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Archive for March, 2009

for a loud-laughing, card-playing caterer, on her 95th

the wedding cake from my caterer grandma

I’m not going to tell you I miss her. That’s what everyone says. I’m just going to tell you I think about her sometimes, like each year when I smell my first fresh spring lilac, heady with sweetness like the big bushes in her backyard that she’d pick from to make corsages on Mothers’ Day; in summer, when the tomato plants grow big, their leaves overwhelming the wiring around them and huge, red fruits forming on the branches; at night, when I can’t fall asleep, and I watch the shadows from the windows dance across the wall, just the way they did in Grandma’s room, when we slept with the window open, a street light’s beam extending across her ceiling.

I also think about my grandma on days like today, her birthday. If she had lived, she would have been 95. And I think about her, mostly, when I bake.

white wedding cake

After her husband died at the age of 50, Grandma was left alone, with one daughter, in a brown brick bungalow with a shaded back porch and a fenced backyard, a few miles from her four siblings and their families but, alone nonetheless.

By the time I was born, she’d grown to like it, living by herself. She held garage sales with some friends, she joined bridge clubs, she had her picture in the paper, smiling in her red silk shirt with white moons on it, for a seniors’ group she belonged to. Mostly, she spent time in the kitchen. She baked cookies for people she loved. She made our Thanksgiving dinners. She catered—big, white wedding cakes studded with frosted flowers and delicate details.

So while I think about her today, it seems fitting to talk about her cake recipe, which I found on a brown-tinted 3 X 5 card in her recipe index, her cursive penmanship unmistakable. In classic form, this card lacked key information—what temperature to set the oven, how long to bake—so part of it is improvised. Also, I’ve been told for weddings, Grandma used a ricotta filling, like that good stuff inside of cannolis. (This was not on the card, either. Improvising, I used a jar of packaged frosting and topped it with crushed pistachios—good, but next time, I will find a ricotta filling instead.)

My favorite memories of Grandma are her stories, the ones she’d tell, laughing, her entire face wrinkling and happy. By the end of her life, to me, she was defined by those stories, and her laughter, how it tilted her head back and made you feel close. I hope the same will be said of me.





Wedding Cake
Adapted from my grandma, Caroline

Taste: I almost forgot to tell you how this tasted! Sweet and dense, with the heaviness of a wedding cake, this was very good, even if my layers turned out a little thick. It was the kind of cake I found myself grabbing slices of, for breakfast, for lunch, for a snack before bed. That could just be me, though.

Size of pans to use: Her instructions said something about a 12-inch layer and a 6-inch layer, which pointed me towards the closest improvisation I could find: a 13 X 9 and an 8 X 8. The batter seems awfully thin when you pour it in the pans, but it truly rises when cooking. Next time, I’d try three 8-inch round pans and see how thin I could make the cakes, to highlight the frosting more.

Filling: Like I said, I used a packaged frosting—something with whipped in the title. Then I crushed pistachios and layered them on top. The possibilities here, though, are really endless. I’d love to hear ideas.

Ingredients:
3 cups sifted cake flour
3 1/2 teaspoons baking powder
1 teaspoon salt
2/3 cup butter
1 3/4 cups sugar
1 1/4 cup milk
1 1/2 teaspon vanilla
2/3 cup egg whites (from about 4 eggs)

Directions:
Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Thoroughly grease and flour baking pans.

In a large bowl, cream butter and 1 1/2 cup sugar. Separately sift together the sifted caked flour, baking powder and salt, and in a small bowl, combine milk and vanilla. Add the dry and wet mixes alternately to the large bowl, and blend thoroughly.

With an electric mixer on low speed (these are her instructions, but I’ll admit to impatience and using high), beat 2/3 cup egg white until stiff, not dry.

Add gradually to the main mixture in the large bowl a 1/4 cup of sugar, beating constantly until stiff. Fold egg whites into batter.

Measure batter by cupful into well-greased and floured cake pans. (I used one 9 X 13 and one 8 X 8 and then measured them after cooled to make them three same-sized layers.)

