HOMEY CHUNKY BEST CHICKEN SALAD & MINI CHOCOLATE BUNDT CAKES

AMERICANA

Chicken salad has a certain glamour about it. 

Like the little black dress, 

it is chic and adaptable anywhere. 

- Laurie Colwin, Home Cooking, 1988

Chicken Salad. Simple, homey, banal old chicken salad. White bread, or toast if you are feeling audacious, a smear of mayo, a slice of tomato, one single lettuce leaf and a scoop of chicken salad. Nothing more American than chicken salad for lunch. Or tuna salad, come to think of it, but tuna is particular in its bold, distinctive, fishy flavor, often hard to please. There are only so many ways that tuna salad can be prepared, only so many ingredients that marry well with the assertive fishiness. But something about chicken is universal; its very blandness is the perfect backdrop, a tabula rasa for anything. As Laurie Colwin stated, it is so adaptable.

One can say that chicken salad’s very essence is American. Start with the chicken itself, poached or roasted, simple and tender, a blank page; chop it, mince it, shred it, precise, clean and elegant, or rough, frayed, ever so scraggy and casual. A spoonful or three of mayonnaise, of course, cool, velvety, rich and then, really, it can take on any personality at all. Slivers of sun-dried tomatoes, the sharp tang of mustard or vinegar, the salty pull of olives, the smoky masculinity of bacon or ham, the bite of your favorite pickle. Give it the hot, spicy kick of Tabasco or the gentle sweetness of grapes or pears, the crunch of apples or walnuts. Or bring in your own cultural touch, your very own personal taste: toss in curry, garam masala, chickpeas and coriander for an Indian twist; chunks of feta, cubes of ripe tomatoes, onions and dark, glistening, slippery, tangy olives for something reminiscent of the Greek Isles; Chinese, Italian, Russian, Irish, pull up something from your favorite cuisine or your own family roots, chicken salad is the Melting Pot of food.

My father baked. Choux, delicate and ethereal, filled with thick, creamy pudding; larger-than-life sheet cakes, perfectly marbled chocolate and vanilla; mile-high pies then topped with mounds of sweet, snowy whipped topping. My father loved to spend time in the kitchen, concentrating on stirring, pouring, simmering, his eyes absolutely twinkling with delight. Weekends would find him whipping up a batch of pancake batter, always for dinner, never for breakfast; by the time we kids straggled out of bed and stumbled into the kitchen, dad would already be out in the yard mowing the scrappy patches of hard, tough Florida lawn clinging mightily to the Florida sand, digging up his poor little plot of a garden or have his head deep under the hood of a car. I often wax nostalgic about the hours I would spend, mesmerized, watching my father whip up a baked good or blend handfuls of dried fruits to create an ambrosial, sweet, shimmering compote. I inherited many qualities from him, and the passion for baking must be one of them.

But he did so much more than bake. He loved being in the kitchen. Weekends he would toss steaks or burgers on the grill when he wasn’t flipping pancakes on the griddle. And his hoagies! How we loved his hoagies! He would bake loaves of frozen, buttery garlic bread, split each one open, spread on the mayonnaise, and with the precision, exactitude and fastidiousness of the engineer that he was, he would layer and mound paper thin slices of cold cuts, salamis and cheeses, top with a row of tomato slices, lettuce leaves and, his secret ingredient, his final touch, a drizzle of Italian salad dressing. Ah, hoagie night.

And he made all of the salads. He was the king of salads. Tuna and chicken salads, chopped liver, whatever you please. His chicken salad was thick and creamy, dotted with bits of carrots and celery for color and crunch, maybe an onion finely minced, salted and peppered and it needed nothing more than that to be turned into a perfect sandwich. We were plain, simple folk with a taste for something that simply said American comfort food, a meal that simply said home.

(An) an American can eat anything on the face of this earth 

as long as he has two pieces of bread. 

– Bill Cosby 

Now I am all grown up and have so many worlds, cultures and cuisines at my fingertips. That bowl of cooked, chopped chicken takes on many forms, so many different personalities depending upon the season, the weather and my mood. Often, I will fill my shopping cart or market basket with an array of condiments, flavors and textures that will bring a new chicken salad to life, to be packed for a picnic, served up for lunch or eaten at a buffet. But as we delve deeper and deeper into apartment renovations, as my time is sucked into a black hole…. No, no. As my time is taken up by painting and polishing parquet and making design decisions, I have less and less time to devote to cooking. Shopping is done on the run, cooking is now a thrown together affair, a “let’s dig through the cupboard and fridge” kind of smorgasbord event as we collapse in front of the television for the evening. Yet as I dashed to the market yesterday to pick up cheeses and baguette and fruit, whatever to make a quick, impromptu meal or two, chicken salad crossed my mind. I haven’t thought of chicken salad in years. I bought tomatoes, an avocado and a tiny bouquet of pearl onions and ran home. And I was on my way.

