daily bliss: sunday dinners

There's something special about a slow cooked Sunday dinner, the delicious smells wafting through the house as the chatter of commentators, roar of the crowd, and smack of helmets and pads drifts from the television. 

Such multi-sensory moments bring me back to childhood in the old "garage house"—the first house my Dad built for our family, which would eventually be converted to a garage when he built the second, larger home next door, fifteen years later. Throw in the panic induced by unfinished homework, and my past Sundays are complete. Delicious dinners, football on TV, and school stress. 

Since living on my own, these rhythms have changed. Subtract the football, replace it with quiet classical music, increase the school stress, and toss in an often over-the-top dinner preparation for a typical dharmagirl Sunday these past five years

This fall, my life is a little different. Add in one awesome, football enthusiast boyfriend who I'm teaching all about my crazy foodie ways, and suddenly Sundays feel and sound and smell a little bit more like those of my past, and feel more like home. 

"What do you think—soup or lasagne?" I asked this past Sunday as I surveyed a bulbous butternut squash. 

"Mmm, I can't decide that," he said, giving me free reign in plotting our dinner. 

I decided that lasagne would be easier, since the butternut squash soup I most like making also involves homemade cheese ravioli, and I didn't want to spend all afternoon fiddling with tiny pasta. 

I tackled the squash with my handy Wüsthof chef's knife, cubing it, tossing it with olive oil and salt, and placing it in the oven to roast. 

Note to self: always set the timer when roasting vegetables, or they just might become a little too black and crispy... 

After salvaging the squash cubes, and after the first football game finished, we laced up our shoes and went for a walk in the chilly, brisk bluesky world. 

As afternoon faded into evening, I assembled the lasagne: layers of pasta, a ricotta shallot chard garlic saute, squash chunks, and bechamel. The top layer was garnished with expertly grated mozzarella (thanks, G:). 

Add side dishes of roasted broccoli and cauliflower, garlic bread, and glasses of pinot noir, and slip into Sunday evening mellowness. 

Try to forget that tomorrow is Monday, that another weekend has ended, that numerous football teams didn't perform as you hoped, that the grading hasn't been completed, that it's cold outside, that we have to say goodbye for now. 

not TWD, but still muffins

This week, the TWD group baked allspice crumb muffins, a simple spiced muffin that sounded delicious...however, pumpkin chocolate chip muffins sounded even more delicious to me, so I went rogue and baked different muffins. 

Back when I lived in Okemos, Michigan, I would purchase honey whole wheat bread from the Great Harvest Bread Company. Their ingenuous marketing strategy is to offer free slices of any of their breads when you step into their warm, yeasty shop. This time of year, they would offer a pumpkin chocolate chip bread so moist and fragrant of fall that I nearly swooned. 

I decided to try to recreate this bread at home, with some success. Then, I moved, lost track of recipes, and can no longer remember whose version I followed before. A quick survey of my baking books and my cupboards directed me to the King Arthur Flour Whole Grain Baking recipe, which relies on all whole wheat flour, three eggs, and one stick of butter for 24 muffins. (the original recipe is for bread, but I simply adapted the baking time—about 25 minutes—for muffins). 

These muffins are moist, lush, spicy, chocolatey, and just the right amount of pumpkiney for someone not super jazzed by pure pumpkin flavor.  

daily haiku: 21/100

candy corn pumpkins

pumpkin chocolate chip muffins

but not pumpkin pie.

daily haiku: 20/100

crimson tipped yellow

leaves shine against grey cloud filled

sky pregnant with snow.

daily haiku: 19/100

my foodie mantra:

sustainable and local,

eat organic bliss.

daily haiku: 18/100

the bus grows quiet,

sleeping, sweeping across miles,

rolling toward home.

daily haiku: 17/100

three giggling young girls,

rakes in hand, gathering leaves:

pile, spin, and dive in.

daily haiku: the explanation

Several weeks ago, G mentioned a neat idea he saw from a writer on twitter. For the last 100 days of the year, choose something to do every day until the end of the year. If you miss a day, you start over at day one. If you don't miss a day, you'll finish on the last day of the year. 

After some deliberation, I decided on two tasks I wanted to integrate into my days: daily haiku and tiny yoga. I learned about tiny yoga from Kiki at Yogademia, who credits Sark with the concept. 

I hope to post the haiku here most days. And the tiny yoga varies from day to day, though usually I flow through a few sun salutations in the morning while my oatmeal bubbles and cafe au lait heats. 

I like the tiny-ness of these tasks—they're manageable moments of creativity and connection, and I can see envision these moments lingering into the new year. 

daily haiku: 16/100

olive oil, sea salt

sweet potatoes, cauliflow'r

spicy beans and greens

daily haiku: 15/100

tiny purple heart

a temporary tattoo

fuzzy at the edge

daily haiku: 14/100

fourteen: waves meet shore

familiar and new, same yet

changed forever. you. 

twd: split level pudding

Football Sunday: a cool, grey day, leaves beginning to spill across still verdant lawns. During halftime I headed to the kitchen to mix up the pudding. 

"Cinnamon, espresso, or vanilla?" I asked G, who was diligently checking football scores around the NFL.