Bake at 350 degrees for about 30 minutes, checking towards the end. Cake is done when a toothpick can be inserted in the center and come out clean.

a matter of time

celery root

You could say it began a few years ago, at the moment in Internet history when I first clicked on a food blog. That was what led me to celery root after all, or even to hearing about it. Before then, I must’ve walked by it in the produce section a hundred times, unknowing, overlooking its gnarly brown exterior and bulb-like shape for more familiar things like bright orange carrots or leafy green spinach or, really, anything but it.

Yet in another way, you could say it began much earlier, when I was young, the girl who wore thick pink glasses and sported puffy bangs that were regularly permed. I played no sports, belonged to no clubs, had no real accomplishments. Looking back, truly, it seems all the signs were in place from the beginning: this girl was meant to like celery root. It was only a matter of time.

Celery root, also called celeriac or knob celery, is many things, but looking at it for the first time, only one stands out: this winter vegetable isn’t pretty to look at. In fact, if you were a little like the mean kids I grew up with, you might say something like celery root is the ugliest vegetable there ever was and, you know, nobody wants to play with it.

With all that in mind, or maybe because of all that in mind, I walked towards, not away from, the celery root at my grocery store a few weeks ago, taking two globes in my hands, holding them like brains in one of those scary movies I’d never watch. I didn’t know what made one good or bad, and I didn’t know what I was going to do with the two I tucked into a plastic bag, but when I walked outside, inhaling the cold, crisp air, it was with a spring in my step.

celery root, chopped fresh chives chopped granny smith apples grapeseed oil

I would be making a soup eventually; that much I knew. But those first vegetables turned out to be rotted and almost rotted, so it wasn’t until just recently that I came home, holding another, very fresh, very ready to be used, with the opportunity. [On picking good celeriac - An old San Francisco Chronicle article gives the following advice for choosing fresh ones: look for roots that are heavy for their shape and not too dry. I can’t vouch for this method personally, as, honestly, all of them looked pretty dry and felt heavy to me, but I think I’ll get better at this. Meanwhile, trusting Whole Foods worked wonders.]

If you’ve ever cut a butternut squash, you have an idea of what you’re in for working with a celery root, although, really, this will be much simpler. Get a very sharp, very heavy chef’s knife and cut off eat end of the dense, brown skin. Turn it on one of the flat ends and cut down along the sides. What you’ll find inside is a solid, white center that smells like celery and the earth and your hands deep in a spring garden.

creamy, hot, comforting soup

For this soup, you’ll combine chopped chunks of celery root with chopped Granny Smith apples, onions, chicken broth and butter. These things will cook for a while, softening all the ingredients until limp and ready to be pureed. Then you’ll transfer the mixture to a blender or, preferably, pull out your handy stick blender, and mix everything thoroughly until it’s the texture you like. A little grapeseed oil mixed with chives and salt drizzled on top, and this creamy, comforting soup is every bit as soothing as cream of potato, but different, with the unmistakable flavor of celery, like an old friend, returning, as you always knew he would.



The First Food Blog: That blog I mentioned, years ago, finding and liking and, through it, learning of celeriac? It’s the well-known and highly acclaimed Orangette. Author Molly Wizenberg’s book, A Homemade Life, has just been released, and, the moment it arrived here, I literally sat down and opened it, without taking off my coat or settling in at all. Reading it is like falling in love with the blog all over again. You will see.



Celery Root and Apple Soup
Adapted from Bon Appetit, September 2007

Here in Chicago, the weather has gone back to very, very cold, which, as you can imagine, is discouraging at the beginning of March. On the other hand, things are almost over—that’s what I keep saying. And, also, we have hot bowls of soup to cup in our hands, spooning creamy, soothing comfort from a perch on the sofa. Whether it’s cold where you are or not, this soup is what you need. I mean it.

Ingredients:
1/4 cup (1/2 stick) butter
4 cups 1/2-inch cubes peeled celery root (from one 1 1/4-pound celery root)
3 cups 1/2-inch cubes peeled cored Granny Smith apples (from about 2 medium)
1 1/2 cups chopped onion (about 1 large)
4 cups (or more) low-salt chicken broth
1/2 cup chopped chives
1/2 cup grapeseed oil
Pinch of salt

Directions:
Melt butter in heavy large pot over medium heat. Add celery root, apples and onion. Cook until apples and some of celery root are translucent (not brown), stirring often, about 15 minutes. Add 4 cups broth. Cover and bring to simmer. Reduce heat to medium-low; simmer covered until celery root and apples are soft, stirring occasionally, about 25 minutes. Remove from heat; cool slightly.

