CLASSIC CHOCOLATE CHIP PECAN BLONDIES

ANOTHER TRIP

Summer journeys to Niag'ra
and to other places aggra-
vate all our cares.
We'll save our fares!

I've a cozy little flat in
what is known as old Manhattan
we'll settle down
right here in town!

And tell me what street
compares with Mott Street
in July?
Sweet pushcarts gently gli-ding by.

The great big city's a wonderous toy
just made for a girl and boy.
We'll turn Manhattan
into an isle of joy!
- Lorenz Hart & Richard Rodgers

I am packing for a trip to New York City. How exciting and special is this trip – the International Association of Culinary Professionals annual conference and I am attending! I’ll be hugging friends once again that I have had the great luck to have already met, meeting and spending time with others. This is a learning and working trip: meetings, appointments, introductions, and sessions. I feel like I’ve finally grown up and can join the real professionals, and that is extremely gratifying, thrilling and motivating. Yet, this will be my first trip back to New York since that visit with my brother Michael during his illness, since his death. My first time not staying with him. Daunting, to say the least. And truly bittersweet, like a thick, bitter-tinged salted butter caramel wrapped around the big juicy sweet apple.

I rush around the apartment, doing laundry, catching up on long-neglected e-mails, finishing articles and cleaning the kitchen. My suitcase lies empty and gaping, nagging me to pay it some heed. I normally begin packing several weeks before a trip, yet I can’t seem to concentrate on the task at hand. Too excited? Distracted? Feeling unorganized and unprepared? Maybe. Likely. So I do more laundry, type more e-mails, change the sheets on our bed once again and bake.


My family has not quite gotten used to my leaving for chunks of time, even as I leave more often. They get along just fine without me – shopping, marketing, cooking, laundry – everything runs smoothly with only men in the house! Yet they are sad when I leave them; my company is always in demand, whether it be for a stroll around town just to get a bit of fresh air or when errands are needed to be run. And now that we are house hunting and decisions need to be made on the spot, I leave a wide gap in that need and decisions risk being made without me. But I am more than happy to leave the three of them on their own for a week here and there, no matter how much I miss them. They do that man thing and bond – they go out for pizza, watch action films (think giant fire balls, gladiators or something military), take Marty outside of the city for a run in the great outdoors. Much time will be spent in the garage readjusting the Lambretta and taking it for a spin around the block, putting together Simon’s portfolio and sometimes I suspect that things may just run a bit more smoothly and comfortably without my female presence and point of view. And big mouth.

Start spreading the news,
I'm leaving today.
I want to be a part of it -
New York, New York.

These vagabond shoes
Are longing to stray
And step around the heart of it
New York, New York.

I want to wake up in a city,
That doesn't sleep,
To find I'm king of the hill,
Head of the list,
Cream of the crop
At top of the heap.
- John Kander, Fred Ebb

What will New York hold for me? Many have such high hopes for me, yet I go with rather a large blank running through my head, quite possibly the reason I find it hard to get overly excited about something so formidable and utterly exciting before I actually step into the crowded hotel lobby. Finding myself surrounded by hundreds of food writers, photographers, editors, cookbook authors and chefs is indeed daunting, yet thrilling and inspiring. As shy and uncomfortable as I am around people that I do not know – and who somehow all seem to already know each other – I rarely have problems introducing myself. I have been promised that attendees of this conference are wildly friendly and open to random self-introductions, happy to take one by the hand and show one the way. I have a list of far-away friends to meet, a schedule written down in black on white of breakfasts, lunches and dinners organized. This will be the time to share ideas, listen and discuss while being back in one of the world’s most exciting cities. Oh yeah. And as my friend Ken says, we’ll be eating our way across Manhattan!


And so I fly away across the ocean, leaving my men one more time. They’ll be perfectly fine with my short absence, yet I do not like to leave them empty handed. And so I bake. I love to leave them a sweet treat or two to see them through my time away; a coffee cake, a tin of cookies and a pan of brownies always soothes their moments empty of me! I threw together one of our favourite snacks, a pan of Classic Blondies chock full of mini chocolate chips and crunchy pecans, flavored with a hint of cinnamon and grated orange zest. Easy to make and oh so easy going down. My men are crazy about chocolate chip cookies and this is as good as if not better.


CLASSIC CHOCOLATE CHIP PECAN BLONDIES
With a kiss of cinnamon and orange – adapted from Linda Burum’s Brownies

A long-time family favourite.

1 ¼ cups (175 g) flour, lightly spooned into the measuring cup and levelled
1 ¼ tsp baking powder
½ tsp salt
½ - 1 tsp ground cinnamon, depending on taste
Finely grated zest of one orange, preferably untreated, optional
2/3 cup (about 11 1/3 Tbs, 160 g) unsalted butter, softened to room temperature
½ cup (100 g) granulated white sugar
2/3 cup (140 g) packed light or golden brown sugar
1 tsp vanilla
2 large eggs
2 tsps milk
½ - 1 cup coarsely chopped pecans or walnuts
½ - 1 cup mini chocolate chips

Preheat the oven to 350°F (180°C) and butter a 9 x 9-inch metal cake pan.

Stir or whisk together the flour, baking powder, salt, ground cinnamon and finely grated zest in a small bowl.

