Welcome back

Well. It's been a while, hasn't it. Much to my surprise, life after graduate school does not, in fact, automatically come with more free time. On the contrary, along with my shiny new job came a shiny new commute, and part of me feels a perverse longing for the "free" time I had a year ago. Finding the time and energy to cook dinner with any kind of regularity has been a challenge, let alone finding the motivation to photograph and write about what I manage to cook.

Recently, though, I've enjoyed some extra inspiration to make time for baking. Summer fruit hit its stride a few weeks ago, just in time for Amy I. to return to the Bay Area. Now, when a friend arrives back in town after six months abroad, when she and her spouse move into their new place, housewarming goodies must be baked. And baked they were. I could think of no more delightful way to celebrate their return than with an abundance of summer's best in one of my favorite fruit desserts: a frangipane tart.

You see, I am a sucker for many things nut-related, but perhaps most of all for frangipane. So simple, so easy, frangipane feels disproportionately (almost guiltily) rewarding for how little work goes into it. A food processor makes quick work of the filling, and whether you scatter the fruit haphazardly or arrange it artfully, the result rarely fails to take on a kind of elegance. In the end, for reasons I can't quite identify, frangipane tarts feel at once rustic and refined, the sort of dessert that feels equally at home eaten off of a napkin or china plates.

This is a choose-your-own-adventure sort of dessert, one that works with a variety of crusts and virtually any fruit you can imagine pairing with nuts. I think that stone fruits make the best frangipane tarts, but pear and apple also shine in this setting (pear frangipane tarts are a classic French dessert), and I will probably try a fig and frangipane tart before the summer's out. For this tart, however, the timing couldn't have been better for cherries.

Sweet and succulent, and just hitting their peak, cherries have had me on a veritable baking streak. They seem particularly fine this year, despite (or perhaps thanks to?) an unusually rainy and cool spring, and I am enjoying cherries like never before: packed in lunches, at picnics in the park with puppy, out of hand as I putter about the house, and of course baked in tarts like this one. I do hope you'll give it a try.

Cherry Frangipane Tart

Adapted from Deborah Madison's Seasonal Fruit Desserts.

Makes one 9-inch round tart, plus enough frangipane for another tart.

Ingredients

• One 9-inch tart shell (recipe of your choice), partially baked, cooled
• 1 1/2 cups raw almonds
• 1/2 cup plus 2 tablespoons unrefined sugar (see note)
• 1/4 teaspoon salt
• 2 tablespoons all-purpose flour
• 7 tablespoons unsalted butter
• 1 egg plus 2 egg yolks
• 1/2 teaspoon almond extract
• 2 tablespoons Kirsch (optional, see note)
• 1 1/4 pounds cherries
• 3 tablespoons good quality fruit preserves (I used homemade apricot jam)
• 1 tablespoon granulated sugar

Directions

1. Combine the first four ingredients in the bowl of a food processor and process until the nuts are finely ground.
2. Add the butter in pieces and process until the mixture is smooth.
3. Add the egg, yolks, almond extract, and liqueur (if using), and process until well blended. Divide into two equal portions, and refrigerate one half for later use. You may refrigerate the other half if not using right away; bring the mixture to room temperature before spreading into the prepared crust (see note).
4. When ready to bake the tart, place a rack in the center of your oven and preheat the oven to 400F (200C).
5. While the oven is coming up to temperature, heat the preserves, strain them, and stir together with 1 tablespoon water.
6. Stem and pit the cherries, then toss with the sugar and strained preserves.
7. Spread the room-temperature frangipane over the cooled crust, and distribute the cherries over the top.
8. Bake until the frangipane is puffed and golden, and the fruit has softened, about 35 minutes.
9. Serve warm or at room temperature, as you prefer

Notes

• You can also use white sugar, but I like the extra depth of flavor that raw or other kinds of unrefined sugar (such as sucanat) lend to the filling. The exception is the cherry mixture, where the fine grains of ordinary granulated sugar lend themselves to more even distribution.
• Kirsch works beautifully for a cherry tart, but you can also use Amaretto, especially if you're using a different fruit.
• This recipe makes twice as much frangipane as you need for one tart, but the mixture keeps, refrigerated in a clean container, for approximately one week. I find it a very handy thing to have around in case you need to make a dessert on short notice, and in summer I'm rarely without a jar of it in the fridge.
• You can also make frangipane using almond paste, which contains more finely ground almonds, but I prefer the texture of frangipane made with ground almonds. An example of almond paste frangipane can be found here.

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A different kind of gingerbread house

Gingerbread houses: the baking, the building, the decorating. Ordinarily I'd say, what's not to love? The thing is, there is something not to love, and that's the gingerbread. Frankly, I'm not all that fond of the sturdy (ahem) gingerbread that's typically used in gingerbread houses. Perhaps some people are content with the only fun part being the decorating, and perhaps some people actually like the traditional gingerbread, but I'm not one of those people--I want to play with my food, but I also want to eat it. Fortunately there's a different way. If you ask me, it's a better way.

