Dark Chocolate Chip Shortbread

I don't know what happened. I woke up this morning and it was December 20. According to my math, that means Christmas is a speedy five days away, but see, the last thing I remember is Thanksgiving.

Oh, sure, that isn't entirely true. I have actually been quite preoccupied lately, mostly with researching homeschool curriculums (because clearly, I have lost my mind), but the honest truth is that I have no idea what happened to the month of December. And I started the month with the best of intentions, of course. I was going to make my Christmas list, get The Boy Wonder to narrow down his litany of wants, decorate the tree, arrange the creche, plan the Christmas Eve and Christmas Day menus, and prepare a grocery list well in advance so I wouldn't have to take down any old ladies who tried to fight me for the last bag of pecans.

I should have known better. I am nothing like Martha Stewart, and even though I tend to live by my to-do list when it comes to absolutely everything else in life, Christmas still comes as a shock every single year.

Now that I think about it, my 2009 New Year's Resolution is to be prepared for next Christmas, even if it takes me all year to get it right. The only thing I ask of you is that you remind me of this goal late next November because I am genetically incapable of planning for Christmas until well after Thanksgiving. Surely if I get started by November 30 instead of December 20...

In exchange for your help in keeping me on task next year, I have an early Christmas present for you. In a most roundabout way, I stumbled upon the most wonderful cookie recipe, one that is durable enough to withstand some travel, and, best of all, uses ingredients that most people keep on hand anyway. There is no fancy decorating involved, nor any desperate cookie-cutter antics, yet the little beauties still look like you went to a bit of trouble to dress them up. And a single batch makes enough for three gift tins/boxes/baskets/buckets/whatever. I'm telling you, this is the perfect cookie.

Oh, and did I mention that it uses a pound of butter? Oh, yeah. This isn't a health food or anything. It is rich and it is decadent and it tastes just like a holiday should. Like butter. And chocolate.

Matter of fact, that is what everything should taste like.

These cookies are one of the best things that happened to me in the past week. Last Friday, true to form, I waited until the last minute to attempt a new complicated candy recipe to use as gifts for a gathering the very next morning. Sometime late in the day, I realized I had made a gross miscalculation in timing between steps and the candy recipe just wasn't going to be of adequate caliber for gifting (though The Carnivore was happy to eat the rejects). After some brief histrionics, I took a quick inventory of the pantry and refrigerator and madly started flipping through recipes I had clipped from the holiday issues of the various food magazines I read. And of all the unlikely places, it was in the December issue of Vegetarian Times that I discovered what I will now refer to as The Perfect Cookie Recipe.

Have you ever tried the recipe I use for Toffee Bars? This is very similar in taste, but with a sturdier, crispier, more bar-cookie-than-brownie texture, if you know what I mean.

If you aren't going to take my word for it and try these right away, at least print the recipe out and stick it to the refrigerator. You just might need it at the last minute.

*****

DARK CHOCOLATE CHIP SHORTBREAD (adapted from Vegetarian Times, makes 60 cookies)

• 3 2/3 cups all-purpose flour
• 1/2 cup cornstarch
• 1/2 tsp salt
• 1 lb unsalted butter, softened
• 1 cup sugar
• 1/3 cup real 100% maple syrup
• 1 tsp vanilla extract
• 1 1/2 cups coarsely chopped bittersweet chocolate chips (like Ghirardelli), divided

1. In a large bowl, whisk together the flour, cornstarch and salt. Set aside.
2. In an electric mixer, beat the butter, sugar, maple syrup, and vanilla extract for 4 minutes (until light and fluffy).
3. Add the flour mixture to the butter mixture and stir just until combined.
4. Stir in 1/2 cup of the chopped chocolate chips.
5. Transfer dough to an ungreased 15x11-inch jelly-roll pan (or another heavy-duty, rimmed cookie sheet of the same size). Press dough smooth with fingers (this took a few minutes, until my fingers had warmed the dough enough to obey my commands). Prick all over with a fork (in as haphazardly of a fashion as you desire - the little holes will not show).
6. Bake at 325 degrees for 35 minutes, until edges just begin to brown and dough looks slightly firm.
7. Remove pan from oven and immediately, using a thin knife (a steak knife worked really well), cut shortbread into approximately 3x1-inch pieces in pan: first cut four 3-inch rows lengthwise; then cut 1-inch pieces crosswise.
8. Allow shortbread to cool completely in pan.
9. Melt remaining 1 cup chopped chocolate chips (in a double boiler on low heat or in a microwave for about a minute).
10. Spread melted chocolate onto cooled shortbread, spreading just to the edges. To do this, use a thin plastic spatula and go back and forth a few times in each direction. I swore there wasn't enough chocolate to cover the whole pan, but after spreading for a few minutes, it was just right.
11. Refrigerate the shortbread for 15 to 20 minutes (or overnight, if you're so inclined) to allow chocolate topping to set completely.
12. Break the cookies apart and serve (or pack into gift containers, reserving a few for the hard-working cook).

The Most Popular Kale Recipe in the Room

I feel I should begin with a disclaimer: this is not an original recipe. And most likely, if you tend to keep up with food blogs, especially some very well-known ones, you've already heard about this dish. Orangette wrote about this kale a few weeks back, and I was more than a little intrigued. It was kale, after all, which I'm very fond of, and it was topped with a fried egg (my favorite food group).

The thing is, the kale was boiled, and for more than a few minutes, I might add. So I was understandably concerned. I gave her the benefit of the doubt though, partly because she is Orangette, and also because what she posted was an adaptation from The Zuni Cafe Cookbook. I don't really think I have the street-cred to overlook that sort of pedigree.

I printed the recipe, ordered a pound of kale from Locally Grown, and then commenced to dragging my feet. I was mildly wary about how The Carnivore might view this dish, particularly since I wasn't entirely sure what to serve alongside it. While boiled kale served over toast and topped with a fried egg might make for a very appealing vegetarian entree, I try to be sensitive to the not-to-be-overlooked fact that I am the only vegetarian in the house. Well, other than Little Miss Piggy who doesn't have any molars yet and hasn't been deemed old enough to make her own ethical decisions regarding food. As she tends to subsist on grubby handfuls of beans and brown rice though, her status as fully-vested eater in our house has yet to be granted.