In a large mixing bowl using an electric mixer, beat the softened butter with the granulated sugar until blended, smooth and fluffy. Beat in the brown sugar until blended, smooth and fluffy. Beat in the eggs, one at a time, adding the vanilla with the second egg, just until blended. Beat in the milk.

Using a wooden spoon or a spatula, fold in the dry ingredients just until blended; fold in the chips and the nuts until evenly distributed.

Spread the batter evenly and smoothly in the prepared baking pan and bake for about 30 minutes until the center is just set; cover the pan loosely with a piece of aluminum foil for the last 5 minutes of baking if the Blondies are browning too quickly.


Remove the Blondies from the oven and allow to cool on a rack. Eat warm or at room temperature. And a spoonful of Salted Butter Caramel Sauce or two never hurt anyone. Mama says.



Take a bigger bite ...

WRITING A BOOK

THE DARK SIDE


How does one begin to paint a picture in black when one has been using a palette of green to blue to red and every hue in between? Shades of grey edged in somber coal, murky and thick with emotion. I sit at my keyboard where optimism normally nudges my fingers across the letters like one of those old Ouija Boards, mysterious forces that always seem to know the secrets hidden deep inside. I spend my life cheering others up; I write in order to find the positive of any situation, no matter how dark, a kind of therapy or catharsis, always able to stand up and walk away from the computer feeling just a bit better. But as I sit at my desk, chin nestled heavily in the palm of my upturned hand, or my body curved into the corner of the sofa pondering over the words, the sentences, the paragraphs that spill out of my brain and my heart and onto the pristine white document in front of me, I wonder what I should write about, how deeply to delve.

Every life is touched by despair, personal failure, death of a loved one, anguish and sorrow that shape who we are, if ever so gently. Melancholy that hovers over us, day in and day out, smile smeared across our face, a constant battle with our own worse demons no matter how brave a face we present to the outside world. I have been filling pages with bits and pieces of stories – my story – that will one day be organized and filled in to create a whole. A tough project under any circumstances, yet what continues to elude me is the angle: Where do I begin? How much do I cover? Is this just an enchanting jaunt through the exciting moments of my life? A humorous account of my decision to drop everything and run away to Paris? A romance to end all romance stories of my marriage to a dashing young Frenchman, just another fairytale of American girl escaping to the City of Lights to find love and passion, an intriguing tale offered up on a rose-strewn silver platter of Champagne and caviar?


Or do I go further, dig deeper, tell the “True Life Narrative” of why someone would run away to Paris, how living in this magnificent country may be romantic and enchanting indeed, filled with silliness and humorous faux pas yet scattered with tears and more difficult than others like to portray in popular fiction? I have written in a previous post about how my life is truly incomplete without the sadness that allows me to appreciate how wonderful the happiness is. Touching on my own brother’s illness and death and the gaping hole it has left in my life, the hurt I feel every single day is only part of it. The pain of watching a child hurt and angry, his mistrust keeping him from living his life and reaching his true potential is excruciating agony that has kept us awake at night and tormented during the day. But that is still not enough. The dark tunnel that I have walked through day after day, year after year, yearning for a glimpse of the brilliant light off in the distance that never comes, slogging through mud, feet heavy as in a dream… does one write about this? Devote a chapter to the obscure, bleak moments of a life, those moments that in fact led to where I am now?

There are things that I have spoken of with no one, not even my husband to whom I am an open book. Maybe I have simply been looking for an excuse to share the sordid details with someone, anyone; possibly after keeping these dark secrets buried deep inside of me for all of these years there is an inherent need to purge myself of these tortuous demons. But is there a place for this in any story I could tell? But if truth be told, my truth, then how can I possibly write bits and pieces of my life without speaking of the essential, of what makes me me? Ah, painting a picture in brilliant reds, feminine pinks, soothing blues, cheerful yellows, by necessity there needs be spots of black, streaks of grey hovering at the edges; silent ghosts and chimeras peeping around the joy, laughter sometimes muted by silent tears.


And why do I write at all? To what purpose? I love the physical, the intellectual, the emotional act of writing; like a joyous, rambunctious childhood game or a very-adult sensual experience, it is exhilarating, exciting, even liberating; frustration and dissatisfaction transformed through concentration and hard work, blood, sweat and tears! into the perfect phrase, the perfect sentiment, an idea captured in black and white just as I imagined it. Yet the goal, that intended purpose, is hidden behind all of those descriptive, perfect words, sneaking in unexpectedly, surprising the reader with meaning. Thus giving this author an even deeper sense of satisfaction and purpose.

And why write a book at all if it is not to convey a message, weighty with substance? Every book must have some significance if one doesn’t want to fall into the domain of fluff. I ask myself these questions as my fingers fly across the keyboard. I am a writer with a passion for writing about food and culture, a goal to create pieces for magazines, so why this yearning to write a story of my life, or at least convey bits and pieces of that life, sandwiched between two covers? These questions grow larger each and every day as this craving grows stronger, as the thoughts and ideas take shape in my head, as my goal becomes clearer and now it has all spilled over onto my humble little blog, a blog that will slowly transform with my own transformation. Life, after all, is a feast.

And then we return to the question of darkness.

Take a bigger bite ...