Years ago I happened on a Martha Stewart gingerbread house recipe that used not the hard, unappetizing type of gingerbread, but gingerbread cake. I can't for the life of me find the recipe, and I don't even remember if the cake was anything special. The key thing was the concept. If you make a gingerbread house using cake, your problem will be keeping yourself from eating all your construction materials before you even start building, rather than the guilt over throwing out something you baked but can't bring yourself to eat.

This cake is a ginger-lover's cake. Indeed, with two tablespoons (!!) of ground ginger and a tablespoon of fresh ginger, it might even be too strong for people whose feelings toward ginger don't rise to the level of fervent admiration. Again, I'm not one of those people. I've tried other gingerbread cakes before, ones that gave a cursory nod to the ginger flavor but ultimately left me wanting more. Not this one. Here the warm, spicy ginger flavor comes through beautifully against the hearty, stout-enriched cake. I enjoyed building and decorating my little house, but for once I think I might have even more fun eating it.

Gingerbread Cake

Adapted from Cook's Illustrated, January & February 2011

Makes one 8-inch square cake.

Ingredients

• 3/4 cup dark stout, such as Guinness
• 1/2 teaspoon baking soda
• 2/3 cup molasses
• 3/4 cup (5 1/4 ounces) packed brown sugar
• 1/4 cup (1 3/4 ounces) granulated sugar
• 1 1/2 cups (7 1/2 ounces) unbleached all-purpose flour, plus some for dusting the pan
• 2 tablespoons ground ginger
• 1/2 teaspoon baking powder
• 1/2 teaspoon salt
• 1/4 teaspoon ground cinnamon
• 1/4 teaspoon finely ground black pepper
• 2 large eggs
• 1/3 cup vegetable oil
• 1 tablespoon finely grated fresh ginger

Directions

1. Place an oven rack in the middle position, and preheat the oven to 350 degrees. Oil an 8-inch square baking pan (preferably glass or ceramic, see note), dust it with flour, and set aside.
2. Place the stout in a medium saucepan (at least 1 1/2 quarts, trust me) over medium heat. When it comes to a boil, remove it from the heat and stir in the baking soda. Don't be alarmed when it produces a copious amount of foam.
3. Let the foam subside, then stir in the molasses and sugars until they're dissolved. Set the mixture aside and let cool slightly while you prepare the dry ingredients.
4. In a medium bowl, whisk together the flour, ground ginger (not fresh), baking powder, salt, cinnamon, and pepper. Set aside.
5. When the stout mixture has cooled somewhat (should be warm to the touch, but not hot), whisk in the eggs, oil, and fresh ginger.
6. Add the wet ingredients to the dry ingredients in three parts, whisking vigorously (yes, really) after each addition. The batter should be completely smooth before you proceed with subsequent additions.
7. Pour the batter into the prepared pan, and tap the pan against the counter (gently!) in order to release any large air bubbles in the batter. Bake for 35-45 minutes, or until a toothpick inserted into the center of the cake comes out clean, and the top is just firm to touch. Be patient--unless you know that your oven tends to rush things (or the cake appears to be burning), try not to open the oven door until at least 35 minutes have passed. Cool the cake in the pan on a rack for at least 1 1/2 hours, and serve either warm or at room temperature.

Notes

• If you only have a thin-walled (metal) pan, the folks at Cook's Illustrated recommend using cake strips to insulate the cake and prevent the edges from burning.
• The cake can be stored, wrapped tightly in plastic and kept at room temperature, for two days.
• The original recipe recommends serving it with whipped cream, but for construction purposes I recommend something more substantial, like cream cheese frosting. Cream cheese frosting is simply two parts cream cheese, one part butter, plus vanilla extract and powdered sugar to taste--1/2 teaspoon vanilla and 1 cup powdered sugar are a good starting point for 8 ounces of cream cheese.

Green risotto for a green day

Last week I posted various links with information on how you can get more green in your life. Today I'm going to post about getting more green in your diet. I don't mean the sustainability kind of green (though of course it can be that, too); I mean the crisp, lively, juicy spring green that's so welcome when you're starting to have had your fill of root vegetables.

The look of my local farmer's market is changing rapidly these days, exchanging the warm yellows and oranges of winter citrus for the vibrant greens of spring vegetables. Gone are the blood oranges and cara caras; in their place are tables overflowing with fresh peas. Last weekend we even got our first fava beans, and I was ready with a recipe. A green recipe!

This risotto has been on my to-do list ever since I came across it in Alice Waters' Chez Panisse Vegetables last summer (after the favas had disappeared from the markets, naturally) because it combines one of my favorite things about spring (fresh peas) with one of my favorite things in general (risotto). But it's not just peas, and this is where we really get our green on. This risotto takes the best of the spring green vegetables: peas, fava beans, and asparagus.

That might sound like a lot--indeed, done poorly, I can imagine the result feeling clumsy--but Waters incorporates the vegetables in such a way that none of them steps on another's toes. And although in my mind risotto falls squarely in the warming, cozy "comfort food" category, this risotto manages to be at once comforting and refreshing. I don't know how better to describe it than to say that it tastes of spring. And if that doesn't chase away the winter doldrums, I don't know what will.