So, like I said, I wasn't terribly sure how well this dish would go over. Actually, I almost punked out entirely, thinking I could just make this for my lunch and that way I wouldn't have to worry about companion dishes, but then I noticed the recipe had jumped ranks and was also being featured on Bitten.

That sealed the deal. When two omnivorous types are both head-over-heels for something as humble as boiled kale with soggy toast, well, who would I be to buck the trend? And besides, I love, love, love kale and am always in the market for a fresh spin on it. Kale can be a bit bitter, and when it is cooked wrong (read: simmered for hours with a ham-hock), it can be truly vile. The thing is though, when served properly, it can make a convert out of anyone. Winter Greens and Potato Casserole, Bitter Greens with Sweet Onions and Tart Cheese, and Kale and White Bean Soup are but a few of my favorite variations on kale.

After seeing the recipe on Bitten, I scrapped my original plans for that night's dinner and decided to make a go of this here boiled kale thing. I made a few changes to Orangette's version: substituting vegetable broth for chicken stock, using hunky ciabatta rolls for the toast, and frying the egg in the method of the Deep South, and I must say, she is really on to something with this whole soggy toast thing. I know it sounds spectacularly unappealing, but with the right bread, thick, rustic and crusty, it is comfort food in the best sense. And while I don't understand the science behind it, something about the slow boiling of the kale transforms the greens into silky, slightly sweet ribbons that have just the right "chew" to them.

And The Carnivore? He thoroughly enjoyed it. So much so, in fact, that when I cooked the dish twice in as many weeks, he was almost excited to be having it again. As for companion dishes, I'm still a little stumped. The first go round, I served those Crispy Flattened Potatoes alongside and they were an okay addition to the table (because, as well all know by now, those potatoes go with EVERYTHING), but there just wasn't any synergy to the flavors. The second time, I served it with some leftover brown rice topped with cowpeas cooked in a spicy broth and again, it was an okay combination but nothing to write home about. Maybe for the next attempt, and there will be a next time, I'll give those Wild Mushrooms with Mozzarella a go. I've been craving those lately anyway...

*****

BOILED KALE WITH A FRIED EGG AND TOAST (adapted from Orangette and The Zuni Cafe Cookbook, serves two)

• 8 oz fresh kale
• 6 Tbs olive oil, divided
• 1 medium yellow onion, diced
• pinch dried red pepper flakes
• 2 large garlic cloves, thinly sliced, plus one whole garlic clove
• 3 to 4 cups vegetable broth
• square ciabatta roll, sliced in half (or another rustic bread, thickly sliced from the ends so that one side has crust)
• 2 eggs
• coarse salt and freshly ground black pepper
• dash of hot sauce
• Parmigiano-Reggiano

1. Remove and discard thick ribs from the kale, and slice leaves into thin ribbons. Rinse well.
2. In a large saucepan, warm 5 Tbs oil over medium-low heat.
3. Add onions to pan and cook, stirring occasionally, until translucent.
4. Add the red pepper flakes, the sliced garlic and the kale to the pot and stir until the kale is fully wilted (about 2 to 3 minutes).
5. Add broth to the pan to cover the kale.
6. Bring broth to a simmer. Cover, and continue to simmer for about 30 minutes, until kale is tender but not mushy. Add salt to taste.
7. While kale is cooking, toast the two halves of the ciabatta roll (or two crust-end thickly-sliced pieces of rustic bread). While toast is still hot, rub one side with the clove of raw, whole garlic.
8. To fry the eggs in the Deep South method: warm the remaining 1 Tbs olive oil in a medium-sized skillet over medium-high heat until very hot. Crack both eggs into the skillet and then break the yolks with a fork, running the fork around gently to spread the runny yolk over the top of the whites. Sprinkle with salt and pepper, and a dash or two of hot sauce. Cook for about 2 minutes, until bottom is browned and top is set. Flip eggs and cook on other side for an additional minute or two until browned on both sides. Run spatula down the middle to separate into two pieces for serving.
9. To plate individually, place one piece of toast in the bottom of a wide soup bowl or on a plate with a rim. Pile a big scoop of the kale on top of the toast, drizzle with olive oil, and top with a fried egg. Grate a little bit of the cheese over the top and serve immediately.

Black-Bottom Pecan Praline Bars

I am feeling a bit tortured. This is terribly embarassing to admit, really, and I tried to avoid bringing it up at all, but the thing is, this particular recipe is entirely too perfect to not share, so I'm just going to have to suck up what is left of my pride and tell you about a few of my shortcomings.

However, by sharing the recipe, I feel I am doing everyone a grave disservice. Not because of the aforementioned pride issue - after all, many of my shortcomings are abundantly clear here, in this little forum where I detail my neuroses on a weekly basis for all to see. And no, the disservice I speak of has nothing at all to do with calories or fat grams or the fact that these brownies might cause you to be stingy and refuse to share with your family members and all that. I don't consider any of those things to be problems, per se.

Oh, please don't laugh. Do you remember the cake drama I suffered through for The Boy Wonder's fourth birthday? Where I tied myself in a knot over the calculations involved in adapting a round cake recipe to a rectangular pan, and all that? Well, this is worse. It is worse because the math is much, much easier in the case of these brownies. Pie-r-squared isn't even an issue. Really, there are simple fractions involved at best, probably the kind of thing most of us learned early in middle school.

Of course, I didn't really care for middle school. There's just nothing quite like being a hopelessly unfashionable, knock-kneed, geeky pre-teen to mess with a girl's self-esteem. But that's neither here nor there.

Anyway.