RASPBERRY COCONUT MACARONS FOR WORLD MACARON DAY!

WORLD MACARON DAY!


AND OLD FASHIONED BREAD PUDDING


I am anti-trend. Yes, I have worked in the arts. And fashion. Now food. How much trendier, how much under the influence can one get than art, fashion and food? Yet I recoil from trends, fads and crazes with a knee-jerk reaction, like being faced with the plague. Never one to easily fit in, I found that no matter how I tried to wear the latest styles or act like the others I looked little more than a misfit, a goon (yes), so why bother? While others were oohing and ahhing over the hot new artiste du jour, the David Salle or Julian Schnabel or whoever was being promoted as hot, I was too much of a naturally born skeptic to follow the crowd blindly, analyzing, over-analyzing and doubting the sincerity of this one or that. Too much is made over a film, a book or an exciting new gadget? I steer clear. I may purchase something – a cool pair of shoes, a lovely skirt, all the rage – but then I will safely tuck it away in the back of the closet only to pull it out 5 or 10 years later when the fad has passed and happily slip it on, pairing it with the most unlikely things. I may deign to discover a book or a film several years down the line, but first impressions and doubts tend to stick and I have been known to regret the money spent, close the book with disgust and give it away without having read further than the first chapter. Cell phone? Had to have one forced on me when I began working outside of the house. Iphone? Just got my first and my men still roll their eyes in dismay that I only use it…to phone.


And food. Once one is plugged into the world of food blogging, one has a front row seat to all the newest trends and crazes, watching the hottest, the coolest, the funkiest scroll by with a flick of the wrist: cupcakes, macarons and cake pops, bacon or pork belly, this new restaurant or cookbook. Mini this or fried that, edible dirt, molecular and foam, have absolutely no charm for me. If you must tack the word gourmet, heirloom, redefined or gastro- onto the name of whatever you are selling, then count me out. Farmer’s markets and eating more leafy, green vegetables, eating local and seasonal…wait a minute? Well, we’ve been doing this for years! I wouldn’t call these trends as much as I would call them smart!

Screeeeeech…. Wait a doggone minute there. Did you say….macarons? Ah, the trendiest of food trends, that lovely little French confection, that wisp of powdered sugar and almonds, that mouthful of delicate, feminine froth. Since these tiny, colorful treats have taken the world by storm, shops spreading like wildfire across the globe, one pastry chef creating even more eye-popping, astonishing flavor combination after the next, I have tasted exactly five store-bought macaron selections: Ladurée (much too gooey and sweet), Fortnum & Mason (a tad dry, a tad bland), Pierre Hermé (luscious! Some I could have passed over but his cassis-chocolat and caramel au beurre sale are exquisite) and Vincent Guerlais and Sucré (my favorites, beautiful flavors, perfect shell-filling balance and not overly sweet, simply suggestive, seductive), but I tend to prefer purchasing a box of handmade chocolates to macarons any day. Macarons for a treat, a snack, a dessert are simply not my thing. There is little attraction and, quite possibly, the fact that everyone seems to go wild over them, everyone dreams of nibbling on a chocolate-truffle macaron by PH or is willing to spend hours queuing on the sidewalk in front of Ladurée, so many have elevated this tiny sweet to dizzying heights, had me simply turned off from the get go. Just another trend, fad, craze. And I am so not interested.


“So then why do you make macarons?” you ask with a sneer or a laugh. “I mean, just take a gander at your blog, stroll through your own recipe index and there they are for all the world to see: Espresso Sea Salt Chocolate Macarons, Coffee Macarons, Gingerbread Macarons, Blueberry Hibiscus Macarons with Blueberry Vanilla Mascarpone Cream, Tulip Macarons with Honey-Pistacho Mascarpone Cream, Violet Macarons, Vegetable Macarons with Chili Chocolate Ganache, Beetroot Macarons with Smoked Salmon, even Cotton Candy Macarons. Guilty as charged! I’ve been caught red-handed falling in line and succumbing to this latest food trend. But I can honestly say that I was seduced by the baking challenge rather than beguiled by the treat. Never one to be tempted and turned on by any dessert not rich and hearty, creamy and gooey, I would have never imagined in my wildest dreams that I would have taken to the delicate, ethereal French macaron. Husband despises them and I did long avoid both eating and making them, but THIS challenge got me started, thanks to Deeba, the wonderful baker behind Passionate About Baking, and ever since we have baked macarons side by side, in failure and in success, gathering around us so many passionate, talented bakers in our own virtual Mactweets’ Kitchen. And today is World Macaron Day, so I will heartily and lustfully shout out a cheery Happy Macaron Day to you all and share my latest creation: Raspberry Coconut Macarons with Chocolate Ganache for Mac Attack Challenge #27.


These rather brown macarons are indeed Raspberry-Coconut – having mysteriously turned the color of mud in the oven after beginning their round life a stunning, deep fuchsia pink. I added 2 tablespoons of dried raspberry powder – sifting out the seeds – and a couple of tablespoons sifted dried coconut powder to the powdered sugar/ground almond blend of my traditional recipe (without the spice, cinnamon or cocoa of course). I filled the shells with a simple dark chocolate ganache, although if I did not have such a persnickety family I would have stirred some raspberry or cherry preserves into the chocolate. In spite of their sad murky color, the flavor was brilliant, a mild yet wonderful fruity flavor which paired beautifully with the chocolate. The macarons were perfect: a thin crispy outer shell giving way to a perfect, tender, mildly chewy inside. Wonderful.