Green Risotto with Fava Puree, Peas, and Asparagus

Adapted from Chez Panisse Vegetables

Serves 6, or 4 generously

Ingredients

• 1/2 pound young fava beans (weighed in their pods)
• Olive oil
• Coarse salt and freshly ground pepper to taste
• 3/4 pound fresh green peas (again, weighed in their pods)
• 4 spears of asparagus
• 1 medium onion
• 7 to 8 cups good stock (vegetable or chicken, as you like)
• 4 1/2 tablespoons unsalted butter
• 2 cups arborio rice
• 1/3 cup dry white wine
• 1/4 cup grated Parmesan cheese, plus extra for serving

Directions

1. Bring a large pot of water to boil. While you're waiting for it to boil, prepare an ice bath, and shell the favas. Discard--or compost!--the pods.
2. When the water's boiling, add the favas and let them cook for one minute before draining them and shocking them in the ice bath to stop the cooking.
3. Drain them again, then peel them by piercing the outer skin with your thumbnail at one end, and squeezing the bean out with the thumb and forefinger of your other hand.
4. Place the peeled beans in a small pot with a glug of olive oil, a dash of salt, and just enough water so that they're almost covered. Cook them over low heat, slowly, until they're squishably soft but haven't lost their bright green color. This should take about 15-20 minutes. If the pan goes dry and the beans start to stick, add water a bit at a time. Drain them once more, then either puree them with a food processor or pass them through a food mill.
5. While the beans are cooking, prep the rest of the vegetables. Shell the peas and prep the asparagus. Trim the ends of the asparagus, then slice the stalks thinly on the bias. Chop the onion into small dice.
6. When all of your vegetables are ready to go, heat the stock in a large pot and keep it at a bare simmer.
7. Place another large, heavy pot over medium heat and add the butter. When the butter is melted, add the onion and cook until it is softened and translucent, about 5 minutes.
8. Add a pinch of salt and the rice and cook, stirring frequently, until the rice is also slightly translucent, about 3 minutes.
9. Increase the heat to medium-high as you pour in the white wine. Stir constantly until the wine is absorbed, then reduce the heat and add just enough stock so that the rice is covered.
10. Keep stirring, adding more stock by the ladleful when the previous addition has been absorbed. Keep the rice at a low simmer.
11. After 10 minutes of cooking, add the peas and the sliced asparagus, then continue with the stirring and adding of stock.
12. After another 5 minutes, or when the rice is al dente to taste, add the fava puree, the cheese, and the remaining butter. Stir well, adding more stock if necessary to achieve the consistency of a thick sauce. Taste and adjust the seasoning, then serve immediately, with the extra cheese as a garnish.

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Preserving the best of winter

Before we begin, I must beg your pardon. I've waited so very long to share this recipe with you that at this point, I fear you'll have some difficulty in obtaining the ingredients. But it would be a shame to have to wait until next winter to make this marmalade, so I'm going to post it anyway. I hope very much that, what with California often being on the leading edge of the change in the turnover of seasonal produce, the bright hues of winter citrus are still in abundance at your local markets.

Personally, I've missed my window. I made only a small batch as a test run, and as it often does, life (*cough* grad school *cough*) kept me from making another, larger batch before kumquat season came to an end. Now that that one small batch is long gone, I find myself pining for it.

I still love orange marmalade, but after making and tasting tangerine-kumquat marmalade, I admit that I'm spooning ordinary orange marmalade onto my toast with a little less enthusiasm than I used to. There might even be a sigh now and then as I remember that what I have left in my pantry for the next nine months or so is not, in fact, tangerine-kumquat marmalade.

Most marmalades succeed reasonably well in striking a balance among sweet, tart, and bitter flavors. None, in my experience, does it with the grace that this one possesses. As Thomas Keller notes at the beginning of the recipe, this marmalade is at home aside an elegantly prepared duck as it is atop a humble bagel with cream cheese.

Marmalade skeptics might look askance at the relatively large pieces of rind suspended in the jelly. Indeed, the marmalade does have a substantial (in my opinion, very pleasant) chew, but the rind's bitterness mellows with an overnight soak in water, so those large pieces are not as bold as they otherwise might be. In fact, other than the color, there's not much about this marmalade that is bold. But don't let that dissuade you. It doesn't need to be bold. It's perfectly content to wait, earnest and smiling, for you to discover its virtues in your own good time. And I'm sure you will--assuming you can find some kumquats.

Tangerine-Kumquat Marmalade

Adapted from Ad Hoc at Home

Makes about 2 1/2 cups

Ingredients

• 1 1/2 pounds kumquats
• 6 tangerines or other mandarin oranges, or enough to provide 1 cup of juice
• 2 1/2 cups sugar

Directions

1. Quarter the kumquats lengthwise, and remove the stems and all of the seeds. (If you prefer your pieces of rind to be smaller, cut the kumquats into eighths instead.)
2. Put the kumquat pieces in a large bowl, and pour in enough cold water to cover by about 2 inches. Place the bowl in the refrigerator, and chill for at least 18 hours, or up to 24 hours. This soak and chill will temper the rind's bitterness.
3. When you are ready to make the marmalade, quarter the tangerines and pour the juice from the cutting board into a 1-cup (or larger) measuring cup. Working with one quarter at a time, cut the tangerine flesh away from the skin (being careful not to cut into the pith). If you encounter any seeds, remove and discard them.
li>Squeeze the tangerine juice into the measuring cup. Discard the rind, but reserve the juiced flesh. Continue until you have 1 cup of juice, then set the juice aside.
4. Gather up the reserved tangerine flesh, chop it, and transfer it to a medium-sized pot.
5. Add the kumquats, the juice, and the sugar, and stir to combine. Affix a candy thermometer to the side of the pot.
6. Bring the mixture to a simmer and cook, skimming off as much foam as you can, until it registers 215-220F (100-105C) and a small amount dribbled onto a chilled plate sets nicely and wrinkles when pushed with your finger. Remove the pot from the heat.
7. Ladle the marmalade into clean jars, cover, let cool to room temperature, and chill. The marmalade should be chilled for at least 2 hours, and ideally for 24 hours, before being served.