Tonight’s version of chicken salad is made up of what I had on had: mayonnaise, mustard and red wine vinegar for a creamy dressing with a slight bite and a slight tang. Slivered spring or pearl salad onions, chunks of avocado as well as a couple of minced hardboiled eggs and a cupful of cooked white beans for both added nutritional value and consistency. From there, toss in a handful of fresh coriander, chunks of feta, slivers of sundried tomatoes or sliced pickles. Or a handful of olives. I make mine rather plain and serve the extras on the side so each diner can create his own perfect flavor combination. And dad’s spirit hung over us, glided in and out of the kitchen and livingroom as we dined on the perfect American buffet, comfort food to soother body and soul after a long day of renovations. Serve with fresh bread, tossed salad, a cheese platter, a bowl of fruit and a bottle of light, fruity white wine. Yes, please.

I have decided to add to my menu chocolate cake. I have taken Abby Dodge’s fabulous Emergency Blender Chocolate Cupcakes from The Weekend Baker (a cookbook that I highly recommend to beginner and experienced bakers alike) and turned them into tiny Bundt cakes to serve simply (what else?) dusted with powdered sugar. Feel free to serve them with a scoop of your favourite ice cream, whipped cream or my Chocolate Whipped Cream or Coffee Whipped Cream.

This Chicken Salad and individual Chocolate Bund Cakes is for this month’s Monthly Mingle (a blogging even created by Meeta), hosted by my friend and fellow American expat Jenn of Jenn Cuisine. Her Monthly Mingle theme is Americana. And what is more American than Chicken Salad? And chocolate cake!

NOTA BENE: A home baker can never have enough easy, quick, one-bowl cake recipes. Why use a boxed mix when you can have a homemade, from-scratch cake with barely more time, energy or trouble? Here are a few of my own personal favorites:

Chocolate Espresso Layer Cake





 

Special Chocolate Cake

Eggless "Lickety Split" Chocolate Cake

Best Chocolate Chip Banana Bread





CHICKEN SALAD

This is the basic version, then add to it what you will. This serves about 4 people, American, French or whoever happens to be in your home and hungry, as part of a luncheon or light dinner spread.


2 large chicken breasts
2 – 4 cups chicken or vegetable broth or stock, enough to cover the breasts
3.5 oz (100 g) smoked lardons cubes (I use Matchstick) or bacon
2 – 4 large eggs
5 or more Tbs mayonnaise, homemade or excellent quality jarred
1 – 2 Tbs mustard, to taste
1 – 2 tsps red wine vinegar, to taste
Salt and freshly ground black pepper
1 can cooked white beans, rinsed
1 ripe avocado, peeled and cubed
Spring or pearl salad onions, trimmed of the green and the white part thinly sliced
1 small or medium-sized carrot, trimmed and cleaned (peeled or scraped)
1 – 2 cups cherry tomatoes, rinsed and halved, optional

Pat the chicken breasts with paper towelling and trim off any excess pockets of fat. Place the breasts in a pot of simmering chicken or vegetable stock or broth (homemade, canned or from a stock cube is fine) and allow to simmer until cooked through (the center went sliced open should no longer be pink). This takes about 10 minutes, more or less depending upon the thickness of the breasts. Remove from the stock and allow to cool.

Hardboil 2 to 4 eggs, allow to cool, peel and rinse. Fry the lardons or bacon in a dry skillet until crispy. If use bacon, crumble or cut into matchsticks. Allow to cool.

When cooled, chop or mince. When the chicken has cooled, chop, cube, mince, shred or slice the cooked chicken and place in a medium or large mixing bowl. Grate the carrot into the bowl – I use the largest holes of the grater. Add the lardons or bacon, the thinly sliced onion and the minced hardboiled eggs. Whisk the 5 tablespoons of the mayonnaise with 1 tablespoon of the mustard and taste. Add more mayonnaise or mustard to taste. Whisk in 1 teaspoon of the red wine vinegar. Fold into the chicken salad. Salt and pepper.

Gently fold the rinsed and drained white beans and the avocado chunks. Add the cherry tomatoes and anything else you choose to add (pickle slices, slivers of sundried tomatoes, pitted olives, fresh herbs, seedless grapes, pear or apple chunks, coarsely chopped pecans or walnuts, etc.) and fold together.