But to end this anti-trend, non-fad, craze-free sentiment and blog post, I will add on a recipe that immediately became a family favorite: Pudding au Pain. We always prefer the old fashioned, the homey, the comforting over the latest and the hottest. And what is better or more delightful or, for that matter, more popular than a Bread Pudding? But this Bread Pudding is no regular Bread Pudding…. This is French Bread Pudding. The stale bread is soaked in hot milk and then the softened bread is mashed into a purée into which is blended the rest of the ingredients. Plump raisins are added for sweetness to an otherwise lightly sweetened pudding and baked under a lovely caramel. Of course, I based the recipe on JP’s favorite Françoise Bernard from Recettes Faciles, but giving it my all-American twist of finely grated orange zest, a dash of cinnamon and a splash of vanilla.


The result? Instead of chunks of bread rising to the top and getting crusty while others remain soft and rather than, as so often happens, the custard separating during the baking, the puréed bread blends into a batter-type mixture and creates a dense, chewy, pudding-like cake. This is a marvelous way to use up any type of stale bread or cake, any and all kinds blended together; this is a staple of most French boulangeries: leftover breads and cakes are used to create a very popular, old-fashioned dessert, either vanilla or chocolate and topped with either gooey caramel or a chocolate glaze or ganache. Next time you crave bread pudding, next time you have stale bread piling up around you calling for attention, make this fabulous French Bread Pudding. Gorgeous, addictive, a perfect balance between very delicately sweetened pudding and sweet, sweet raisins, mildly bitter caramel and the hint of orange and cinnamon….a truly stunning treat.


PUDDING AU PAIN –or- FRENCH BREAD PUDDING
Adapted from Recettes Faciles by Françoise Bernard

3.5 oz (100 g) raisins, dark or blond
7 oz (200 g) stale bread, cubed
2 cups (500 ml or ½ litre) milk, whole or low fat
¾ cup (150 g) sugar
3 large eggs, lightly beaten
Finely grated zest of one orange, preferably untreated
Dash of ground cinnamon, ¼ to ½ tsp
½ tsp vanilla

10 sugar cubes (2 oz, 60 g)
2 Tbs water
Couple drops lemon juice

Preheat the oven to 375°F (190°C). Have ready a regular loaf pan.

Rinse the raisins and place in a small bowl; cover with hot water and allow to soak for 15 minutes to plump. Drain and set aside.

While the raisins are plumping, cube the stale bread (smaller is better, but about an inch square is fine) and place in a large mixing heatproof or Pyrex mixing bowl. Bring the milk to the boil in a small saucepan and immediately pour the hot milk over the bread cubes. Allow the bread to soak up all of the milk, tossing and pressing the cubes down into the hot milk regularly. This should take several minutes.

Once the bread has soaked up all of the hot milk and is softened, either run it though a food mill or purée it using an emulsion mixer or robot until fairly smooth. Return to the mixing bowl and whisk or stir in the sugar, the lightly beaten eggs, the plumped and drained raisins, the finely grated orange zest, the ground cinnamon and the vanilla. Stir to blend well.

Place the sugar cubes, the water and a few drops of lemon juice into the loaf pan. Place the loaf pan over medium-low heat and carefully cook. The sugar will melt and the mixture will bubble; allow to cook gently, shifting the pan around and back and forth gently, until it turns into a deep golden/light brown caramel. This can take from 5 to 10 minutes but watch very carefully for as soon as the sugar begins to turn into a caramel (turning brown) it goes very quickly and can burn easily.

Remove the loaf pan from the heat and carefully tilt the pan back and forth so the caramel evenly coats the bottom of the pan and goes a little way up the sides. Immediately pour the pudding batter into the loaf pan on top of the caramel and smooth. Bake for one hour until puffed and golden.

Remove the loaf pan from the oven and allow to cool just until the pan can be handled (the pudding should no longer be hot but should still be warm). Run a sharp knife around the edges to loosen the pudding then place a serving platter upside down on top of the loaf pan. Quickly invert the platter and the pan and lift the loaf pan off of the pudding.


The Bread Pudding is delicious eaten warm or at room temperature, plain, with yogurt, whipped cream or ice cream. We love it plain with a cup of coffee.



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HEAVENLY CHOCOLATE CUPCAKES WITH MOCHA BUTTERCREAM

CHAOS AND COMFORT

Action and reaction, ebb and flow, trial and error, change - this is the rhythm of living.
Out of our over-confidence, fear; out of our fear, clearer vision, fresh hope.
And out of hope, progress.
- Bruce Barton

We have hesitated long enough. We have reasoned, argued, defined, dissected as much as is humanly possible, yet each time we have faltered. At each precipice we have paused and looked back at what lay behind us: solid, predictable, safe ground. We knew that we had no desire to stay on terra firma, not here, not now. But peering over the edge into the unknown or, worse, choosing a direction and plunging head first, only realizing much too late that we had made a mistake, seemed much to dangerous a chance to take. Or jumping into a decision with both feet only to figure out mid-flight that we should have waited just a tad longer, that we missed the real opportunity by giving in too quickly… sigh … But we have run out of words, no longer feel the pull of the argument. The time has finally come to make a determined compromise; time is now truly of the essence as precipitous, as terrifying as it feels. Realtors are being called, numbers totted up, lists made, apartments measured, plans analyzed. And bids mailed in.