Let me just lay it all out here (about the brownies that is, not the middle school social rejection stuff): this brownie recipe is, without a doubt, the most addictive I have had the pleasure of eating. And I have tried my share. I would even go so far as to refer to myself as a brownie addict. Not an expert, mind you, but an addict. [For more on this, see exhibits one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, or eight, and know that those are but a few of my favorite brownies and should not be viewed as a comprehensive list by any stretch].

I found the recipe for these Black-Bottom Pecan Praline Bars in Bittersweet, a mesmerizing chocolate cookbook that I would cuddle with at night if The Carnivore wouldn't complain about it's sharp edges. But, and here is where we start getting to the laughable part, it is one of those recipes whereby one of the ingredients is actually a recipe from a previous page. Worse yet, that "ingredient" calls for half a recipe from a previous page. And the thing is, the first time I made this, we had company and the entire batch was gone within an hour. Obviously the recipe would need to be doubled if we were to get the proper amount of pleasure from it, and that's where it gets tricky.

So here goes with the torturous, highly embarassing admission: I can't do it. I am not able to double this recipe without screwing up the quantities of ingredients. And I am not being self-deprecating. This happened more than once, whereby I messed up the whole recipe while trying to simply double it. Truth be told, I think it may have happened more than twice. And I really, desperately, did not want to share this recipe with you until I had worked out the kinks, but I'm beginning to think I may BE the kink. See, every time I have baked this recipe straight-out, in the way set out in the cookbook, it has turned out perfectly. Exsquisitely, even. I have still had to hold my mouth just right each of those times, to make sure I halved the recipe that is the first ingredient, while remembering NOT to halve the remainder of the recipe, but let's don't quibble on the details.

Now before you commence to laughing at my numbskullery, especially those of you who know my former profession (the one after copy-slinger and before wild-baby-tamer), just bear with me for a minute. To double this recipe, one must use the actual recipe called for as ingredient number one (rather than halving it, which is what is specified on the page this adaptation appears on) and then one must double the remaining ingredients.

Still with me? Think YOU could do it? Even when you're having a chocolate attack and just really want a bloody brownie real quick-like?

Brownie-baking should not be a stressful activity. Matter of fact, the entire point of baking said brownies is to RELIEVE stress.

Can I get an Amen?

I would like to think that this is just the kind of recipe that cannot be doubled without affecting the final product. That maybe the oven temperature or the cooking time needs to be altered drastically to be able to work with the extra quantities. Or that, oh, I don't know, the amount of baking soda needs to NOT be doubled due to some scientific reaction that I will never understand. Oh, but I know I'm wrong. I know where the fault lies. I am fully aware that this is just one of those things. Like the fact that I am incapable of seeing the difference in high-definition television and regular programming, or my inability to appreciate The Who (warning: music plays automatically at site), I am also apparently lacking the gene that would allow me to simultaneously double a half while also doubling wholes. Sure, maybe if I had just written it out on paper instead of trying to do the math as I went, well , maybe, just maybe, it would have worked, but I'm done trying. I am convinced it cannot be done.

So, here's where we stand then: like I said, I cannot NOT bring you this recipe. It is too good to not be shared. I don't know if anyone is still here to read this now, and I might be saying it only for my mother's benefit (because she has to continue reading; she is my mom), but these brownies are the perfect marraige of sweet and salty. The chocolate layer is both ooey and gooey, and sublimely rich, while the pecan layer is salty and ever-so-slightly crispy. And, almost most delightfully, both layers cook at the same time. This isn't one of those recipes where you cook the brownies, remove them from the oven to cool, mix up the next layer, and then have to bake the whole thing again.

However, I bring this to you with a strict disclaimer, that this recipe will almost certainly NOT yield enough servings. And I apologize for that. I have taken the liberty of posting the recipe in the proper quantities so you don't have to suffer through the agony of halving the brownie recipe before topping it with the pecan layer. So truly, since half (argh) of the work has already been done, you may feel comfortable doubling the recipe at this point because that would only be a matter of multiplying everything by two, but you're on your own if you go that route. I'm far too traumatized to go there with you.

*****

BLACK-BOTTOM PECAN PRALINE BARS (adapted from Bittersweet, serves maybe one, two if you're judicious)

Chocolate layer:

• 2 oz unsweetened chocolate, coarsely chopped
• 4 Tbs (1/2 stick) unsalted butter
• 1/2 cup plus 1 Tbs sugar
• 1/2 tsp pure vanilla extract
• 1/8 tsp salt
• 1 large egg
• 1/4 cup all-purpose flour

Pecan layer:

• 1/4 cup all-purpose flour
• 1/4 tsp baking soda
• 4 Tbs (1/2 stick) unsalted butter, melted
• 1/4 cup plus 2 Tbs packed light brown sugar
• 1/4 tsp salt
• 1 large egg yolk
• 1/2 tsp pure vanilla extract
• 1 1/4 cups coarsely chopped pecans

1. Melt the chocolate and 4 Tbs butter together in a medium-sized heat-proof bowl, stirring until smooth.
2. Add the sugar, 1/2 tsp vanilla and 1/8 tsp salt to the bowl and stir with a wooden spoon.
3. Stir in the egg, then stir in 1/4 cup flour, beating with a wooden spoon until batter is smooth and glossy, about 1 to 2 minutes.
4. Spread batter in a thin, even layer in a greased 9-inch square baking pan and set aside.
5. Mix the remaining 1/4 cup flour and baking soda thoroughly in a small bowl and set aside.
6. In a medium bowl, combine the melted 4 Tbs butter, brown sugar and 1/4 tsp salt.
7. Stir in the egg yolk and 1/2 tsp vanilla, then the flour mixture, and finally the nuts.
8. Drop spoonfuls of the mixture all over the top of the brownie batter (they will spread and cover the brownies entirely during baking).
9. Bake at 350 degrees, on the bottom rack, until the edges of the topping are well-browned and cracked, about 20 to 25 minutes.

