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Archive for December, 2008

tout français

potatoes and onions

If it seems cliché for me, a girl learning to cook, to want (and receive) a Julia Child book for Christmas, well, maybe it is. But, you know, not all clichés are bad. That one about how a penny saved is a penny earned? I kind of like that one. And you’re only young once? That’s true, too. Maybe you’re thinking up some new year’s resolutions: Get in shape? Save more money? I say, What the heck. Let’s all embrace clichés.

Julia Child is kind of The Great Famous Chef, the one who brought French cooking to American domestics, who seemed so excited, so full of gusto, she made you believe you could cook what she could, even from your little kitchen. (And that voice! Was there anything so endearing?) So I wanted Mastering the Art of French Cooking, like millions of home cooks have before and millions will after.

To begin, I opened to the first chapter and set my hopes on potage parmentier or, leek and onion soup. Julia—we’re on a first-name basis now—says yellow onions are fine, and that’s what I had, so that’s what I used. This is French food at its most economical. I would suspect you have all the ingredients already, and surely you could make some time to cook them. The result will be worth it: a creamy, comforting, hot-on-your-throat soup with small flecks of soft potatoes throughout. Julia says adding extra vegetables is fine, so I threw in half a bag of baby carrots, chopped into small bits. This gave my soup a pretty, orange color reminiscent of pumpkin soup, and, topped with a little parsley to serve, this stuff looks as nice as it tastes. I ate two bowls immediately, and the next day, my family finished the rest.

potage parmentier

In fact, though freshman year French class may be worlds away, Monsieur Shelbourne would be proud, bless his heart, that something’s finally clicked. With Julia, suddenly everything French is fascinating. Like this little girl with big brown eyes who tells a story about hippopotame and fantomes. Like the movie, Ratatouille. Like French macarons and French restaurants and the fact that my friend Becky is going to Paris in February.

Turns out, I didn’t need to make the life-size flag poster with black and white photos of Montmartre. If we’d only known then what I know now: just give this girl a cookbook.

cradle a cup

New Year’s Resolutions: I didn’t break any from last year, but that’s only because I didn’t make any. Better odds, that way, you know? This year, I’m resolved to work my way through Julia’s cookbook, as well as exercise regularly and, well, the two should go together.


Potage Parmentier or, Potato & Onion Soup
Adapted from Mastering the Art of French Cooking, by Julia Child

Ingredients:
3 to 4 cups or 1 pound potatoes, peeled and diced
3 cups or 1 pound yellow onions, thinly sliced (or, of course, leeks)
1/2 bag of baby carrots (or whatever amount you’d like)
2 quarts water
1 Tablespoon salt
4-6 Tablespoons whipping cream
1 Tablespoon softened butter
2-3 Tablespoons minced parsley or chives

Directions:
1. Dump the potatoes, onions, carrots, water and salt into a three- or four-quarter saucepan or a dutch oven. Simmer the mixture, partially covered, 40-50 minutes until vegetables are tender.

2. After it’s all heated, mash/puree the vegetables in the pot with a fork or a potato masher. I chose to use a stick blender, which was fast and easy. The only thing I’d do differently next time is blend for a little less time; you want there to be small chunks throughout for more flavor. Correct seasoning by adding salt and pepper to taste.

3. Off heat and just before serving, stir in cream or butter by spoonfuls. Pour into a tureen or soup cups and decorate with the herbs.

NOTE:
The following may be simmered with the potatoes and leeks at the start: Sliced or diced turnips; peeled, seeded or chopped tomatoes or strained, canned tomatoes; half-cooked dried beans, peas, or lentils, including their cooking liquid.

The following may be simmered for 10 to 15 minutes with the soup after it has been pureed: Fresh or frozen diced cauliflower, cucumbers, broccoli, Lima beans, peas, string beans, okra or zucchini; shredded lettuce, spinach, sorrel, or cabbage; diced, cooked leftovers of any of the preceding vegetables; tomatoes, peeled, seeded, juiced and diced.

when it rains

bittersweet

In grad school, where I’d listen to lectures on Foucault and workshop short stories, I managed to find, along with new favorite authors, a passion for something beyond the classroom. Some people had exercise; some, clubs or organizations. I had bakeries. Like most big cities, Chicago is filled with small bakeries, and, heady with the smell of yeast, these houses of perfect pastries and bread became my welcome reward for studying and turning in papers.