We are fully aware that once one chooses to leave the highway and the expected norms of society, throws the predictable to the wind in exchange for paving one’s own path, searching for one’s own particular brand of happiness against everything that life has laid out for you, well, we are fully aware that there are risks involved. Three years ago, we sold our apartment and moved into a rental in order to be free, unfettered to one city, a job, able to pick up, pack up and leave if the urge struck. We could look for new jobs, exciting opportunities or even adventure anywhere on the planet, following our hearts’ desire. We settled down into a daily rhythm and the comfort of working on our own projects, side by side, meeting every so often in the kitchen over a comforting meal or in the livingroom in front of the news or a good film. Weeks then months rolled by, then one year and two, and as we arrive on the threshold of year number three and see our savings beginning to dwindle, we know that now is the time to make that decision, whether to stay in Nantes or leave.

There is nothing wrong with change if it is in the right direction.
- Winston Churchill

My own projects are better served by being in Europe rather than the States, allowing me to write about the life of an expat, my multi-cultural experience and my food-passionate existence as a foreigner and discoverer. JP is barreling towards the confirmation of his own project creation and this requires an extended residency in France, so why not Nantes? For now, our boys are here and it is a sleepy, comfortable town solidly planted amongst the gorgeous vines of Muscadet and the Loire wine valley, near enough to the sea and the gentle lapping of the Loire and Erdre Rivers to allow me year-round enjoyment of her luscious bounty of oysters, scallops, mussels and crab. Close enough to Paris, on the edge of Brittany, a stone’s throw from the rest of Europe. Alors, why continue to pay rent and use up our precious resources when we can be living once again in our own space, within our own four walls, our own home?

Damn the torpedoes! Full steam ahead!
- Admiral Farragut at the Battle of Mobile Bay, 1864

And the race is on. Once Monsieur comes to a decision, all hell breaks loose and we are full steam ahead. His enthusiasm is only matched by his pragmatism; days are spent going through bank accounts with a fine-toothed comb, calculating renovation costs and resale value, discussing details with our in-house architect, printing out announcements, making phone calls, scratching notes in margins and recalculating every expense. A move like this becomes all consuming, our attention requiring forcefully being dragged away from walk-ups, facades, parquet, capital gain and taxes in order to be able to focus on our own work, those continuing projects. This new adventure has added excitement to our comfortable routine and we try and dissuade ourselves as well as each other from building castles in the air, châteaux en espagne, as the French say. We gather together, a wild frenzy of discussion, a flurry of activity, a tumult of hows and what ifs and but what about issue from this corner or that, from one worried son to the other, an intoxicating frisson of energy as we analyze the merits of this apartment visited or the possibilities of the other.

Everyone thinks of changing the world,
but no one thinks of changing himself.
- Leo Tolstoy

Yet, it never is as easy as that is it? He wants to make a bid on the first and I on the second. One son sides with him and the other with me, as far as he is capable of admitting an opinion at all. They want to set up camp in an on-going construction site and renovate, we want the comfort of a tidy, neat home. Discussion rages, pros and cons batted back and forth, doubts and dreams spattered against the walls. Terrified of making the wrong choice, just a tad scared of being pinned down, nervous to place a signature on a piece of paper, binding us to one spot for a length of time, no, decisions like this are fraught with risk, worry and doubt. We have always been terrified of being tied down, committed to something other than each other, our wings clipped, so to speak. We yearn for freedom and are choosing confinement; we hunger for adventure and are tying ourselves down to another we don’t know for how long here. Yet, there is excitement, something stimulating and inspiring about purchasing our own home, like planting a flag in the surface of the moon. We came, we conquered, we decorated!

Change alone is eternal, perpetual, immortal.
- Arthur Schopenhauer

And so, life goes on. I prepare for a trip to New York and a conference; I fill up pages with stories meant one day to be turned into a book or sent off to this magazine or that, my dark hole of writer’s block beginning to melt away. JP works, Simon draws, Clem builds and life goes on, swirling around us in an emotional, action-packed whirlwind of chaos and comfort. Spring has arrived on a swell of sunshine, washing over our happy life in soft, warm waves. The oranges and pears begin to fade from the market stalls, yet to be replaced by sweet berries or stone fruit. Simon clomps endlessly around the house, wandering from his bedroom half an hour before each mealtime and through our workspaces inquiring about lunch or dinner, rolling his eyes in disgust when we look up at him in innocent confusion. He has taken it upon his 21-year-old self to do all the grocery shopping and meal planning, that way guaranteed to find something to eat when he rifles through the refrigerator or is hungry for a lunch or dinner. I am sorry to say that he is not at all happy with our behavior these days, our lack of interest in whipping up delicious dishes or keeping him well supplied in coffee cake, chocolate chip cookies or layer cakes, but I do what I can. Clem is rarely home and when he does show up to join us for dinner complains endlessly that it is a never-ending chain of the same old same old. JP and I laugh and tease, occasionally surprising them with a hearty, fragrant lamb and vegetable couscous, a beef and potato Parmentier or a cheesy gratin. Clem hooks up his computer to the television set, pulls up an American police series and we settle down happily for the evening.