Chunky Jerusalem Artichoke and Potato Mash

This picture isn't here just to brag about what is still available at my local farmer's market, though I must say I'm pretty tickled at the variety I can still obtain locally a week into November. And I swear I didn't take this picture as a way to celebrate one of the last two weeks that the market will remain open before going on winter hiatus.

I'm just trying to gain a little bit of perspective. I mean, does that look like $30 worth of food? It has been so long since I have bought produce at the supermarket that I honestly have no clue any longer as to whether I'm leading us straight into bankruptcy with my food-buying shenanigans or if possibly, just maybe, the fact that I don't buy processed foods counterbalances these expenditures. Most likely I'm simply making excuses.

See, I nerded up last week and started scrutinizing every last food purchase for the past six months. This wasn't the first time that I got a little obsessive and dug around in my financial tracking software in a mad effort to spell out exactly where my food dollars are going, but I was after a different statistic this go round, namely to check how much of an impact the farmer's market and Locally Grown were having on our bottom line, and to find out what percentage of my food budget went to local foods during the October Eat Local Challenge. The organic raw milk I purchase for the kids is less expensive than the organic big-company milk I had previously bought at the supermarket, so of course I was somehow hoping that everything would even out when it was all said and done.

Of course I was wrong.

Looking back, it was easy to see that the CSA we participate in from May through July is a better bargain than buying individual items through the farmer's markets, and the reasons are obvious enough to pinpoint without much need for critical thinking. The issue for us though is that the CSA only lasts for three months, and I tend to still be hungry during the other nine months of the year. Last year, I fell off the wagon quickly enough when the CSA ran out, but that was because I hadn't bothered to fully research the other local food options. Now that I am much more aware of just how much is out there, and that the bounty includes eggs, dairy, milled items and even meat for The Carnivore, well, it turns into a war of Ethics vs Budgets. It is no wonder advocating local foods is viewed by many to be an elitist activity.

So you see why my perspective seems a bit skewed to me, right? At the market early this morning, with Little Miss Piggy bundled up in her Yoda hat and tucked into her sling, I slunk through the stands battling a crisis of conscience while slurping down a bite-sized empanada that I bought for a dollar. One dollar for essentially two bites. I abhor frivolous spending, but I want so badly to support my local farmers, to feed my family a safe and healthy diet, and to enjoy the superior taste of local and organic foods.

I'm going to need therapy. Thank you for listening.

And honest to goodness, this is not what I came here to whine about. [Whoops - I meant to say 'discuss intelligently.'] What I did intend to do was to share a peerless recipe for Chunky Jerusalem Artichoke and Potato Mash that I think would be ideal for Thanksgiving (which, as you know, is, like, tomorrow or something), but I was unable to take an appetizing photograph of the dish and so I used this snapshot of my farmer's market finds and, well, one thing led to another and I ended up on this tangent again...

(Sigh)

Anyway, last week, shortly before I commenced this latest meltdown on the financial, environmental and ethical costs of food in today's world, I ordered some Jerusalem artichokes on a whim from Locally Grown. I had read about these tubers numerous times in food publications, but had, as far as I know, never actually run across one in real life. And I truly knew nothing about them when I placed my order, but was loathe to allow a little thing like ignorance stand in my way. So order them I did, though oddly enough under the circumstances, I have no memory of what I paid for them.

They aren't much to look at, and actually resemble ginger root so much that I suppose I may have mistaken one for the other in the produce section of the supermarket at some point and that might be why I assumed they were uncommon. Once I got them home, I gazed balefully at the little fellas for days, pushing them aside in the crisper drawer time after time before finally sitting down and searching for recipes.

'Twas more difficult than I expected to find a recipe that appealed to me. I came across soups that called for ingredients I didn't have on hand and countless recipes that had the odd and knobbly little root-thingies in the starring role with little more to support them than salt and lemon juice. I was too wary for those, instead hoping for more of a gradual introduction, so it was with some relief that I settled upon a Bon Appetit recipe for Chunky Jerusalem Artichoke and Potato Mash.

Sounds fun, doesn't it? Truly, the end result wasn't just merry, it was the life of the party. I fell deeply, madly in love with the dish, with it's rustic texture and it's earthy flavor. I'm telling you, this would be perfect for That Turkey Meal, just bitter enough to offset all those other cloyingly sweet side dishes, yet simultaneously interesting and unobtrusive. The Jerusalem artichokes add a delicately nutty flavor to the recipe and keep a firmer texture than the potatoes, lending a toothsome quality to each spoonful that saves the dish from being just another soft and mushy bowl of mashed potatoes. Best of all, at least as far as holiday meals go, the simplicity of the preparation make for a nearly effortless side dish that can be made ahead and reheated without compromise to either the flavor or the texture.

I really think you'll like it. Especially if you choose not to obsess over it.

*****

CHUNKY JERUSALEM ARTICHOKE AND POTATO MASH (adapted from a Deborah Madison recipe printed in Bon Appetit, serves 6)

• 1 lb Jerusalem artichokes, scrubbed clean and left unpeeled, cut into roughly 1-inch chunks
• 1 lb Yukon gold potatoes, left unpeeled (though you can peel them if you find potato peelings hinky), cut into roughly 2-inch pieces
• 1 Tbs coarse Kosher salt
• 3 Tbs unsalted butter

1. Combine Jerusalem artichoes, potatoes and salt in large pot and cover with cold water.
2. Bring to boil. Reduce heat and boil gently for 15 to 20 minutes until potatoes are tender.
3. Drain, reserving the cooking liquid.
4. Return vegetables to pot and mash coarsely, adding reserved cooking liquid 1/2 cup at a time, until chunky mixture forms.
5. Stir in butter, and add salt and pepper to taste.
6. Add more cooking liquid if needed to get the texture you like.

Today is Not about Food

The Boy Wonder took this photo of me as I checked the Google home page for the 97th time by about 10:00 this morning.

I am obsessed with this election. I have tried hard to not get caught up in the nonsense leading up to this day, and I even voted early so as to have a better excuse to ignore all the pollster's phone calls.

