new recipe challenge: white loaves, mini crustless quiches, and tuna pasta salad

It's a cool, rainy week in Wisconsin. 

I'm coming off a month of life transitions...grieving the loss of my kind, gentle mother-in-law to cancer, and celebrating the marriage of my one and only kind and funny brother to his bride, a generous, beautiful woman I'm thrilled to call sister. 

It's been a month to remember.

I'm taking refuge in reading novels and cooking. I finished the airy darkness of Nora Roberts' latest Shadow Spell, and am now savoring Anna Quindlan's Still Life With Bread Crumbs. 

And I made bread. 

I craved the fragrance of yeast warmth, and also wanted to bake a simple white loaf that would live up to our expectations. G and I have different tastes in bread--he leans soft and malleable, while I prefer crusty and substantial. Yet both of us love a flavorful white bread, with a thin crackly crust, the scent of butter, and a soft interior. I used the recipe for white loaves from Baking With Julia, the companion cookbook to the PBS show that aired years ago (but reruns on some PBS and create channels). This simple bread meets all of our criteria and was, unlike other breads, simple to make. 

In keeping with my summer bucket list and my quest to make G's recent birthday special, I made mini crustless quiches for a portable breakfast (served with buttered toast made from the homemade bread). One of our favorite quiche combinations is caramelized onion, spinach, and feta. I added fresh basil and a not-hearty enough squirt of Sriracha to the egg mixture. What a simple, delicious make-ahead breakfast! And the add-ins are endless...broccoli, peppers, mixed herbs, Gruyere or other interesting cheeses, squashes, and even breakfast meats for my non-vegetarian husband.  

For a lunch treat, I made tuna pasta salad, a favorite of Gregg's. Single serving tuna pouches are the greatest gift for tuna haters (me). Open, squeeze out the tuna into whatever dish you're making, and be done with it. I used small shell pasta to nestle all of the veggies and tuna chunks. Tiny diced red and yellow peppers, a good chunk of a zippy jalapeno, diced with seeds and membrane, for my spice-loving husband. Vidalia onion, Famous Dave's spicy sweet pickles, salt and lots of freshly ground black pepper. I doused the salad with white balsamic vinegar, a drizzle of olive oil, and a big scoop of plain Greek yogurt. I hoped the salad was as delicious as it was pretty, since I didn't taste it. G loved the spicy kick, the pickles, and the combination of veggies. 

New recipes and cooking workday breakfast and lunch for G: check these two items off of my bucket list. Thus inspired, I will continue to play and experiment! 

twd: devil's food white out cake

I come from a long line of bakers. Birthday cakes were always homemade, and always delicious. I usually chose German Chocolate cake, and one year I asked my Grandma to teach me how to make it for my Mom's birthday. Some years I deviated, like the time I obsessed over the cakes in my Mom's Betty Crocker cookbook, settling on an angel food cake that had chocolate whipped cream stuffed inside. What a feat of cake making--I was so impressed with the cake Mom made!

My Mom and Grandma don't bake as much anymore as concerns about cholesterol and blood sugar make baked goods a treat rather than a necessity. Each week they ask what I'm creating for TWD, and eagerly await my posts. Sometimes I send a few goodies their way to share with my Dad and Grandpa.

As I've mentioned before, I started baking in earnest while I was writing my dissertation, and haven't stopped since then. My Grandma has been indispensable over the years, giving me Blossom (my newly named trusty pink KA) for my doctoral graduation, a set of vintage pink pyrex mixing bowls, and Baking: From My Home to Yours. We stared at that cover cake and imagined how delicious and wondrous it would be.


pink pyrex

And so, this week, this post is dedicated to my Grandma C. for all of her lessons, love, and support in the kitchen and out. I only wish she were here in Wisconsin and not on the other side of the lake so we could cut into the cake together!

I baked the layers on Sunday afternoon as a pot of dried chickpeas bubbled away on the stove. Once again, I opted for my Valrhona cocoa powder, and used these new Ghiradelli 72% chocolate disks as the melted chocolate and the add-in bits. They remind me of European style chocolate chips, and are also quite delicious eaten by the handful out of the bag...


a surprise find in the grocery store!

My cakes baked nicely in my new cake pans, although they didn't rise as high as I would've liked. After they cooled, I wrapped them up and placed them in the freezer until this morning when I set about assembling the cakes.


new cake pans, properly parchmented

After reading through the icing directions and the P&Qs on the TWD site, I decided to make the Swiss Meringue recipe from Amanda Hesser's delightful book Cooking for Mr. Latte (a book I dub "foodie romance" in a published article about food and chick lit:). I've made this icing many times and felt more confident about my success taking a familiar route.