Since rediscovering the joys of my mother’s old community and Sisterhood cookbooks and after my successes with the Chocolate Chip Pecan Butter Horns and her own Chocolate Chip Nut Bread, I decided to delve into Abigail Serves, the community cookbook put together, under the watchful and formidable eye of my mother’s aunt, Great Aunt Mae in 1956. Abigail Serves is the collected recipes of The United Order of True Sisters of Albany, New York. Perusing the yellowed, faded pages of this self-published cookbook, I couldn’t help myself when I came across Heavenly Chocolate Cake; with such a name, who could resist? Before the days when adding a box of pudding mix to cake batter was all the rage, this recipe is based upon this very idea to create a dense, moist cake. A chocolate pudding-like cream or custard is prepared with sugar, milk, cocoa powder and an egg then added to the cake batter to create a luxuriously thick and creamy mixture. Once baked, the cake is a deep, dark chocolate, the sweetness perfectly balanced, the texture extra moist without being overly gooey and dense, which as we all know, Simon the persnickety hates. Light, fluffy yet moist and tender, full-flavored, the chocolate kissed by the barest hint of espresso as I decided to replace some of the water in the batter with prepared coffee. I frosted the cupcakes with my own, favorite simple chocolate buttercream recipe, again replacing the boiling water with prepared café au lait. Scrumptious. And everybody was happy and well satisfied.

With Aunt Mae in Miami Beach, circa 1962.

Please hop over to Huffington Post Food to read my latest article You Are What You Eat: A Food Blogger’s Dilemma. Should I even be asking the question? What do you think?


And speaking of From Plate to Page, due to an unexpected cancellation, there are now a couple of spaces open for our exciting Somerset workshop in May. If you are looking for an intimate, hands-on, practical workshop providing you with the tools, instruction and inspiration to define and hone your food writing, styling and photography skills and kick start your creativity all in a convivial, fun- and food-filled weekend then Plate to Page is for you! For details about the workshop, the four instructors (I teach food writing) and registration, please visit out our website! But hurry, spaces are limited to 12 and they are going fast! Questions? Visit our new FAQ page!


HEAVENLY CHOCOLATE CAKE
Makes 9-inch double layer cake or about 14 large chocolate cupcakes.

For the chocolate cream:

¾ cup (150 g) sugar
¾ cup (75 g) unsweetened cocoa powder
¾ cup (185 ml) milk
1 large egg

For the batter:

2/3 cup (150 g) unsalted butter
1 ¼ cups (250 g) sugar
3 large eggs
2 ¼ cup (255 g) sifted flour (sifted BEFORE measuring, not measured then sifted)
1 tsp salt
½ tsp baking powder
2/3 cup (165 ml) cold water (can replace some of the water with prepared coffee)
1 tsp vanilla
1 ¾ tsp baking soda
¼ cup (62 ml) warm water

Prepare the Chocolate Custard:

Whisk the sugar, cocoa powder, milk and egg together in a medium saucepan until thick, creamy and very smooth. Place the saucepan over low heat and very gently bring to a low boil. Whisking constantly, continue to cook for 2 to 3 minutes longer until it becomes a thick sauce or custard. (Once the mixture is heated, the sauce thins and then re-thickens as it cooks.) Remove from the heat, set aside and allow to cool. As I use Le Creuset, which continue to heat even after the pan is removed from the flame, I immediately scraped the custard into a heatproof Pyrex bowl to cool.

Prepare the cake:

Preheat the oven to 350°F (180°C). Either butter two 9-inch layer cake pans and line the bottom of each with parchment or oven paper or line cupcake tins with paper cup liners.

In a large mixing bowl, cream the butter and sugar until blended and light. Beat in the eggs one at a time just until blended. Beat or stir in the chocolate custard in a few additions, blending thoroughly. Stir the sifted flour, baking powder and salt together; beat the flour mixture into the batter in three additions alternating with the cold water in two, beginning and ending with the dry ingredients. Add the vanilla.

Dissolve the baking soda in the warm water then stir quickly into the cake batter until very well blended. Pour into the prepared cake pans or ladle into the cupcake cups and bake in the preheated oven for 35 to 40 minutes until puffed, the center is set and a tester inserted in the center comes out dry.

Allow to cool on racks – if baking the cake layers, allow to cool in pans for 10 minutes before running a sharp knife around each cake to loosen and turn out onto cooling racks. For the cupcakes, remove the cupcake cups from the tins and allow to cool completely on cooling racks.

Frost when cooled.


SIMPLE CHOCOLATE OR MOCHA BUTTERCREAM FROSTING

Double the ingredients if making a layer cake for spreading in between the layers, the top and sides of the cake. A single recipe will suffice for cupcakes.

6 oz (175 grams) powdered/confectioner’s sugar
4 Tbs (60 grams) unsalted butter, softened to room temperature
0.9 oz (25 grams) unsweetened cocoa powder
2 Tbs boiling water, hot prepared coffee or café au lait

Using an electric hand mixer, cream the butter and the powdered sugar together. Add the cocoa powder and the boiling water or coffee and beat, scraping down the sides as necessary, until well blended and fluffy.