But now I can't get anything done. I keep going back to the computer to check, uh, I don't know what. It isn't like any results are getting posted yet. Obsessed, I tell you. Too obsessed to even think about food.

Well, that's not entirely true. I have eaten three pieces of dark chocolate poundcake already today. I guess I should share that recipe, now that I think about it.

After the election. I'll do it after the election. Honest.

Breaking the Fast

I woke up this morning and realized today was November 1st, that the month-long Eat Local Challenge was officially over, and that I could officially eat anything I wanted again. Other than the, ahem, handfuls of Halloween candy that I swiped from my son's stash though, I figured out quickly enough that today wasn't going to be the free-for-all that one might expect. Like ending a fast, it seems almost vulgar to go and get hog-wild now. (I have desperately missed homemade granola though, and plan to whip up a batch just as soon as I get a chance).

Spending an entire month being so completely mindful of every bite I consumed and most specifically it's provenance, even for someone who eats fairly locally to begin with, has firmly engendered a level of awareness in which it has become second nature to eat well. And eating well encompasses so much more than just healthfulness.

I would like to avoid stomping back up atop my soapbox, because if you've spent any time around me or just lurking about in my blog, then you have already heard enough of my preaching regarding eating locally, eating organically, eating sustainably, eating ethically. Let's just suffice to say that I want to make the world a better place for my children. I want to share with them values that include being conscious of our impact on the physical environment. I yearn for them to meet the farmers who provide their food and to be aware of exactly where food comes from, and I desperately want to protect them from harmful pesticides, hormones and antibiotics, mercury, lead and all the other truly scary non-foods that are showing up in the world's supposed food system.

But that's enough of that, right? We're all clear on where I stand on this issue. This blog is the journal of our family's exploits in eating, not a compendium of Sarah's sermons on moral repasts.

Oh, I know. I'm just kidding myself when I say that. Maybe I should change this blog's title, come to think of it, to Recipes for a Moral Repast. But then you guys might just commit me for good, and never try another of these recipes that I so excitedly bring here to share. So, you know, moving right along then...

I did break our fast today, but I did so in a gentle fashion. My sister-in-law and my nephews were coming over to watch football with The Carnivore, and black bean chile seemed like an ideal companion to their silly game. As far as I can tell, black beans cannot be sourced locally, and making my own corn tortillas in order to scratch up my own personal tortilla chips is far-fetched even for me, so I didn't plan this to be a strictly local meal. Prior to this past month though, I might have been content to reach into the pantry and grab cans of beans, diced tomatoes and corn to make this, but I found that the biggest lesson of the month, the one thing I am sure will stick long after the novelty of participating in the Eat Local Challenge has passed, is that I am capable of planning ahead and striving to make every meal as local as possible before then, and only then, supplementing with non-local items.

So yesterday, before committing to a set-in-stone menu for today, I surveyed what I had on hand. For the chile, I set dried beans to soaking. While the beans are far from local, dried beans have much less of an environmental impact than canned ones (and they are light years less expensive), so a little advance planning is worth the trouble. I also reached into the freezer and started defrosting some tomatoes that I had frozen during the summer and portioned into 14.5-oz servings (to be used as a direct substitute for cans). The onions, garlic and bell pepper were on hand already from jaunts to the farmer's market, as were green and red tomatoes, jalapenos and cilantro which I used to whip up a batch of salsa to serve with the chile.

Tortilla chips were purchased from the supermarket as was a bag of frozen organic corn to go into the chile. Every meal will not be 100% local, but we'll do what we can. My goal here is to be mindful. That has been a goal of mine for years, actually, in ways other than just eating and purchasing food, but works almost universally in conjunction with the way I want to live my life. Training myself to take the time to truly think about the things I do, the things I eat, and even the things I say (though that particular action is by far the most challenging) is how I keep from being overwhelmed by all that I can and cannot do to, dare I say it, change the world.

Fresh Pasta

I fear I may have gone off the deep end here. I blame the Eat Local Challenge, of course. In this perpetual quest to outdo myself, I have taken this opportunity to perfect homemade pizza crusts, to acquaint myself with an ice cream maker, and now, in my grandest leap yet, to spend an afternoon learning how to make fresh pasta.

That's right. I made my own pasta. Well, to be sure, I used some gadgets to make this happen; even though it is beginning to sound as if I would survive as a frontier gal, all of my newfound tricks involve electricity and machinery. That's a bit embarassing, actually. If the world were to come close to ending, and packaged foods were no longer available, but raw materials could still be found (along with the aforementioned electrical juice), I would most certainly survive.

That statement just doesn't have quite the same cache as if I were able to personally thresh my own wheat, milk my own cows, and do some proper kneading, now does it?

But let's focus on what's important: I MADE MY OWN PASTA today. I'm really quite proud, and I hope you don't mind if I preen a bit. It's just that my biggest fear in this month-long Eat Local Challenge was that I would die from lack of pasta. I am a carb-loader, you see, and a vegetarian. If you take away my pasta, I lose half my options for entrees. So it was that I spent a couple weeks researching pasta rollers and comparing prices and generally pulling out my hair while I tried to make a decision on whether I wanted to not only spring for one of these puppies, but whether I would ever actually get my money's worth out of it. Most of my kitchen gadgets came from yard sales (as did the $2 bread machine and the $5 ice cream maker), so I feel a little less than no guilt when those items collect the occasional smattering of dust. No one I know has ever actually run across pasta making implements at the thrift store though, so I was on my own with this one.

I did finally make a decision to purchase a pasta roller and cutter, and felt as if the hand of God had intervened when I discovered the exact model I wanted on Ebay for a whopping $50 cheaper than at any store in town. So I gritted my teeth, shook down my Paypal account, and then lay around in abject horror when the bloody thing took nearly two weeks to arrive.

I was starving by then, and almost too weak from carbohydrate-deficiency to read the directions.