Here's my adaptation of Hesser's recipe:

4 egg whites
1/4 c. honey (she calls for corn syrup but I refuse to use it)
2 TBS water
2 1/2 c. confectioner's sugar
pinch of salt
1 tsp. vanilla extract

Mix together the first 5 ingredients in the top of a double boiler or in a bowl that you place over a pan of hot water kept on moderate heat. Beat with an electric mixture until peaks form when the beaters are lifted, about 5 minutes. Scrape the mixture into another bowl to stop the cooking process. Add the vanilla. Beat until the mixture is smooth, thick, and glossy, about 5 minutes more. Voila!


swiss meringue

I carefully sawed my layers in half, discovered how flat they were, and decided not to crumble a whole layer but rather to crumble the bits that fell off as a result of my sawing (try as I might, the layers were rather uneven), and create a four layer cake. The cake frosted easily, and I decorated it with the smattering of crumbles and a few of my chocolate heart cookies.


a love-filled cake

Although I won't be able to share this cake with my family, I'm going to bring it to campus tomorrow and share it with the literati, a new group of students who are interested in reading and writing literature. Perhaps I can win over a few more majors and minors with this gorgeous cake:)

Thanks to Stephanie of Confessions of a City Eater for choosing this high profile cake, and, as always, thanks to the TWD bakers for their kitchen fellowship. Finally, thanks to Mom and Grandma for all of their kitchen wisdom (and forgive me for posting this photo of the three of us:)


three generations

twd: savory corn and pepper muffins

gorgeous muffins, weird lighting. i'm still learning my new camera!

I come from a family that loves food, and can be rather high maintenance about what we eat, where we eat it, and how we eat. Consider my Grandpa C and his peppers: he will tuck a jalapeno pepper into his shirt pocket when going to a restaurant or even to someone else's house for dinner. He will unceremoniously produce the pepper from his pocket and enjoy it alongside his meal, adding a little extra crunch and zing to whatever delicious dishes happen to appear on his plate.

(Tangent: Back in college, I would bring my own salad dressing to the cafeteria. Now, I cook at home more often than not because, well, I like food they way I like it, and my corner of the world is most decidedly not a mecca of vegetarian food.)

So, as I selected a single jalapeno for this week's recipe, I thought of my Grandpa and how much he would enjoy these muffins, with their subtle heat and their delicious spice melding with a cornbread base--another staple on my Mom's side of the family. Of course, our cornbread eschews sugar because of our Southern roots, but I made an exception and tossed it as Dorie required.

As I seeded, deveined and chopped my jalapeno, I continuously thought don't touch your face! don't touch your eyes! capsaicin! capsaicin! danger! I psyched myself out, and only added half of the pepper to the batter rather than the whole pepper that Dorie recommends. As I chopped and tasted the dough, I could feel the tiny fissures in my dry, winter skin as the pepper's powerful potion lingered on my hands.

I made a few adjustments to the recipe besides halving the jalapeno: I used 3 TBS butter and 3 TBS canola oil instead of 1 stick/8 TBS butter to lower the overall fat profile. I also used part ground chipotle powder instead of all chili powder for a hint of smoke.

I love these muffins, though they're more labor intensive to make than my usual cornbread, which I can whip together in 5 minutes. The chopping and dicing adds an extra 5-10 minutes total, but results in a delicious, hearty muffin that is perfect paired with a hot bubbling soup on these insanely, criminally cold winter nights. Many TWD members enjoyed their muffins with chili--my soup du jour included navy beans, carrots, potatoes, fire roasted tomatoes, and a hint of chipotle. The perfect winter meal, and now I have extras for lunch!

Thanks to Rebecca of Ezra Pound Cake, a delightfully entertaining blog, for choosing these muffins! Check out the other talented TWD bakers for their gorgeous photos and delightful stories of muffin making.

happy christmas!

holiday greetings and chocolate visions!


Just a quick post today to wish everyone a Merry Christmas! Yesterday I made a Yule Log cake, a.k.a. Bûche de Noël, for the very first time. I followed a cake recipe in the Gourmet cookbook for a chocolate roulade--a souffle wonder! I then improvised a coffee flavored buttercream, infusing half and half with coarsely ground coffee beans, adding it to powdered sugar and butter. I then glazed the entire cake with a bittersweet ganache and fashioned mushrooms out of marshmallows. Though it's a little more square-ish than rounded, it's cute and promises chocolate deliciousness for my family!