Notes

• The marmalade keeps, refrigerated, for 1 month--that is, if you can make it last that long.
• Alternatively, you can use the hot pack canning method for shelf-stable jars.

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Chocolate cream pies for Pi Day

Please allow me to brighten up this historically ill-fated day for you. Chocolate! Cream! Pie! Pi!

Wait, what?

Yesterday* was 3/14, Pi Day, that under-appreciated holiday on which we gather together to eat pie and give thanks for our ability to calculate the area of a pie plate. Well, maybe you don't. But even if you don't care much about the math, I think we can all agree that an excuse to eat pie is worth celebrating.

Unlike with some pies, there's really no way to convince myself that chocolate cream pie is good for me. It consists entirely of cookies, butter, pudding, and cream, so there's no getting around it: this is one of those desserts you can't justify making for anything other than a special occasion. I've been waiting months for a good excuse to make it, so when someone reminded me that Pi Day was coming up, it didn't take me long to decide. Chocolate cream pie was the one.

And what a pie it is. A pulverized chocolate cookie crust, chocolate pudding for filling, and whipped cream to top it all off. What's not to love? No doubt about it, this pie will turn your frown upside down.

Even the preparation will elicit a smile, especially from those for whom success with traditional pie crusts remains elusive. You'd have to try hard in order to overwork this crust, which comes together quickly and is simply pressed into place. The only aspect of the pie that might give one pause is the pudding. To that I say: arm yourself with a whisk and a sieve, and all will be well. By the time you've finished, you'll realize that the hardest part is being patient enough to let it chill for six hours before you dive in.

Hungry for more Pi Day fun? Head on over to Amy's, where fall flavors made a guest appearance for this late winter celebration. Did you make a pie for Pi Day? Please share with us in comments!

Chocolate Cream Pie

Adapted from Gourmet, February 2004

Makes one 9-inch pie, or a few smaller ones

Ingredients

For the crust:

• 1 1/3 cups chocolate wafer crumbs
• 5 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted
• 1/4 cup sugar
• Dash of cinnamon (optional)

For the filling:

• 2/3 cup sugar
• 1/4 cup cornstarch
• 1/2 teaspoon salt
• 4 large egg yolks
• 3 cups whole milk
• 5 ounces bittersweet chocolate (not unsweetened)
• 2 ounces unsweetened chocolate
• 2 tablespoons unsalted butter, softened
• 1 teaspoon vanilla

For the topping:

• 3/4 cup heavy cream, cold from the fridge
• 1 tablespoon sugar

Directions

1. Place an oven rack in the middle position, and preheat the oven to 350/175C.
2. Combine the cookie crumbs, butter, sugar, and ground cinnamon (if using) in a bowl and stir until uniformly mixed. Pour the mixture into a 9-inch pie plate, pressing on the bottom and sides of the dish to compact the mixture into an even crust. Bake the crust for about 15 minutes, or until crisp, then set on a rack to cool.
3. Meanwhile, place the two chocolates in a large, heatproof bowl and place over a pan of barely simmering water (the bowl should not touch the water). Stir the chocolate continually until it is melted and smooth. Remove the bowl from the heat, place a fine mesh sieve over the bowl, and set aside.
4. In a medium bowl, whisk together the egg yolks, sugar, cornstarch, and salt until thick.
5. Heat the milk in a heavy 3-quart saucepan until just simmering. Ladle some of the milk into the egg mixture, whisking vigorously, to temper the yolks. Once the tempered mixture is smooth, pour it into the pot with the rest of the milk, whisking as you go.
6. Cook the custard, whisking constantly, until it thickens and reaches reaches a boil. Turn the heat down slightly and cook, still whisking, for another minute.
7. Pour the thickened custard through the sieve into the chocolate. You might need to help it along with a spatula. Whisk the chocolate and custard together until they're evenly mixed, then add the vanilla and the softened butter, and whisk to incorporate. Butter a piece of waxed paper and place it, buttered side down, on the surface of the custard. Let cool completely, roughly 2 hours.
8. Spoon the chilled filling into the prepared crust, then loosely cover the pie and place it in the fridge to chill for at least 6 hours, or up to 1 day.
9. Just prior to serving, place the cream and sugar in a large bowl and beat just until the stiff peak stage. Spoon the whipped cream on top of the pie, and serve.

Notes

• Make-ahead: as noted in the recipe, the pie can be made and filled (but not topped) up to 1 day ahead.
• If you'd like to reduce the amount of sugar in the filling, go ahead. I wouldn't cut it by more than half, though.