Well, that, and I hate/loathe/abominate reading instruction manuals. I feared I would wither away without a fettucine fix though, and today was the perfect day for experimenting in the kitchen. The Carnivore was home all afternoon, Little Miss Piggy took a long, leisurely nap, and The Boy Wonder was happy to push his stepladder over to the counter and help mama make noodles.

The process was a bit nerve-wracking this first time around, especially because the manual seemed to have been written for members of Mensa, but when it was all said and done I was thrilled by the process. Thrilled and empowered, because as with most things that we all just assume are too complicated to tackle, there is such a confidence boost when you just jump in feet first and realize that nearly nothing is as difficult as it initially appeared.

All pasta-making really boils down to, with the proper equipment, is this: put flour, eggs, water, and salt in a mixer with a dough hook, allow to knead for a few minutes; remove dough from mixer and hand-knead for another couple minutes; divide dough into a few pieces and feed through a pasta roller a few times at progressively tighter settings until thin and pliable; then either cut by hand or feed through a pasta cutter.

It's that easy. Fresh pasta is cooked in boiling, salted water just as with dried pasta, but takes even less time to cook. I made a light wheat recipe and found it to be al dente within about three minutes. Then The Boy Wonder and I debated on whether we should just eat the noodles plain straight out of the colander because they were so flavorful on their own, we weren't even sure they needed a sauce. And we were snacking on the just-drained noodles at an alarming pace. They were just so darn good.

I flipped through some recipes and settled on a simple Mark Bittman recipe that we had tried sometime in late-summer when we were drowning in squash. This one looked perfect for the situation, and was light enough to allow the pasta itself to be the star of the show. The original recipe used zucchini, but I used my last pound of yellow summer squash instead and subbed in a hard, salty cheese from Sweet Grass Dairy (in the interest of staying local) for the Parmesan. Served with a salad of local greens, carrots, radishes, snow peas, onions and crumbled feta; and bruschetta from a fresh baguette picked up this morning at the farmer's market, we enjoyed a vibrant seasonal, local meal that was almost shocking in it's variety this late in the year.

*****

PASTA WITH SQUASH AND HERBS (adapted from Bitten, serves 6 or so)

• Salt
• 3 Tbs olive oil
• 1 lb. small summer squash, washed, trimmed, and cut into very thin slices (about 1/8-inch thick)
• Black pepper
• 2 eggs
• 1 cup (divided) grated Parmesan, Pecorino-Romano, or other hard, salty cheese
• 1 lb spaghetti, linguine or fettucine
• 1/2 cup roughly chopped fresh herbs, such as mint, parsley or basil (or a combination of the three)

1. Heat oil in large skillet over medium-high heat.
2. Add squash to the skillet and cook, stirring occasionally, until very tender and lightly browned (about 10 to 15 minutes).
3. Season squash with salt and a lot of pepper.
4. In a separate bowl, beat the eggs and 1/2 cup of the cheese together.
5. Cook pasta in salted, boiling water until al dente.
6. When pasta is done, drain it, return it to the pot and immediately combine it with the egg and cheese mixture, tossing until egg is cooked.
7. Add squash to pasta, and toss again.
8. Taste for salt and pepper, and adjust if needed.
9. Toss in the herbs and serve immediately, passing extra cheese at the table.

Homemade Ice Cream

A perfect storm of events blew through my kitchen this week and I’ve just been dying to come and share it here. The long and short of it was that we learned how to make ice cream, you see, and I’m pretty sure it has changed our lives forever. Homemade ice cream is divine, as you know, and puts all those silly, over-decorated and cleverly-named little cartons at the supermarket to shame. The thing is though, the last time I had the pleasure of enjoying homemade ice cream, there was an absurd amount of work involved. And I just don’t have that kind of time.

My extended family used to spend a couple weeks in a large and gloriously un-fancy beach house at Nags Head every summer, and sometime during my teenage years, my great-uncle tooled up in his travel trailer complete with good cheer and a cumbersome, hand-cranked ice cream maker from which he served up the creamiest of ice creams. He chose peanut butter, of all flavors, to regale us with, and I’ve dreamed of that sublime substance often and much over the past two decades.

A few years back, once I had gained a bit of confidence in the kitchen and was going through a phase in which long cooking projects appealed to me greatly, I mentioned to my mother that I was in the market for my very own ice cream maker. She obliged, of course, and within a few weeks proudly bestowed upon me a Krups machine she had picked up, in its original packaging, at a yard sale for a mere $5.

She’s the bomb, my mother.

I on the other hand, ungrateful little wretch that I am, put the machine in the pantry and promptly forgot all about it.

Look, life happens. I have an embarrassingly long list of projects I want to tackle, new tricks I want to learn, and goals I dream of achieving. And the good Lord willing and the river don't rise, I will get around to each and every one of these things in their own time (like when I no longer have two demanding little monkeys dangling from my kneecaps).

All justifications aside, there the machine sat, directly beneath an industrial-sized roll of paper towels that never gets used, and slightly to the left of my field of vision when I’m lounging in the doorway to the pantry, until a couple weeks ago when Little Miss Piggy speed-crawled her way in there to set her usual wave of destruction into motion. A few crashes and a startled screech from her later, I leaned over to rescue her from a tangle of baking supplies when The Boy Wonder shot between my legs, grabbed a box from the floor and began shouting about ice cream.

Eureka. The whole family has been aching for dessert during this October Eat Local Challenge and I had thus far been utterly stumped. Brownies were clearly out of the question, as were most of my cookie recipes. Fudge was out, walnut brittle wasn’t an option. I’m telling you, the month was beginning to drag. Ice cream, which hadn’t even occurred to me before this moment, could be made almost entirely with local ingredients.

And I’ve got to tell you, we were in pretty dire straits, me and the kids. I had run slap out of creative activities that held interest for all of us simultaneously, and we were really starting to grate on each others nerves. Something had to give.

Like I said, Eureka.