Santa was kind to me, and I now have a digital camera! Look for improved photographs in the new year.

I hope the holiday--whether Christmas, Hanukkah, Kwanzaa, Solstice, or Festivus--finds you happy and healthy. Thank you for spending time with me on this little blog:)

let it snow + candy cane cookies

Luckily, I left Wisconsin on Saturday morning and made it to Michigan before the a) blizzard warning; b) lake effect snow advisory; and c) winter weather advisory. We're slowly building up to our 3rd foot of snow here in Western Michigan, as you can see from these photos taken from the toasty inside of my parents' home, looking out into the yard:


pines laden with snow remind me of a poem I wrote as a child when these trees were so much smaller


half of the fence is already buried, and the snow is as high as the porch

I want to trek through the woods and the pristine snow, walking into the eternal hush of the forest, but so far I've stayed inside where it's warm, reading poetry for my winter session class, baking cookies, visiting with my parents, cooking soups, and practicing yoga to help me overcome this nagging cold that keeps me feeling just less than 100%. I'm waiting for my brother to arrive tomorrow to share in some holiday hijinks, and adventures outdoors, which will invariably include a noisy and smelly but exhilarating ride on the snowmobile.

Today I made a batch of Chocolate Candy Cane Cookies, a delicious sandwich cookie from Bon Appetit.


Do you think they'll tempt Santa?

Tomorrow's baking extravaganza: Buche de Nöel

winter haiku

large flakes fall slowly
another inch, another foot
winter wonderland


Greetings from snowy Holland, Michigan, where blizzard warnings have now expired, yet piecy snow continues to fall...

Saturday morning I followed the contour of Lake Michigan, traveling from my home in Wisconsin to my parents' home in Holland, timing my journey between massive storms. I'm enjoying the laziness that comes at the end of the semester and the enforced hibernation of blizzard warnings outside and rhinovirus inside.

I'll be back tomorrow with my holiday retrospective AND the story of Dorie's butterscotch pudding, bound to be a favorite for my Dad!

Safe travels and happy holidays to you all!

twd: thanksgiving twofer pie

close up of my pecan crusted twofer


I wasn't going to bake this pie.

You see, I had this idea that I didn't like pumpkin pie. And why waste all those precious pecans on pumpkin?

And so I spent last Sunday night peeling Jonathan apples and composing a poem, "After Apple Peeling," as a riff on Robert Frost's delightful and dark meditative poem "After Apple Picking." Only these apples were bad. As in every single one I started peeling was half brown and mushy. I suspect that they are last year's crop posing as new, relatively local fruit. Ugh.

And so, Monday morning I threw the remaining unpeeled apples and a single peeled one as evidence into my trunk, intending to return them to the grocery store after work. (Am I really now the woman who returns produce to the grocery store? So it would seem). Not wanting to deal with more apples, and missing the communal adventure of baking the week's TWD recipe, I gave into the promise of Dorie's Thanksgiving Twofer Pie, selected by Vibi of La casserole carrée. I filled my cart with all the goodies I needed, and headed home to bake.

Now, Monday night was one of those catch-up-and-cram evenings, in which I graded a handful of essays, read three short articles for class, talked to my best friend S, and made the Twofer. And hence I made this rookie mistake--I baked and talked. On the phone. And so I forgot the bourbon I was going to use instead of the rum. And I mixed the pecans into the gooey syrupy filling (I used maple syrup instead of corn syrup because I'm a little crazy about avoiding corn syrup) instead of following Dorie's advice to layer them over the pumpkin. And so my pie was a little messy and a little haphazard, but I can unequivocally say that it's also delicious. I would eat Pumpkin pie like this all day, all season long.

I brought the pie to a multi-cultural club harvest feast on Tuesday, and it was a lovely finish to a meal with foods as diverse as pierogi, papaya salad, Italian macaroni and cheese, and stollen.

For my family, I made my classic Maple Bourbon Pecan Pie. I use an all butter crust, and a Bon Appetit recipe from the November 2003 magazine, replacing the corn syrup with dark/Grade B maple syrup. My parents and I polished off the last large piece today before we drove through the snow so I could fly back to Wisconsin after a fabulous long weekend. It was the sweetest end to a delicious holiday.

fruit flies and peach pies

peach watercolor painting, circa 1895, courtesy of wikipedia


I've been craving peach pie now that peaches are in season. Several years ago--more like 5 or 6, when I was still living in Alabama and visits with family in Michigan were sparse-- my Mom and I made a scrumptious peach pie. Something about that pie, that time spent together, and the sweet card that Mom sent me afterwards, when I was back in the sweltering South, lingers in every bite of peach pie I've eaten since.