* Yes, I'm a day late with this, and here's why. I dare you to be annoyed with that face.

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A different kind of post-op pudding

The last time we visited pudding, it was in preparation for a liquid diet after having a couple of wisdom teeth yanked. I'm happy to say that this post has nothing to do with wisdom teeth, and in fact nothing to do with oral surgery. What I'm not so happy to report is that it does have something to do with surgery, at least in some tangential way.

The Suitor, you see, is like a German Shepherd--or so his orthopedic surgeon tells him. As it turns out, he has hip dysplasia, and years of high-impact activities like running marathons have accelerated the inevitable deterioration of his hip. It was time for hip surgery. I'll spare you the gory details; suffice it to say that he avoided a full hip replacement, but he did need some work done.

And work is what they did. The surgery went well, and the recovery is going well; but for the poor Suitor, surgery meant a return to the self-sufficiency of a toddler. If something was going to get done, I was going to be the one doing it--and that included everything from running errands to helping him in and out of his socks. Which, believe it or not, I have thoroughly enjoyed. For someone who doesn't have much interest in having kids, I sure do take to playing the mother hen.

Unfortunately, as pleasant as caregiving has been for the psyche, it was not what the doctor ordered for the clot-ridden lungs. According to my hematologist, my recovery is progressing at the normal pace; but that pace is a lot slower than I had anticipated, and until recently I haven't been up for much cooking or baking. (My parents were incredibly helpful, bringing over dinners for us, running errands, and so on.) But my lack of cooking in general didn't keep me from wanting to make myself a little treat for the calm moments when the Suitor was knocked out by the Vicodin and I could curl up for a rest on the sofa.

The trick, of course, was finding the right treat. Everyone has their favorite comfort foods, and specifically their favorite comfort desserts. I fall into two camps: when I'm feeling under pressure, sometimes the soothing familiarity of the creaming method brings me back down to earth, and I go for cookies or a cake of some sort. But when I feel like cozying up with a comforting dessert, I want pudding. And this time I wanted not chocolate pudding, but butterscotch pudding.

I first tried what was billed as a tried-and-true butterscotch pudding recipe. Despite my having every confidence in the source, I wound up underwhelmed. The texture was lovely, but the butterscotch flavor didn't exactly come out swinging. That's fine if you're going for subtle (and as subtle flavor goes, it was quite nice), but I wasn't. I was going for knock-out flavor.

Fortunately one of my favorite food bloggers had recently posted a recipe not for butterscotch pudding per se, but for butterscotch pots de crème. A glance at the ingredient list--including two kinds of brown sugar, a slew of egg yolks, and some fleur de sel--convinced me that I was on the right track. and indeed, I was. These little pots of butterscotch goodness are the very essence of comfort--at least for me. Your favorites might vary, but I suggest that you give this one a try. You just might find that you have a new favorite comfort food.

Butterscotch Pots de Crème

Adapted from Cannelle et Vanille

Makes about 8 servings, assuming that you use 6 oz. ramekins

Ingredients

• 500 mL heavy cream (about 2 cups plus 2 tablespoons)
• 225 mL whole milk (about 1 scant cup)
• 1 vanilla bean
• 1/2 teaspoon fleur de sel or other good sea salt
• 160 grams muscovado sugar (about 1 scant cup, lightly packed)
• 80 grams demerara sugar (about 1/3 cup)
• 8 egg yolks

Directions

1. Preheat the oven to 300F/150C. Get some water heating either on the stove or in the microwave. You'll need it for the hot water bath when the ramekins go in the oven.
2. Combine the cream, milk, muscovado sugar, and salt in a small saucepan. Split the vanilla bean, scrape the seeds into the pot, and add the scraped bean to the pot. Bring the mixture to a boil, then reduce (or turn off) the heat and keep the pot warm.
3. Get out a medium saucepan, and place it over moderate heat. Sprinkle half of the demerara sugar evenly over the bottom of the pan. It will begin to melt at the edges, at which point sprinkle the remaining demerara sugar into the pan. Stir or swirl until the sugar is fully melted and a nice, golden caramel.
4. Carefully (!) deglaze the caramel with the hot cream mixture, whisking in a little at a time. Keep whisking until you get all of the caramel to dissolve. If it's stubborn, return the pot to the heat and keep whisking. Those bits of caramel will work themselves out. Once it's smooth, take it off the heat if you like, but keep it hot.
5. Whisk the egg yolks together in a medium bowl. Temper the yolks by adding a little of the hot caramel mixture, whisking well, then pour the tempered yolks back into the caramel pot.
6. Strain the mixture through a fine sieve (or don't, if you're feeling confident or pressed for time), then portion it out into ramekins.
7. Place the ramekins on a baking sheet, and pour the hot water into the pan and place carefully in the preheated oven. Bake until the pots de crème are just set in the center, about 30-45 minutes. Let cool to room temperature, then cover and chill before serving.

Notes

• If you can't find muscovado sugar, use the darkest brown sugar you can find. Similarly, if you can't find demerara sugar, use light brown or raw sugar.
• Need something to do with all those egg whites? Marshmallows are a good choice, and Swiss buttercream keeps beautifully in the freezer for all your impromptu cake-frosting needs.