Chill in the refrigerator until firm enough so that, if making a layer cake, when spread and the layers are stacked, the frosting does not slide.

Take a bigger bite ...

TENDER COOKED BEEF AND CARROT CANNELLONI

FROID, BRULÉ, PAS CUIT… *

Cooking is like love. It should be entered into with abandon or not at all.

- Harriet Van Horne

With all the baking that goes on in my house, with all of the baked goods that appear on my blog, one would think that we never eat a meal here. Cake for breakfast, cake for lunch, panna cotta and fruit tarts for dinner and so on and so forth.


My husband and I form the ideal couple: he cooks and I bake. You see, he is as comfortable in front of the butcher’s counter and at the greengrocer, as happy in front of a cutting board, knife in hand, and in front of the stove as I am with my hands deep inside a soft mound of bread dough or whizzing up egg whites and melting chocolate. He learned to cook when he was a boy, all of those long years ago, preparing blanquette and boeuf au carottes while his mother worked, as I was watching, mesmerized, on the other side of the Atlantic, my father marble chocolate and vanilla cake batters and prepare choux pastry. Over our many years together, he has educated me on the ins and outs of savory cooking, teaching me to make couscous and tagine, potée and moules marinières. Yes, I did the cooking when he was at work and enjoyed it immensely (once the unbearable angst of having to make a decision on what to cook had been conquered), but come weekend or vacation time, he would once again tie on an apron and take over the kitchen. And happy was I to leave him the way.

Now that he is working from home, he cooks and I bake. Mostly. The urge comes upon one or the other swiftly, without warning, the desire for something savory, a warming plate of tender, long-simmered meat, vibrant tomatoes made sweet and meltingly luscious by slow cooking, a casserole gooey with cheese or sweetened with plump raisins or prunes. If it is early enough in the day, we shrug on coats and slip into shoes and, basket in hand, make our way to the neighborhood market. Fruits and vegetables, his preferred butcher or mine, maybe the Italian stand for fresh pasta, Bresaola and Scamorza Affumicata, or the Alsatian stand for choucroute, saucisses de Strasbourg or boudin blanc. Olives, a loaf of fresh bread, a bottle of wine snuggle deep amongst the crinkly brown paper sacks of oranges, endives and tomatoes and we hurry back home, sharing the weight of the basket brimming with fresh ingredients between the two of us. Once home, kitchen duties are divvied up and another savory meal is prepared.


If the weather is lousy, rain spattering against the windowpanes and the sky an unwelcoming leaden and dull, or if it is too close to mealtime, our morning or afternoon having slipped by unnoticed while we work, or if we are simply too lazy to trek out into the wilds of Nantes, cupboards are riffled through, cans and boxes shifted left and right, the refrigerator ransacked, emptied, leftovers, jars and Tupperware containers scrutinized, peered into, poked at and separated into old and fuzzy or perfectly good. A leftover lasagna or Parmentier is reheated or JP turns on the magic and the charm, takes everything that hasn’t withered and died of old age and somehow, wondrously concocts a delicious, flavorful meal.

I have traveled quite a long way from that small American town in the shadow of NASA’s rockets where fresh seafood straight from the ocean and citrus plucked directly from the tree alternated with frozen dinners, Hamburger Helper and pancake dinners. The most exotic, culturally significant meals in our home involved Borscht, chicken soup with matzo balls and Challah. Moving to France may have opened my eyes to an entirely new culture and cuisine, but it is thanks to my husband that I have discovered all the details and more: he has walked me through the repertoire of classic French home cooking, hearty, traditional and warming, enriching each dish with a tale from his childhood or a colorful episode in France’s history; he has introduced me to foods local and regional as well as the cuisines of Morocco and Vietnam, now part of the French national food culture, dishes rich in tradition and, again, history, recounting stories of his time spent in Morocco eating and learning to cook or comedic episodes of his time at university, hours spent eating bowls of Bo Bun in a familiar and much-visited Vietnamese restaurant near the school. Together we have wandered high and low, through France and Italy, spent time in Basque country, discovering food in Budapest or in Florida and New England. We have snapped pictures and tasted local foods and dishes, strolled through markets as if on an educational field trip. We have savored the new and the formerly unknown at the homes of both friends and strangers, asking questions and taking notes, and built up our personal encyclopedia of information, cooking methods, stories and foods. And with his advice, guidance and inspiration, I have learned to cook.


But learning how to make the perfect, traditional Blanquette de Veau, Couscous or Poulet Yassa aside, my living in France and my marriage to a food-passionate man curious about cultures and cuisines and a history buff to boot has been the means of my discovering special ingredients and obscure specialties from preserved lemons to supions and encornets, from salsify to celeriac, turmeric, coriander and cumin, cotechino, harira, stinco, not to forget a dictionary's worth of cheeses. And boeuf cuit. Boeuf Cuit is quite simply cooked beef, but it is not as simple as it sounds. Chunks of tender cooked beef, the same cuts usually selected for a bourguignon, having long simmered in a savory broth are compressed together into a type of terrine with tiny cubes of carrots and bound with aspic or jellied broth and sold in thick slices at the butcher’s counter. JP introduced me to this unusual ingredient early in our marriage when he would bring it home, cut it into cubes or crumble it into shreds and toss it together with slices of tender cooked potatoes, plenty of chopped violet shallots and a tangy vinaigrette. Delicious! Wonderful for a light weekend lunch, a casual dinner or packed and tucked inside a basket for a perfect picnic meal.