"Mmm, vanilla."

I happily agreed, and cut a two inch chunk of plump vanilla bean.

"Have you ever smelled a vanilla bean?" I summoned G to the kitchen.

"Mmm." [note: more descriptive comments are not allowed as G said he wasn't quote worthy this week, and I allowed all such comments to be strictly off the record.]

I made half of Dorie's recipe, using skim milk, the vanilla bean, as well as vanilla extract, to cut down on the fat and amp up the flavor. I eschewed her food processor method, and used just a saucepan and a bowl, which worked beautifully.

By the time the game started again, the pudding was done, and we sampled the still warm mixture. Our eyes widened as the fragrant smoothness coated our mouths. 

"Mmm."

I divvied up last week's leftover ganache into two custard cups and topped each with the pudding. I settled back in to watch the Bears trounce the Lions. (boo!)

After a post-pummeling and pre-next-game walk, we ate the pudding. 

Full. Voluptuous. Simple. Pure. 

This recipe's utter ease requires the finest ingredients, as the flavors shine through, unmuddied by anything extra. 

Comfort. Homeyness. Warmth. 

Thank you, Garrett, of Flavor of Vanilla, for this week's delicious selection. 

daily haiku: 13/100

raindrops dishwasher

football commentators crowds

and your soothing voice

daily haiku: 12/100

shimmy, shake, and strut

strip off your gossamer gown

exuberant nude.

daily haiku: 11/100

full white cotton bolls

puffy like cumulus clouds

something pricks within

daily haiku: 10/100

color my mom hates:

daffodils and coldplay songs

eggs sunny side up

daily haiku: 9/100

season of pumpkins

leaves turning crimson and gold

corduroy and wool

daily haiku: 8/100

stacks of magazines

a sapphire lake michigan

the view from my couch

daily haiku: 7/100

stuffy runny nose

wanting to retreat to couch

first cold of the year

twd: chocolate-crunched caramel tart

"Doesn't this tart look amazing," I whispered on Saturday afternoon, as the sky greyed and raindrops threatened to fall.

"Okay, I'm just not sure why this is called a tart," G said, as I showed him the photo in Baking: From My Home to Yours before we embarked on the baking process.

"Well, a tart is, um, not just for fruit! It's baked in a pan like this one!" I showed him the round, fluted edged pan with a removable bottom, the one he was about to butter for me. (is it cruel to delegate such tasks? he does a much more thorough job of buttering and flouring, as needs be, than i do). 

"I still don't get it," he said, shaking his head. 

I walked out of the kitchen...

...and into the study, where I selected my trusty pocket Oxford dictionary. "A tart is an open pastry creation!" I remarked, and then made a slightly risque joke involving the second definition of tart (consult your dictionary).

With that bit of banter established, we set about making the pastry. G buttered the pan, careful to fill each tiny pleat of the edge, as I mixed up the dough. We set it into the freezer and began the business of caramel and ganache making. 

I delegated the ganache making to G, as he's a huge fan of the versatile creamy chocolate concoction. He chopped 8 ounces of bittersweet Scharffen Berger chocolate, and whisked meticulously as I poured over the boiling cream and added the chunks of butter. 

Meanwhile, I faced the hot, tedious task of caramel making. I've successfully made caramel, in many stages and versions, on several occasions. I'm always nervous, though, as molten sugar foams and bubbles, threatening to harden and blacken in an instant. The caramel crafting was hot, steamy, and touch and go. I may have uttered a few profanities as I stirred and checked the candy thermometer. The color test was not reliable, as I used my favorite beige colored Florida Crystals organic cane sugar to intensify the flavor, and pale yellow star thistle honey in place of corn syrup. 

As I struggled with the caramel, and the tart shell baked, G chopped the cashews—Planters Harvest Jumbo cashews, roasted and lightly salted.

Our tasks complete, we sampled the components, eyes lighting up at the voluptuous flavors and textures of the ganache and caramel. 

We covered the cooled ganache and caramel, and set them in the fridge overnight. I decided to freeze the tart crust to keep it as fresh as possible. 

On Sunday, we assembled the tart and brought it to G's parents' home for an early fall Corn Roast and family get-together. 

After a delicious meal of grilled meats and soy products, roasted corn, salads and salsas and fruits and vegetables, we sliced the tart into sixteen slivers. 

With mugs of coffee in hand, the adults surveyed the tart and began eating...

Delight! 

The children were not fans, eating everything but the ganache, or declining outright. (next time i'm going to bring cupcakes adorned with pink sprinkles for the girls!). 

"This tart is not (a) tart," M said, delving into his second, nay, third sliver a few hours later, "but it's good anyway!" 

Conviviality and celebration filled the air as we watched the Detroit Lions finally, finally win a football game for the first time since December 23, 2007. 

I adore this tart, as it marries several of my favorite flavors—chocolate, caramel, nuts, and buttery pastry. Next time I'll use salted and roasted pecans, and I'll share it with my Mom and Dad and G, perhaps the night before the Lions win yet another game. 

Thank you, Carla, of Chocolate Moosey, for selecting one of the recipes I most wanted to bake!