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Starting off on the right foot

A year, much like a day, ought to begin on solid footing, don't you think? Even if you don't subscribe to the view that a new year is a clean slate, there's something heartening about getting a new calendar year off to a good start. We can define "good" in various ways, of course; but since this is the season of new gym memberships and diet resolutions, let's play along and go for something healthy.

Don't worry, I'm not about to convert this blog to a diet blog. On the contrary, given my new toy, I'll probably have all sorts of new and decadent recipes to share. And what with being on blood-thinning medication for the next several months, I don't exactly have free rein with most of the vegetables that are now in season. But that doesn't mean that we can't find new and interesting (and, above all, delicious) ways to nourish ourselves.

I've done a fair bit of nudging and winking recently about whole wheat recipes that I try to pass off as healthy, with varying degrees of success. This recipe falls right into that theme. These pancakes are cooked in butter (or at least I recommend that you cook them that way), and are delicious drizzled with maple syrup, so there's no claiming that they are 100% guilt-free. That said, of all the whole wheat recipes that I've posted, this is perhaps the one with the most bang for its nutritional buck.

With some of the other recipes, I felt like you couldn't mess too much with the butter or sugar quantities before the intended tasty treat became, well, not as much of a treat. Unlike those recipes, these pancakes don't need a lot of dolling up in order to make you feel like you're starting your morning with something special. They've just a touch of oil and sugar--so little sugar, in fact, that I think you'd hardly miss it if you left it out--but tasting them, you wouldn't know it.

And here's another thing you might not guess from tasting these pancakes: they're actually two breakfast foods in one. That's right, these pancakes are made with oatmeal--the better to make your heart jump for joy when you sit down to a plate full of them. But the texture doesn't feel like a bunch of oats, the way oatmeal raisin cookies do. They dissolve (or something?) into the pancake batter, and you're left with a soft and hearty--but not tough or chewy--pancake.

The introductory comments on the original recipe mentioned something about these pancakes being rather dense, but I don't think that's the case at all. The buttermilk makes them pillowy, lighter than one might expect of whole wheat pancakes. And if you have your heart set on a truly fluffy pancake, you can always separate the eggs, make the batter with the yolks only, and then fold in the beaten whites.

These pictures reflect a banana-walnut version of the pancakes, but that's just a variation born of necessity. The recipe was originally written with blueberries in mind, and the pancakes are equally good that way. I imagine they would also be good with no fruit at all, or made plain and topped with fresh raspberries, or apple (or pear, or quince) compote... I'll let your imagination keep that train of thought going.

But before I lose you to your reverie, I'd like to wish you all a peaceful and prosperous (and pancake-filled!) new year. Here's to another year of good eating!

Oatmeal Buttermilk Pancakes

Adapted from The New York Times Recipes for Health

Makes 15-20 pancakes, depending on size

Ingredients

• 1/2 cup rolled oats (not steel-cut)
• 1/2 cup (4 fluid ounces) low-fat milk
• 1 cup whole wheat flour
• 1/2 cup unbleached all-purpose flour
• 2 teaspoons baking powder
• 1 teaspoon baking soda
• 1 tablespoon sugar (optional)
• 1/4 teaspoon salt
• 2 large eggs
• 1 1/2 cups (12 fluid ounces) buttermilk
• 1 teaspoon vanilla extract
• 3 tablespoons canola oil
• 1 cup fruit (optional)
• 1/2 cup chopped nuts (optional)
• butter or cooking spray for greasing the pan

Directions

1. Combine the oats and milk (not the buttermilk) in a bowl and set aside.
2. Sift or whisk together the two flours, the baking powder and soda, the sugar (if using), and the salt, and set them aside as well.
3. In a large bowl, whisk together the eggs and buttermilk. Add the vanilla extract and the oil, and whisk to combine.
4. Stir the flour mixture into the buttermilk mixture until just barely combined (a few lumps of flour are fine). Fold the oats mixture and nuts (if using) into the batter. The batter can sit out at room temperature for up to an hour, or you can refrigerate it overnight.
5. When it's time to make the pancakes, heat a griddle over medium heat until water droplets skitter across the hot surface. (Fun physics fact: this is called the Leidenfrost Effect.)
6. Grease the pan with a small pat of butter. When the foam subsides, ladle or scoop the batter in scant 1/4-cupfuls onto the pan, leaving a few inches of spreading room. If you are adding fruit, now's the time to drop it onto the individual batter portions.
7. Cook the pancakes until the edges are set and there are several bubbles on the surface of the pancake, a few minutes. Flip them and cook for another minute or so further, until nicely browned. Remove from heat and, if desired, keep warm until serving.

Notes

• Cooled, well wrapped pancakes can be kept in the refrigerator for a few days, or in the freezer for a few months. Rewarm before serving.
• If you don't have buttermilk, feel free to substitute yogurt or sour cream; in a pinch, you can even use regular milk, but the pancakes might not be as puffy.
• For those who are watching their blood pressure, I absent-mindedly omitted the salt one morning and didn't notice the difference. Then again, I did cook them in salted butter.