The routine was this: meet my also-student brother somewhere on campus, toting our bags and books and usually bundled for cold weather, and head somewhere new. Sometimes we’d eat en route, while walking down the sidewalk or grabbing the El; sometimes we’d eat at the bakery itself; sometimes we’d package our desserts and come back to the school food court, killing time before whatever class I’d have. And just like watching movies or sleeping in on weekends, this was a hobby with immediate appeal.

bakery

You know, a friend of mine, a Chicago attorney, commutes via long train rides to her job every day, so I asked her once, How do you do it? And she told me this: she embraced it. Rather than dreading the commute, she took back the hours of downtime and used them for reading, communicating, even praying—turning the time into something she looked forward to. I always liked that. I guess you could say, essentially, collecting bakery visits became my method of embracing. Chicago winters seem a little less bitter when you have warm bakery in your pocket, and I stand by that.

There was Sweet Mandy B’s in Lincoln Park, which makes a brownie to rival Nigella Lawson’s recipe—and that’s saying something—as well as killer chocolate coconut macaroons and fluffy whoopee pies; Swirlz, home of the best cupcake frosting I’ve ever tasted and where the owner gave us free samples one night; Pasticceria Natalina, featured in Chicago Magazine; and Dinkel’s, the one with the most seating space and all kinds of cakes. (It’s really a wonder I didn’t gain 20 pounds, but for all the walking.)

bittersweet lakeview

This last weekend, I revisited Bittersweet in Lakeview, a charming little spot with striped awnings and glass cases filled with sweet treats. The first time we went, I think it was a Saturday afternoon, and we’d just come from a pizza place (another hobby/obsession). This time, we were just leaving an apartment showing and running down rainy sidewalks where snow was melting, the December weather in the high 50s (!).

my macarons

When you go to Bittersweet, get a macaron. Bittersweet’s are the French variety, colorful little sandwiches of delicate cookies and delicious cream, and they’re the best I’ve had in the city. The mini brioche was also quite good—flaky layers of dough opening to a rich chocolate center. As another plus, this bakery offers yesterday’s cupcakes at half price, as well as nicely packaged bags of broken pastries for $1.50 a pop. Whatever you order, one thing’s for sure: from the moment you step inside this gorgeous shop, you’ll be swooning at the array of desserts.

But don’t take my word for it: Visit!

Bittersweet Pastry Shop
http://www.bittersweetpastry.com

Neighborhood: Lakeview
1114 W Belmont Ave
(between Clifton Ave & Seminary Ave)
Chicago, IL 60657
(773) 929-1100

*Oh, and in case you’re wondering: I liked the chocolate macarons best. Almost enough to make me want to make my own batch, but then I’d eat them all, and, unfortunately, I don’t walk around the city every day now.

one to mark down

christmas peppermint bark

I feel like I should start this post off by saying, Merry Christmas! So, Merry Christmas, all of you—whether you’ve been reading since this site began or if you’ve swung by just now, on the hunt for a festive candy. It is Christmas Eve, after all. And I do have the day off—a Christmas gift from my nice bosses and one I will celebrate with a morning trip to Sam’s Club and an afternoon of errands. My plans for the holiday are thus: resting, eating, spending time at home, maybe watching my favorite Jimmy Stewart movie while sipping some hot chocolate. These are simple pleasures, and I intend to make the most of them.

One of the things I like best about Christmastime, on its most basic of levels, is that it brings the reminder of simple memories and traditions from years before: the glittery, pine-scented living rooms of my childhood, created by our yearly trek to the tree farm, where my cold and tired parents would have to chop down a blue spruce or evergreen and tie it to the roof; the years where I begged to open presents early, when we’d unwrap gifts on Christmas Eve mainly to satisfy my impatient pleading; the school programs; the church choirs; the attention given to a cold and dark manger scene, away from tinsel and sparkling lights.

To me, these reflections are a better holiday magic than the one I knew as a child, less glitz and glam, more depth and reality. I mean, in my earliest Christmas memory, I walked up to my bedroom, arms filled with presents, a pretty brunette doll with scratch-and-sniff chocolate cupcakes on top. I remember thinking, at the time, that life couldn’t get much better than this. And, as good as things seemed then, I was wrong: they have gotten better. In college, this season meant coming home, five fat weeks of relaxation and rest, where I could sleep in and go shopping and eat to my heart’s content. Since then, Christmas has meant a day off work. And yet it’s still more.