Working in batches, puree soup in blender until smooth, adding more broth by 1/4 cupfuls to thin to desired consistency (or, what I did: use a stick blender!). Return soup to pot. Season to taste with salt and pepper.

Puree chives, grapeseed oil and pinch of salt in blender until smooth.

Divide soup among bowls. Drizzle each bowl with chive oil.

Note: This soup can be made 1 day ahead, refrigerated uncovered until cold, then covered and kept refrigerated. The chive oil can be made up to two hours ahead.

in the timing

blueberry buttermilk pancakes

A few years ago, when a friend was visiting, I offered to make her chocolate-chip pancakes the morning she’d leave. I am terrible at making pancakes. Of an entire bowl of batter, I think we ended up with two, she and my brother and I standing in the kitchen in our pajamas, wearing glasses and zip-up sweatshirts. The rest of the batch were either burnt and charred or, worse, still goopy inside, wet and uncooked. It’s a good thing there was also cereal around or, frankly, we’d have starved.

I probably don’t have to tell you my problem was timing: Over and over, I’d leave the batter on the skillet too long or, instead, not long enough. I am fairly terrible at timing, and, as the girl who decides her career path after college, I think it’s safe to say this is not just with pancakes.

You probably already know this past Tuesday, Shrove Tuesday or Mardi Gras, was also National Pancake Day. They were even giving away free ones at IHOP to celebrate (How did I miss this?). The origin goes back to England, when people prepared for Lent by clearing out their pantries of all dairy products (butter, eggs, milk) which would be forbidden during the 40 days until Easter.

So just chalk it up to bad timing that I’m posting mine not on National Pancake Day but, instead, six days later later, on the first Monday of March.

blueberry pancakes

Truth is, I’ve been wanting pancakes since I saw a picture of these, piled high and drenched in syrup and butter. Saturday, it was time to try this thing again.

A few initial findings: (1) When you put the batter on the skillet, you really have to leave it there for a few minutes. No nervous peeking beneath to see how it’s coming. (2) If you do things right, small air bubbles with appear in the side of the batter facing you, about three minutes after you put it on there, and that’s how you know when to flip. (3) Because I am just one person, it’s a good idea to cut any pancake recipe in half.

(Of course, cutting things in half in your head, especially while you’re also watching T.V. online, can be problematic. I ended up creating a full batch of the dry ingredients and sectioning off half to use next time, which, maybe, will turn out to be a good thing.)

But here’s what really matters: it worked.

After three minutes on each side on the hot, oiled skillet, the lumpy batter turns smooth and golden brown, with beautifully darkened edges that are just slightly crispy. Buttermilk adds a rich, lightly sour flavor to the dough, complemented by the tartness of the fresh berries, which is especially nice topped with real maple syrup. And the soft texture, creamy and warm as it dissolves on your tongue, at once acidic and also sweet, makes a great start to a morning—any morning, anytime.




Blueberry Buttermilk Pancakes
Adapted from Boston.com

Ingredients:
1 cup flour
1/2 Tablespoon sugar
3/4 teaspoons baking powder
1/4 teaspoon baking soda
1/4 teaspoon salt
1 1/2 cups fresh blueberries
1 egg
1 cup buttermilk
2 Tablespoons ( 1/4 stick) unsalted butter, melted and cooled slightly
Vegetable oil (for the skillet)
Maple syrup (for serving)

Directions:
In a large bowl, whisk together the flour, sugar, baking powder, baking soda and salt. Add fresh blueberries and gently stir to combine.

In another bowl, whisk the eggs. Whisk in the buttermilk, then the butter. Add the buttermilk mixture to the dry ingredients and stir just until blended. It’s OK for the batter to look lumpy.

Heat an electric or stove-top griddle or nonstick skillet to medium heat. Add a drizzle of oil to coat the skillet.

Pour the batter onto the griddle, using a 1/4-cup measure and leaving a little space between them. Cook for about 3 minutes on the first side (without touching!) until some bubbles form on top. Flip the pancakes (the side that had been down will now be golden) and cook the other sides until golden. Serve with warm syrup.