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Tea and Cake or Death

That title probably needs an explanation, doesn't it? I can't possibly do the line justice, so I'll just refer you to this Eddie Izzard clip (or rather, the Lego version thereof). If you're not an Eddie Izzard fan or can't watch the video, just trust me that no one died, or was even mildly injured, in the making of this cake. Or bread--we refer to it as bread, and in fact it is a quickbread, but it's really more like cake, isn't it?

Perhaps we need a bit more context. The other evening when I was winding down the day with a cup of chamomile tea and a slice (okay, two) of this cake, I said to myself, "tea and cake." (What, you don't talk to yourself about what you're fixing in the kitchen?) Having watched that Izzard clip umpteen times, my brain's natural follow-on was "or death." And a post title was born.

Anyway... Out here in this most mild-weathered part of the country, we get zucchini absurdly late in the year. We'll have summer squash and winter squash sitting side by side on the tables at the farmer's market. My enjoyment of zucchini has really been coming into its own this year, but by the time it got to October and November, I was starting to exhaust my growing, but still limited repertoire of zucchini recipes.

There was one obvious addition to said repertoire that I had always dismissed because of my skepticism about the results. Zucchini bread is the classic way for inundated gardeners to use up their zucchini (or courgettes, as they're known to some readers), but I have to admit that I've always wrinkled my nose a bit at the prospect--due in part, no doubt, to the remains of the not-so-warm feelings I had for the vegetable in years past. Zucchini bread? Wouldn't it taste like zucchini? Or to be more precise, like everything I disliked about zucchini?

Well, I'm here to tell you that zucchini bread doesn't taste anything like what I disliked about zucchini. Or at least, my zucchini bread doesn't, and that's because I did what's obvious when you're looking to hide a potentially unpleasant-tasting ingredient in a cake: I made a spice cake.

If you ask me, there's no better way to ensure that a baked good will taste delicious than adding cinnamon, cloves, and nutmeg. To err even more on the side of safety, and because by the time I was making this cake we were well on our way toward the season of holiday baking, I added dried fruit, nuts, and some crystallized ginger. There was really no way that this cake could go wrong.

Sure enough, there is no hint of zucchini flavor; in fact, the only indication that there's any sort of vegetable in the cake is the tiny green bits you might see peeking out the top. The rest is nothing but tender, aromatic cake, studded with cranberries and walnuts and the occasional piece of candied ginger. What with all that decoration inside, this cake feels festive; and in fact, it's perfect for the holiday gift baking that I'm sure many of you will be undertaking soon (or have already started). But I, for one, won't blame you if you want to keep it all for yourself.

Whole Wheat Zucchini Spice Cake

Adapted from 101 Cookbooks

Makes 2 4x8-inch loaves, or 4-6 mini loaves

Ingredients

• 1/2 cup (4 ounces, or 1 stick) butter, softened
• 1 cup packed brown sugar
• 3 large eggs
• 2 teaspoons vanilla extract
• 3 cups grated zucchini (about 3 medium zucchini)
• 3 cups whole wheat pastry flour (see note)
• 1 1/2 teaspoons baking soda
• 1/2 teaspoon baking powder
• 1 teaspoon salt
• 2 teaspoons ground cinnamon
• 1 teaspoon ground ginger
• 1/2 teaspoon ground cloves
• 1/2 teaspoon freshly grated nutmeg
• 3/4 cup chopped walnuts
• 3/4 cup dried cranberries
• 1/2 cup minced crystallized ginger

Directions

1. Place an oven rack in the middle position, and preheat the oven to 350F/175C.
2. Prepare your loaf pans: line the pans with parchment paper, or butter them and dust them with flour.
3. Combine the walnuts, cranberries, and crystallized ginger in a bowl and set aside.
4. In a separate bowl, whisk together the flour, baking soda and powder, salt, and spices and set that aside as well.
6. In a large bowl, cream together the butter and sugar until light and fluffy.
7. Add the eggs one at a time, beating well and scraping down the bowl after each addition.
8. Add the vanilla extract and mix well; then add the zucchini and stir until everything is combined.
9. Add the flour mixture in two additions, stirring only until just combined, then gently fold in the dried fruit, nuts, and crystallized ginger.
10. Divide the batter equally among the pans, and use a spatula to smooth it out a bit. Place the pans on a baking sheet for easy maneuvering.
11. Bake for about 40-45 minutes for regular loaves, or 30-35 minutes for small loaves. They are done when a toothpick inserted into the center comes out with moist crumbs attached, or even a bit of almost-done batter. The loaves will be dry if you overbake them, so I like to err on the side of underbaking for a nice, moist cake.
12. Cool the loaves in their pans for about 10 minutes, then turn out onto a rack to finish cooling.

Notes

• A food processor, fitted with the grating blade, makes wonderfully quick work of grating the zucchini.
• If you don't have whole wheat pastry flour, you can substitute 1 1/2 cups all purpose and 1 1/2 cups whole wheat.
• Vary the fruit, nut, etc. combination as much as you like, perhaps staying close to the rough guideline of about 2 cups total additions.
• As noted above, this cake can be prone to dryness if overcooked, so keep a close eye on it as it bakes.