On our tree, for example, I find yearbooks of memories: a golden globe with my smiling four-month-old self and the words First Christmas. There’s a five-person ornament made of wood, labeled with our names, my grandma’s included, and strung from red yarn. Mixed with dozens of shimmering balls are a paper star with the words of Luke 2:11, a vintage Santa from the 1940s and a fair-haired angel with a silvery wand and a dress as dainty as spun silk.

Maybe you celebrate with your fist full of similar memories, be they prompted by tree ornaments, roaring parties or the annual family feast. And you know, the older I get, the more I want to carry on cookie baking, like Grandma did, but also the more I want to start new traditions, from only giving homemade gifts to planning months ahead of time or, here’s one to mark down, making peppermint bark.

peppermint bark closer

One would be hard-pressed to find anything quite as festive, holiday-wise, flecked with crumbled red-and-white candies, set between and atop layers of white and bittersweet chocolate. It crunches when you bite in, rich and refreshing. And on top of that, peppermint bark looks complicated—it’s like biscotti in that way. It’s the kind of gourmet confection you can make with little trouble, that’s forgiving of any mistakes, that is so addictive, you won’t need much time at all to gobble up an entire sheet.

I had already decided to make peppermint bark for Christmas gifts, like I did last year, but I was looking for a recipe that would layer chocolates for a more impressive presentation. So when I saw Molly’s recipe last week, I bookmarked it immediately. This is some good peppermint bark, people. Did you know Williams Sonoma sells it for $20-something per pound? Make it, and you’ll know why.

Peppermint Bark
Adapted from Molly Wizenberg at Orangette

You can use whatever you’d like to break up the peppermint candies (candy canes also work, by the way): I put them on a cutting board and banged with a hammer before loosening from their wrappers into a bowl.

Ingredients:
17 ounces white chocolate: look for cocoa butter in ingredients
30 red-and-white-striped hard peppermint candies, coarsely crushed
7 ounces bittersweet chocolate, such as Ghirardelli 60%, finely chopped
6 Tablespoons heavy cream
¾ teaspoon peppermint extract

Directions:
Turn a large baking sheet upside down, and cover it securely with aluminum foil. Measure out and mark a 9- by 12-inch rectangle on the foil. (I used masking tape to distinguish the area.)

Put the white chocolate in a metal (or other heatproof) bowl, and set it over a saucepan of barely simmering water. (Do not allow the bottom of the bowl to touch the water.) Stir occasionally until the chocolate is melted and smooth; if you take its temperature with a candy thermometer, it should register 110°F. Remove the chocolate from the heat. Pour 2/3 cup of it onto the rectangle on the foil. Using an icing spatula, spread the chocolate to fill the rectangle. Sprinkle with ¼ cup of the crushed peppermints. Chill until set, about 15 minutes (don’t rush this, like I did—you’ll regret it!).

Meanwhile, combine the bittersweet chocolate, cream, and peppermint extract in a heavy medium saucepan. Warm over medium-low heat, stirring frequently, until the mixture is just melted and smooth. Cool to barely lukewarm, about 5 minutes. Then remove the baking sheet from the refrigerator, and pour the bittersweet chocolate mixture over the white chocolate rectangle. Using a clean icing spatula, spread the bittersweet chocolate in an even layer. Chill until very cold and firm, about 25 minutes.

Rewarm the remaining white chocolate over barely simmering water to 110°F. Working quickly, pour the white chocolate over the firm bittersweet layer, using your clean icing spatula to spread it to cover. Sprinkle with remaining crushed peppermints. Chill just until firm, about 20 minutes.

Carefully lift the foil from the baking sheet onto a large cutting board. Trim away any ragged edges of the rectangle. (Don’t worry if there’s a lot of excess: more to snack on!) You can cut the bark crosswise into 2-inch-wide strips, cut each strip into 3 sections and slice them into two triangles or, what I prefer, just break away at it into small pieces.

Pack into an airtight container, with sheets of wax paper between layers of bark to prevent them from sticking to one another. Store in the refrigerator. Serve cold or, to emphasize the slight softness of the bittersweet layer, let stand at room temperature for 10 minutes before serving.

Note: This bark will keep for up to 2 weeks, if not more. If you plan to pack it in a tin or baggie with other holiday sweets, be sure to wrap it separately in plastic wrap. Or maybe wax paper and then plastic wrap, so that it doesn’t sweat. If you left it naked, so to speak, to mix and mingle with other cookies or candies, everything might wind up tasting and smelling like peppermint.

Yield: about 36 pieces, or more, if you cut them smaller