Last Saturday I bought 25 peaches at the farmers' market. Our peach person sets up big boxes of peaches, arranged by variety, and a big stack of paper bags, and people line up to fill the bag with however many peaches fit their fancy. I like this system--some weeks are a 7 peach week and others, like this week, are 25 peach weeks.

My intention was to make a pie and to freeze some peaches for a chilly winter day.

Then the first rhino virus of the season descended (incidentally, just in time for the first round of one-on-one meetings with my freshmen composition students. coincidence? i think not, when considering this has happened with a fair degree of regularity the past 4 fall semesters...). The peaches sat on the counter, happy in brown paper bags. I used one each morning, sliced and cooked with my oatmeal.

Pie seemed a little too touchy-feely for a girl with cold germs--I'm firmly in the blend-the-crust-with-your-fingers camp of crust making.

But today, I unrolled the bag: fruit flies! One overripe peach had sprouted mold, so I removed all the peaches from the bag and decided to make a quick peach crisp. I followed Mark Bittman's recipe for the crisp topping, using the oat variation with maple syrup and a lot less butter. Since he suggests blending the topping with a mixer or food processor, I could rest easy knowing my crisp was prepared under the best hygienic conditions for someone with a stuffy head and scratchy throat. I added cinnamon, vanilla, whole wheat flour, and a touch of nutmeg.

**I also want to rave about the butter I found at the Woodlake Market: Organic Valley Pasture Butter, limited edition, available in a half pound. A brighter yellow than most butters, it is also fragrant and extra creamy.**

Back to the crisp...it was delicious and peachy and rather virtuous for a dessert, but I'm still dreaming of pie. Peach pie.

I'm heading to Michigan for a short visit with my family this weekend, and just maybe Mom and I can take to the kitchen and make another baking memory together.

blueberry season

blueberries, courtesy of wikipedia


In late July through early August, the sky buzzes with the whine of perilously low flying crop dusters and the groan of irrigation pumps. Welcome to rural western Michigan blueberry country, nestled between sand dunes and flat land. The sun burns bright and warm, turning the fields dusty and dry. The air smells of harvest--berries, corn, a hint of Lake Michigan--taking me back to childhood and those summers shaped by berry picking...



This was no idyllic time, even through my genuinely idealistic, optimistic child's view of the world. I longed for cool, rainy days when I could read with abandon, draw dress designs, or go back-to-school shopping at Rogers Department Store in nearby Grand Rapids.

Instead, long summer mornings and afternoons of my childhood were filled with field time. In the early days, my family and I composed the work crew. I even remember one afternoon that only grandma and I were in the field, picking berries and telling stories. As the fields multiplied and grew--from our off season work potting and planting new blueberry bushes--our labor force also grew. Neighborhood kids not working at another farm, kids from the now defunct Port Sheldon Presbyterian Church, and friends from school strapped buckets to their waists, eager to earn $.22 per pound. With a group of peers joining me in the field, picking became less of a chore and more of a social occasion. As the farmer's daughter/granddaughter, I thought I had special immunity from grandpa's gruff warnings and rules. When he yelled at my cousins I realized it was because of my follow-the-rules-don't-make-waves personality and not my last name.

By the time I was in high school, I started hauling a boom box into the field, pumping popular music into the fields. Discussion of how we would spend our hard-earned wages volleyed between the bushes. One year, when I was still in elementary school, I saved all summer to buy a pair of Calvin Klein jeans. Another summer I contemplated saving for a Gunne Sak dress. Always, my mind turned to fashion, even as I was wearing my oldest, berry stained clothes.

We would break for lunch, and I would eat sandwiches and drink pop from grandma and grandpa's garage fridge. Then I would lead the other kids in elaborate gymnastics routines, flipping and twisting and leaping across the front yard before heading back out into the fields for a few more hours of work. At the end of a long, hot day, I was happy if I picked 8-10 pails full, which would add up 50-70 pounds. There were legends of people who could pick 100 pounds a day. I was well on my way to buying one lovely fashion piece for the year to come.