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Welcoming fall--for real this time

Oh dear. It's been a while, hasn't it? What with a crashed laptop hard drive, the end of daylight savings time (which has relegated any and all picture-taking to the weekends, when I'm actually home for the daylight hours), and my spending half of those weekends at work, I'm afraid my camera and blogging software haven't been getting as much love as I would like.

In the meantime, we've gone through not one, but two heat waves, with a spell of glorious (if brief) fall weather in between. Now, a good two weeks into November, we've finally--really, I mean it this time, no more surprise heat waves--shaken off the last of summer. This week, in fact, marks the first time since early spring that we've turned on the heat. Or, I should say, the Suitor turned on the heat. I rolled my eyes and tossed him a sweater.

Which is a little odd, right? A California girl telling someone to buck up and deal with a bit of cool weather? Well, California born-and-bred I might be, but somewhere in the wind-chilled depths of my third or fourth Chicago winter, a long-dormant gene from my Danish ancestors switched on. After all the time I'd spent grumbling about the cold since my arrival, suddenly I loved the cold and everything about it--even that moment when you first step outside, and you cough because your lungs reject the air you've just breathed. I couldn't get enough of it.

Of course, eventually I graduated and moved away from those northern climes; but the damage was done, and ever since leaving Chicago I've missed "proper" winter something fierce. Now, between my convert's zealousness for cold and my penchant for fresh air, I want nothing to do with forced air heating until my fingers are stiff and numb. The Suitor has no such hesitation in turning on the heat, so we're off to a (good-humored) war with the thermostat. He prefers to make himself comfortable in a t-shirt, shorts, and liberal use of the house's heating system. I prefer to get cozy with long underwear, down booties, fleece blankets, and continual application of tea and warm, comforting foods.

It's this sort of food that I've been craving recently: this food that comes steaming out of the oven or off the stove and onto your plate, then sticks to your ribs and warms your belly. In the last week or so, I've discovered (and tweaked) a recipe that it takes one of my favorite winter meals (a bean soup with greens) and one of my favorite things to do with it (ladling said soup over a slice of crisp bread), and bakes it all together in one big pot--including the bread.

The bread gets layered with a quick braise of greens, beans, and bacon (if you're into that sort of thing) and some cheese, over and over until you run out of your ingredients. Topped with a layer of bread and more cheese, doused in broth, and baked for a little while, it's an intriguing and most satisfying meal in a bowl. You can call it a panade, a bread soup, bready mush with greens, or whatever you like; but if you've been in the mood for the sort of hearty meal that one saves for cold evenings in front of the fire, I've got the dish for you.

Panade with Kale and Cannellini Beans

Adapted from Jamie at Home

Makes 6-8 servings

Ingredients

• olive oil
• 3-4 ounces bacon or pancetta, chopped (optional)
• 1 medium onion, halved and thinly sliced
• 1 large bunch kale, or any combination of leafy greens, ribs discarded and leaves coarsely chopped or torn
• 1 15-ounce can cannellini beans, rinsed and drained (see note)
• 8-10 ounces stale bread, sliced
• 1 clove garlic, sliced in half
• 4 ounces grated Parmesan cheese, plus extra for serving
• 4 ounces grated Fontina cheese
• 2 medium sprigs rosemary, leaves picked and minced
• 3 quarts broth (chicken or vegetable, as you wish)

Directions

1. Arrange the oven racks so that they will accommodate a large pot, and preheat the oven to 350F/175C.
2. Heat the oil in a large Dutch oven over medium heat, then add the bacon (if using) and cook, stirring occasionally, until the fat has rendered and the bacon is beginning to turn brown and crisp.
3. Add the sliced onions and cook, stirring frequently, until the onions are very soft and have picked up some lovely browned edges. Adjust the heat if necessary to keep them from browning before they soften.
4. Meanwhile, grate the cheeses and combine them in a medium bowl with the minced rosemary. Set aside.
5. When the onions are done, add the greens, stirring and tossing to coat them with the fat. Add the beans and about 1/2 cup broth, give it a good stir, and place the lid on the pot. Cook until the greens are wilted and just barely tender; the amount of time that this takes will depend on your greens. They will cook more in the oven, so they don't need to be very tender.
6. Transfer the onion-bean-kale mixture to a large bowl and set aside. Rub the cut side of the garlic halves over the stale bread, and place one layer of bread slices face down in the bottom of the Dutch oven. Top with some of the kale mixture, then some of the cheese mixture. Repeat with additional layers of bread, kale mixture, and cheese, ending with a layer of bread. Use your hands to press down on the top layer of bread and give it a good squish. Don't be shy!
7. Pour enough broth over everything to come up to the top level of bread, then sprinkle the remaining cheese mixture over the top.
8. Bake for 30-40 minutes, until the top layer is crisp and golden.
9. Serve in individual bowls with a drizzle of olive oil and a sprinkling of grated cheese.

Notes

• Instead of using canned beans, you can also cook your own. Soak 6 ounces of dried white beans in plenty of water overnight. Drain, place in a large pot, and cover with cold water by at least two inches. Add a bay leaf, a rosemary sprig, and a Parmesan rind if you have one. Bring to a boil and simmer until the beans are tender.
• Instead of Fontina, you could conceivably use Gruyere, Comte or another melty cheese.
• I'm sure that this would also work with thyme, sage, or any other substantial herb.

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