Our latest issue of French Saveurs magazine had him back at the butcher’s counter ordering a pound or so of Boeuf Cuit. He has been on a Cannelloni streak lately; boxes of cannelloni pasta accumulate joyously in our pantry and he purchased the perfect little stainless steal baking pan just the width of a cannelloni shell and large enough for one meal for a family of four. So, of course, the recipe for Cannellonis au Boeuf Fondant et aux Carottes, cannelloni of meltingly tender beef and carrots, jumped out of the glossy pages of the magazine and into his eager, waiting hands. He followed the recipe as well as someone who cooks au pif, by instinct or feel, can do, adding more carrots, using a tad less beef, flavoring it to his own exquisite taste, and served us this luscious, wonderful, hearty meal. As we only stuffed enough pasta shells to fill our tiny baking pan in one layer, there was enough filling left over to use as the base of a ragout, blended and heated with more homemade tomato sauce, to serve over fresh pasta.

The only real stumbling block is fear of failure.
In cooking you've got to have a what-the-hell attitude.
- Julia Child

* The title of my post? Froid, Brulé, Pas Cuit? It means Cold, Burned, Undercooked; i.e. a culinary disaster. As we are all inclined to expect the worst of everything and anything we cook or bake, JP pulled out this old phrase, coined during his university days by a friend, dusted it off and introduced it into our home. This phrase has become a joke in our kitchen, a way to mock the other when doubts of our cooking or baking prowess take over or our confidence in the results of an all-out culinary effort begin to waver, a way to lighten the mood and make the other laugh. Although I, the Nervous Nellie who doubts myself from beginning to end, am constantly finding fault with my own recipes, JP’s method of cooking leaves little room for disaster as he adjusts and corrects along the way.

Don't forget JP's other recipes:




Cauliflower and Potato Gratin









Lasagna Two Ways: Smoked Salmon and Spinach or Veal and Vegetable



On a final note, it is that time of year for Saveur’s Best Food Blog Awards and it would be tremendous to be considered for an award from this prestigious magazine. If you enjoy Life’s a Feast, if my stories touch you in some way, if you are interested in nominating my blog for one of the categories that you feel is the best fit, I would certainly appreciate your support and the time that it takes to put in the nomination. Just link over to their website. Thank you! It does mean the world to me!

And speaking of From Plate to Page, due to an unexpected cancellation, there are now a couple of spaces open for our exciting Somerset workshop in May. If you are looking for an intimate, hands-on, practical workshop providing you with the tools, instruction and inspiration to define and hone your food writing, styling and photography skills and kick start your creativity all in a convivial, fun- and food-filled weekend then Plate to Page is for you! For details about the workshop, the four instructors (I teach food writing) and registration, please visit out our website! But hurry, spaces are limited to 12 and they are going fast! Questions? Visit our new FAQ page!


CANNOLLONI OF TENDER COOKED BEEF AND CARROTS
From the March 2012 issue of French Saveurs

I will give you the exact recipe as given in the magazine. JP adjusted it to use less cooked beef and more carrots and mildly adjusted the flavorings to his taste. A delicious recipe but one I would actually change the next time we make it by doubling the tomato sauce and blending half the sauce in with the meat mixture to lighten it and add more moisture. As I said above, this is a fabulous filling turned into a ragout to serve over pasta.

12 cannelloni shells
750 g (1 ½ lbs boeuf cuit or cooked beef leftover from a pot au feu, bourguignon or similar)*
200 g (7 oz) carrots, washed, peeled and trimmed **
½ an onion or more if desired
500 ml (2 cups) meat stock (from a cube is fine)
1 Tbs tomato paste
Several tablespoons olive oil, as needed
100 g (3 ½ oz) grated Parmesan cheese
15 g (1 Tbs) butter
Salt and freshly ground pepper

* We used 500 g (1 lb)
** We used 6 carrots

Shred the beef. Cut the cleaned carrots into tiny cubes and finely chop the onion.

Sauté the chopped onion in a few tablespoons olive oil for about 3 minutes or until tender. Add the carrots and the meat. Add enough of the meat stock to just cover the mixture, salt and pepper (taste the stock to verify how salty it already is so you don’t oversalt the dish) and allow to gently simmer over low heat for 20 minutes. At the end of the cooking time, allow the meat to cool to room temperature.

In a separate pan, bring the rest of the meat stock and the tomato paste to a boil; pepper and salt only if needed.

Preheat the oven to 350°F (180°C) and butter the bottom and sides of a baking dish or pan. Stuff the cannelloni shells with the cooled meat and carrot filling and line the filled shells up snugly in the buttered baking dish in a single layer. Pour the meat stock/tomato paste over and around the shells, sprinkle generously with the grated Parmesan, cover the dish with aluminum foil and bake for 35 to 40 minutes, removing the foil about 10 minutes before the end of cooking.



Take a bigger bite ...