As the bushes grew taller and bent with ripe fruit, hand picking gave way to machine picking, and my job moved indoors to the packing shed. I would stand along the conveyor belt picking out green, red, soft, diseased berries; twigs and leaves; and the occasional slimy slug (which I would only scoop up with an errant blueberry leaf). The wages were higher, the work less grueling, though perhaps more tedious and a little grosser, and more grown-up in nature. My mom, aunt, grandparents, and neighbor lady B all had our favorite positions along the belt...



The vinegary, dusky smell still wafts through my memory, and late this summer I could smell that distinct fragrance as I drove along the familiar roads of my childhood. One night Mom and I were driving back from town behind a truck, out of which debris was flying. We conjectured at the contents, and when we rolled down the windows and smelled that familiar processed berry cocktail, we knew for certain that the truck contained the detritus of machine picked and cleaned berries--a sludge of waste, headed perhaps to a local pig or turkey farm to continue the food cycle.

As I headed out the field the next morning with my aunt and young cousins, I gave into the pleasure of recreational picking--scatter picking the bushes, seeking out the most luscious berries to make our favorite "double good blueberry pie." I was glad to be home, my fingers remembering one activity so intrinsic to my formative years that my pail filled faster than anyone else's. I walked slowly back up the pine needle strewn path back up to my parents' house, swinging my full pail ever so gently, headed for the sanctuary of my parents' porch, a glass of ice tea, a J-Crew catalogue, and a half-finished novel begging to be read.

beach weekend

Memorial Day weekend my family and I convened in Florida for a mini-vacation, a time to reconnect with each other after a long, busy winter. As glorious sunshine and heat streamed down and the wind swept the gulf into undulating ruffles of water, we chatted, laughed, golfed, ate, walked, wandered, and cried.

A few favorite moments:

1. Attempting to play nerf football on the beach with wind blowing the light-weight, aerodynamic toy off course. Mom and I stayed safely on the shore while Dad and L. manned the water line.




2. Sitting at the beach bar at the Don Cesar, a luxurious, storied, PINK hotel in St. Pete Beach. L. enjoyed a wheat beer, Dad a crown on the rocks, Mom a lemon sipper, and I delighted in a Florida freeze, a minty, limey, slushy, boozy confection. We watched a plane fly across the ocean, dragging a sign congratulating Terry on her Sweet 16, and we overheard the squeals of delight over the pulsating beat of Usher from the aforementioned birthday soiree at the other end of the hotel.




3. Some utter silliness in the car with Mom, involving food related mishaps.

4. An afternoon in Safety Harbor, where we parked under the shade of the Banahoff Live Oak, a towering beauty of 300-500 years age, romantically draped in Spanish Moss. We also enjoyed a lovely visit with Lois, the proprietress of Safety Harbor Antiques and Collectibles, SHAC, and "docent" of S.H.A.C.'s five cent tour of the town, given via a hand-drawn "ladies map" (all context and landmarks and no directions) and a pink highlighter. She gave us a thorough yet brief history of the town and highlighted points of historical, artistic, and quirky interest. She's delightful, and I would go back to Safety Harbor just to see her and the famous tree.

at home in the kitchen

My grandparents "inherited" this cabinet when they bought their house--a house they've lived in for as long as I've been living and then some. My Mom and Grandma "antiqued" it back in the 1970s, and then my Aunt T refinished it with class brown stain and glass panes etched with cattails and ducks. She returned it to my grandparents this summer, and Grandma called me to see if I wanted it. I did, but not in its present incarnation. I had visions of clear glass, and a pink-tinged white paint finish. I'd always wanted a Hoosier cabinet, but I feared I wouldn't have the time to refinish it before moving. Grandpa gamely volunteered to paint it for me for the bargain price of a few chocolate cakes.

And here it is, my very slightly pink cabinet, my favorite part of my new, large kitchen. I imagine all the women before me who might have rolled out pies on the enamel top. I think of the loaves of homemade bread that sat in the aluminum drawers, feeding the family for a week. Now, the cabinet holds my fancy glass, the bread drawer my vintage apron collection. I've taken to placing a vase of farmer's market blossoms--mostly vibrant zinnias this time of year--on the enamel top.

Someday, when I have the luxury and the money to design my own kitchen (I must believe that this day WILL come), I hope to pass up "modern" installed cabinets for a collection of "vintage" freestanding pieces. A pie safe, for one.

I move around the kitchen, still growing accustomed to the new layout, and as I bake my grandma's cookies, or make my Mom's homemade yeasted waffles for breakfast, I feel guided, comforted, and at home.