Now taste to adjust seasonings: add more mustard, half a tablespoon at a time, or more vinegar, 1 teaspoon at a time, salt and pepper until desired taste is attained.

Serve immediately at room temperature or keep covered with plastic wrap and chilled in the refrigerator until ready to serve and eat.

ABBY’S ONE-BOWL CHOCOLATE CUPCAKES
Or mini Bundts

Abby uses a blender to prepare this batter – whizzing all of the dry ingredients together and then adding the wet ingredients and whizzing to combine. I do it the old fashioned way, with a whisk. I only change I made was adding ground cinnamon. All dry ingredients should be lightly spooned into the measuring cup and leveled with a knife blade.

Nota Bene: What I particularly love about chocolate cakes like this is that one can add a hint of any favorite flavoring one desires: add a tablespoon of Grand Marnier, Cointreau or Amaretto; add 2 teaspoons of dry, powdered espresso powder or replace some of the hot water with strong prepared coffee; add the grated zest of an orange or a lemon or a splash of orange or another fruit juice, measuring the liquid as part of the ¾ cup hot water. Add a pinch of another spice that pairs well with chocolate, such as a gingerbread, pumpkin or apple pie spice. Just for a few suggestions.

1 cup (130 g) flour
½ cup (45 g) unsweetened cocoa powder
1 cup (200 g) granulated sugar
½ tsp baking soda
¼ tsp salt
½ tsp ground cinnamon, optional
¾ cup (175 ml) hot water
½ cup (120 ml) vegetable oil
1 large egg
1 tsp vanilla

Preheat the oven to 375°F (190°C) – I set my very unpredictable and overly hot oven to 185°C. Line 12 regular-size muffin cups with paper liners or butter and flour 12 individual mini Bundt cups (the easiest way to butter mini Bundt cups is with softened or just-melted butter and a soft pastry brush. Dust with flour and turn over the sink and shake/tap out all excess flour)

Combine the flour, cocoa powder (I sift the cocoa powder into the bowl), sugar, baking soda, salt and ground cinnamon into a large mixing bowl. Whisk in the water, then the oil, egg and vanilla until smooth and blended.

Pour into the prepared muffin or mini Bundt cups – I scrape the liquid batter into a large measuring cup with a lip/spout which makes the job of pouring into muffin tins easier and cleaner. Divide the batter evenly among the cups.

Bake until a tester inserted in the center of one of the cupcakes or Bundlets comes out clean; the top of one cake should spring back when lightly pressed and the edges of the Bundlets should be starting to pull away from the tin. Remive the pan from the oven onto a cooling rack and allow to cool for about 10 minutes before carefully popping out the cupcakes or mini Bundts. Allow to cool completely before serving.

Take a bigger bite ...

CINNAMON COCOA MADELEINES & HONEY MADELEINES

YAWN

“When you wake up in the morning, Pooh," said Piglet at last, "what's the first thing you say to yourself?" 

"What's for breakfast?" said Pooh. "What do you say, Piglet?" 

"I say, I wonder what's going to happen exciting today?" said Piglet. 

Pooh nodded thoughtfully. "It's the same thing," he said.” 

 – A.A. Milne 

Oh, those little habits of everyday life. It all starts with breakfast. Wake up first thing in the morning, out of bed with the sun and stumble into the kitchen, sometimes warm and cosy, other times chilly and less than welcoming. Automatic reflexes, we reach for the small pan, fill it halfway with tap water and place it squarely on the front burner; the milk pot, heavier, weightier, gets a splash or two of milk, enough for one, and balanced behind on the back burner. Three heaping scoops of coffee, heady fragrance filling the room, spilled into the filter sitting atop the old, stained ceramic coffee pot. We’ve always been a filter family and always will be. Force of habit, you know.

And then one sits down to table. Drops into the chair, not quite awake before that first drop of liquid energy passes the lips and slithers down the gullet, just the right amount of burn and sizzle to kickstart the body, get the blood moving, rev up the moxie! But (wo)man does not live by coffee alone! What to eat with that cuppa? Foodstuff to carry us through to lunch, fuel to get the work done. The most important meal of the day. This may very well be the most vital question of the day! I know that the wrong breakfast, simply missing one key element of that start-of-the-day ritual, can throw us completely off track, wreak havoc with the rest of the long, hard day ahead of us. And don’t we all need to wake up to the same thing every single morning? Force of habit, indeed. But more than that. Like waking to the same tone of the same alarm, the same series of gests always in the same order, the same taste of the same toothpaste in our mouth, the scent of the same soap rubbed into our skin; we need our regular morning routine or something is thrown off kilter. And that begins with breakfast.

