farmers in the little town of Castelvecchio.  And they cooked in the true peasant style.  Suffice it to say that there wouldn’t be a corpse in the house if there were a Marchigiano in the kitchen.

George Barbaresi and Lydia Belbusti, in the photo above, were both born in the Marches and immigrated to the U.S. independently of each other by way of New Haven, Connecticut.  In some pre-Internet, trans-Atlantic feat of communication that only Italians could pull off, they were set up on a blind date/arranged marriage in this country by their families back in Italy, or so it goes.  When they met for the first time, George reportedly offered Lydia the following proposal: “Will you have my babies?” 

It appears that she agreed.  They were married in 1910, and raised seven children (two others died very young).  They lived in a rented flat in New Haven during the Depression.  The daughters went to school until about age 14, when they were old enough to work in the dress factories to help support the family.  Their everyday dresses were made from flour sacks.  Only the youngest child, a son, was able to go to college.

Most of the recipes I have came from the little girl on the left, Dora (my grandmother, who I’ve always called Nonni), who learned the dishes from her mother, who learned them from her mother.  I’m not sure of the extent to which these recipes have diverged over time from the original Marches recipes, but they have not changed much over the lifetimes of my relatives who grew up on them. 

They would never let that happen!

Friselles

These peppery little biscuits are an acquired taste to many.  But once you’re bit, they’re addictive.  We keep bags in the freezer (courtesy of Nonni) and wash them down with non-Italian beer.

3½ cups flour
3 Tbsp. baking powder
½ tsp. salt
1½ Tbsp. black pepper, coarsely ground
1 cup water
¾ cup oil

Preheat oven to 300 F.  Grease a large sheet pan.

In a large bowl, mix flour, baking powder, salt, and pepper.  Make a well and add water and oil.  Mix well (the dough will be soft and oily).  Form dough into several thin logs (about the diameter of a nickel) by rolling against the countertop.  Slice into pieces about 1/4-inch thick and set on pan.  Press thumb into the center of each coin to form a large indentation.  Bake for 25-30 minutes, flipping once halfway through before bottoms start to color.  Cool. 

Dora [Barbaresi] Donroe
New Haven, Connecticut
1918 -

Next Recipe: Chicken Soup