As it turns out, ice cream making has gotten much simpler over the years. These electric models require no repetitive hand motions and call not for rock salt. Five pure ingredients later (all organic, three sourced from within 100 miles and one obtained from an adjoining state), we had a flavor that bested even Haagen-Dazs. Hands on, the whole project probably takes no more than about 20 minutes. There is a considerable amount of waiting involved: the canister must be frozen 24 hours in advance (which is why I have now leased our canister some permanent shelf-space in my freezer), and then there are a couple steps in which mixtures must be cooled to room temperature and then chilled for an hour or so, but the final step, the one in which the mixture is poured into the automatic ice cream maker and left alone to do its thing for 40 minutes is the most fascinating of all.

We were entranced, all three of us. I meant to set things in motion and then find something with which to distract The Boy Wonder, but we were happy to sit silently and watch the most fascinating science lesson that can occur in a kitchen. Matter of fact, I will keep this trick in my arsenal for when I need 40 minutes of peace and quiet. Anything that keeps the kids parked in one place for that long without invoking the evil gods inside the television can’t be wrong.

Oh my shooting stars, did I mention the end resulf of this little activity? My, my, my. Rich, creamy spoonfuls of velvet; flavor so truly vanilla that it actually captures the essence itself, and the most luxurious mouthfeel you can glean from such a humble dessert. Consider me converted.

And did you have any idea these things could be picked up for $30? Need another nudge? Revel in the simplicity of the following recipe.

*****

VANILLA ICE CREAM (adapted from the Krups La Glaciere instruction manual, serves about 8)

• 1 cup milk
• 1/2 cup sugar
• 2 eggs
• 2 cups cream
• 2 tsp pure vanilla extract

1. Warm the milk in a small saucepan.
2. In a separate medium-sized bowl, whisk the eggs with the sugar.
3. Still whisking, slowly add warm milk to egg mixture.
4. Pour mixture back into pan and heat slowly until thickened, about 10 minutes, stirring constantly. Do not allow the mixture to boil.
5. Remove from heat and cool to room temperature.
6. Add cream and vanilla, stirring to combine.
7. Chill in refrigerator until good and cold.
8. Freeze in ice cream machine, according to manufacturer's instructions. In my machine, mixture is put into canister that had been frozen for 24 hours, then paddle and lid are attached, machine is plugged in and turned on, and then left alone to do its work for 20 to 40 minutes (until ice cream is desired consistency).

*****

Stay tuned for further recipes, of course. My girlfriend Beth, who joined us on ice cream day, said something about mint chocolate chip as she was leaving and I haven't been able to get that deliriously beautiful idea out of my head since then. Smart woman, that Beth.

Fried Chevre (or why the Eat Local Challenge doesn't hurt)

To anyone planning to embark on a month-long Eat Local Challenge, I would strongly encourage you to do some research ahead of time. Scope out your local farmer's market to get a feel for some of the seasonal produce you might normally eschew. Dig deep for recipes to use in your meal planning. Make a list of the items that might give you trouble (flour, meat, dairy, rice and pasta) and search around online for the closest sources of those items. Mercilessly rearrange your pantry and refrigerator to make sure you won't be tempted to scarf down half a bag of dark chocolate chips in a moment of weakness.

Naturally, I can't really speak from experience. I made a decision to join this year's ELC about six days before it began, and since I for some reason chose precisely that moment to get cocky, I did woefully little advance planning.

This is not at all like me. I have a business degree, for pity's sake, and I am annoyingly obsessive with routines, checklists and time management. My recipes are categorized in a large binder that I keep in my menu desk - which, in and of itself, speaks volumes. I mean, the fact that I have a menu desk at all, and a well-used one at that, should evoke some relatively realistic imagery of me perched on my rickety old barstool, with my silly little purple and yellow eyeglasses sliding down my nose, all my recipes spread before me, a beatific expression on my face... No? If you knew me well enough to have spent years rolling your eyes at my patently uncool nerdiness, then this wouldn't be much of a stretch.

It doesn't really matter how long you have putting up with my quirks though, since none of that actually happened (well, other than the silly specs sliding down my nose and the recipes spread hither and yon - that's a common occurence). See, I have gotten so accustomed to cooking from the hip, to using whatever I find in my CSA box, to picking up whatever looks good at the farmer's market, that, like I said, I got cocky. I did do a wee bit of research, ordering some brown rice from a neighboring state, lining up some local, grass-fed beef for The Carnivorous Husband, and spending an inordinate amount of time waffling about purchasing a pasta roller, but in a move utterly out of character for myself, I sat down to make my local co-op order the day before the challenge was to commence and I just blindly picked and chose dairy and produce until I hit my self-imposed budgetary limit. And then the very next day, I started scratching my head and trying to figure out what the heck we were going to eat.

Thus it was that I found myself with the usual items (potatoes, garlic, milk, squash, feta, grits, eggs) and a catterwonky grab bag of other things that, well, I just assumed would be somehow worked into our menus on the fly. Hence the sweet potatoes that became sweet potato chips, the butternut squash that turned into my favorite new pizza, the lone baguette, the errant log of goat cheese, and so on.

But then, in the most unexpected and serendipitous of moments, as I was flipping through an issue of Bon Appetit, I made to pass right by a recipe for a Composed Salad with Fig Vinaigrette. There was a photo, with ginormous and entirely unappealing slabs of prosciutto displayed prominently, and I almost couldn't turn the page fast enough, but then my gaze snapped back to attention when it registered that I had spied some perfect circles of fried chevre nestled rather impetuously atop the offending pork.

Oh, yeah. Fried rounds of goat cheese. If you've never lucked into these luscious and tangy slices of the most exclusive level of heaven, you've missed a lot in life. The Carnivore and I used to order these for an appetizer every single time we ate at the East West Bistro in our pre-parenthood days. They would arrive at the table temptingly warm, crisp and salty on the outside, rich and oozy on the inside. We practically fought over them, setting the medallions astride pieces of hot, crusty baguette and smearing them indelicately over the surface. The textures were just impossibly dichotomous, with the whole of the small and simple dish somehow managing to balance the normally almost overpowering tanginess of goat cheese.

Fried chevre had been one of the last frontiers for me. One of the last remaining restaurant dishes that I assumed was too difficult to be duplicated at home and would just have to be dreamt about.

I had no idea how bloody easy it was to fry cheese, ya'll. I almost didn't believe the recipe could be correct when I first read it, but since I was smack-dab in the middle of the first week of the ELC, and since I had the good fortune of being in possession of the requisite local eggs, goat cheese and baguete, I chalked it up to kismet and commenced to frying.

And it really was THAT easy. You slice the cheese, dip it in egg, coat it in breadcrumbs, chill it so that it retains its shape, and then pan-fry it in a little olive oil.

I'll be a fried chicken. We've been lied to, folks. And I'm not exactly sure who's been doing the lying, but I for one bought the whole shebang. All that stuff they do in restaurants? 'Tain't magic, after all.

*****

FRIED CHEVRE (adapted from Bon Appetit)

• 8 1/2-inch-thick rounds of soft fresh goat cheese, cut from a log
• 1 egg, beaten
• 1 cup fine whole-wheat breadcrumbs
• 1/4 cup extra-virgin olive oil, divided
• crusty baguette, cut on an angle into 1/2-inch-thick slices
• garlic clove
• coarse salt

1. Dip cheese slices in egg and then coat in breadcrumbs.
2. Lay cheese on plate and put in fridge for at least 10 minutes.
3. Heat 1 Tbs oil in large cast-iron or other nonstick skillet over medium-high heat.
4. Add goat cheese to skillet, a few at a time (without crowding them); cook until golden (about 1 to 2 minutes). Flip cheese and cook on other side until golden.
5. Transfer to paper towels. Sprinkle with coarse salt.
6. Meanwhile, broil baguette slices until golden. While still hot, rub the bread slices with garlic and then brush with remaining olive oil.
7. Serve hot, with extra olive oil for drizzling.

Eat Local Challenge: Progress Report

One of my favorite cooking tips is pictured above. I can't remember where I read it originally (I think it was Cook's Illustrated), but it has proven invaluable. To strip the kernels from a cob of corn without spraying the entire kitchen with errant kernels, stand the cob up in the center part of a bundt pan and then, using a small sharp knife, cut the kernels from the cob in long strips. The pan catches the kernels, the cob doesn't slip and wobble all over, and your young children will be entranced.

That tip is neither here nor there at the moment, as fresh corn has disappeared from my farmer's market, but my camera was apparently left at The Carnivore's shop in town, and I find myself separated from the stash of photos I had recently snapped. Pictures of my children on hay bales surrounded by pumpkins along with shots of my sweet potato chips and fried chevre, you know, food photography that would fit perfectly with this post.

Truly, if I sound a wee bit frustrated, 'tis because I am nine days into this month-long Eat Local Challenge and I'm finding it to be a bit more, um, challenging than I had hoped it would be. For the past couple of days, instead of focusing on the positives, like new recipes and intriguing new ingredients, I have rather been keeping a list of my complaints. For instance, in The Things I Miss Most List: homemade granola for breakfast, trail mix stashed in my bag for emergency on-the-go snacks, whole-wheat fettucine noodles, and tortilla chips.

If you noticed that Edy's Strawberry Fruit Bars were conspicuously absent from the above list, well, I'm sure it isn't at all because I completely broke down this week and bought a box (okay, four boxes) from the supermarket.

Wouldn't you rather think I was perfect and that I would be able to report that eating 100% locally was not only possible, but easy as well? Maybe full disclosure is not the best policy, after all. I'll never know. I am honest to a fault when it comes to my own shortcomings.

Don't get me wrong. It isn't all doom and gloom around here, and we certainly won't be starving to death anytime soon. I mean, sure, I do suppose this would have been easier in, say, July or August when everything was still going strong around here; when berries were in season and corn was aplently. When, let's be honest, it was too hot to eat anyway. But truth be told, I am heartened to have discovered local grits and local, grass-fed beef (for the husband's sake, at least), and I will never go back to commercial breads again. Fresh eggs are a godsend, and the local cheeses that I have procured have been life-changing in their purity of flavor.

I have had to add a few items to our list of exemptions though. While local feta and chevre will remain mainstays in our diet now, commercial hard cheeses cannot be replaced at a cost which we can comfortably afford on a long-term basis. I went out of my way last week to The Healthy Gourmet, a locally-owned gourmet boutique, and picked up two cheeses from Georgia's own Sweet Grass Dairy. They were serendipitous, those cheeses, easily two of the finest I've ever had the pleasure of tasting, and I will doubtlessly purchase them again, but they aren't exactly the kind of cheese I can throw in my husband's sandwiches without breaking out in a cold sweat and recalculating our monthly budget. And of course they would be wasted in a sandwich that sits in his truck all morning until he scarfs it down while driving between job sites. So I admitted a small bit of defeat earlier this week and quietly picked up couple blocks of organic white cheddar cheese from the supermarket.

I am also fairly sure I will be going to the store tomorrow to pick up a couple bags of organic yellow corn tortilla chips, if for no other reason than I think it sacrilege to not be able to make nachos on Sunday afternoons. What can I say? It is kind of a ritual around here, and you wouldn't believe the sadness on a four-year-old's face when he's told he has to go without his favorite snack while his mother performs her own version of a walkabout.

These new exceptions notwithstanding, I am most assuredly not giving up on my month of eating locally. We will press on, and I will continue to search out fun recipes for the produce that is currently in season. If you need me on Saturday mornings, I will be at the farmer's market; on Thursday afternoons, I can be found at the Locally Grown pick-up site. My new, revised goal is to pony up at least 75% of our food expenditures this month at those two places and I think we're on track.

Right now though, I have every intention of making out with a strawberry Edy's bar (or two) while I page through my cookbooks in search of just the right recipe for some acorn squash I picked up today. If anyone has any suggestions for their use, please let me know.