Over the years, that ritualistic menu, the tidbits placed upon the table early every morning, may have changed, yet for wide swathes of time, the same treats are found on the counter, on our plate, repeated over and over again, fingers grabbing and wrapping around the same delicacies. Something inside must be satisfied, a basic need that only very specific foods can fill. We eat the same breakfast every day. At least I do. Force of habit.

Growing up, I would go through long, long periods of time eating bowls of cold cereal, always the same, day after day until I began craving another. And that other new cereal would replace the first day in and day out, tweaking me awake each and every morning for months on end. And cold cereal would then morph with absolutely no rhyme or reason into chocolate poptarts or warm toast slathered with salted butter and dusted generously with cinnamon-sugar. But whatever the food of choice, there it was, on the breakfast table, my own morning routine, a quasi-religious communion every single calendar day.

As I grew older, left home, wended my way to France and married, the same morning ritual continued. Although the food changed, milk became instant coffee became filtered topped with a froth of hot milk, café au lait, if you please, the necessity to wake myself up each and every day with the same choice of carbs didn’t vary one iota. For several years, I just had to bite into a chunk of fresh baguette, buttered and jammed, dunked into said mug of steaming coffee. Not a croissant, nor a slice of brioche, nor chocolate cake. Only a chunk of baguette, buttered and jammed. A move to Italy changed all that once again, and we stockpiled boxes of prefab cakes, individually wrapped, with the familiar little logo of the White Mill on the package. For weeks and months it would have to be Nastrine, then I would empty one box of chocolatey Trancini until the craving, the need to start each morning with a Ciambellina or two would hit me. Each one of us would have our own preferred cake or cookie, and rarely would we tap into someone else’s box. Nope. It always had to be the same thing.

Then back to France. Oh, we found similar kinds of cakes, but that didn’t last very long. A change of culture naturally meant a change of breakfast food, and to each his or her own. And for the last I-don’t-know-how-many years I have eaten two – and only two – sweet little pains au lait with cherry jelly every single morning. Nothing else will do. Oh, on the occasional trip out of town, my pains au lait will happily be replaced with chunks of bakery-fresh baguette, but in my own home, in my own kitchen, those delicate, moist, brioche-like rolls are an absolute must or my entire day is ruined.

My husband, on the other hand, is a bit less rigid. If I have baked a cake, layer cake, quick bread or coffee cake, or cookies, a fruit pie or tart, he’ll dig in. But when no home-baked goods are to be seen, he reaches automatically for the bag of store-bought St. Michel brand Madeleines. Once in a blue moon, he’ll slice them in half lengthwise and smear each half with jelly, but usually two, three or four bright yellow vanilla Madeleines are simply dunked into his bowl of black coffee.

This week disaster struck. The tight schedule of renovations on the new apartment has meant no time, energy or focus to bake. We have been relying on packaged foods, or ready-made lasagnas, fresh pastas and cold cuts picked up on the way home after a morning or afternoon of tiring manual labor. Once every two weeks, son and I make the trip to the grocery store to stock up on staples, including two packages of pains au lait and a jar of cherry preserves for me, and a bag of St. Michel Madeleines for JP. And they were out of Madeleines. The following morning, this small detail having slipped my mind (I, after all, had my own breakfast.), he looked at me questioningly as I laid the breakfast table, as the coffee was dripping through filter into pot, and he asked “You didn’t buy Madeleines yesterday?” Oy!

And the point of the story is that I promised to make him Madeleines. And I did. Cocoa Madeleines with a hint of cinnamon and Honey Madeleines. A huge tinful of Madeleines to sate his morning craving, his breakfast appetite. And happy he was.

He that but looketh on a plate of ham and eggs to lust after it 

hath already committed breakfast with it in his heart. 

- C.S. Lewis 

Some like it hot, some like it cold, some drink coffee, some prefer orange juice. And you, dear reader, do you have one single particular food you absolutely must eat every single morning, day in and day out, in order to properly begin your day?

CINNAMON COCOA MADELEINES
Adapted from recipes in Madeleines et Financiers by Thomas Feller

Makes 12 large + 20 mini or 30 mini madeleines

2 large eggs
10 Tbs (140 g) unsalted butter, softened to room temperature + more for the molds
½ cup + 2 Tbs + 2 tsps (140 g) granulated sugar
½ tsp vanilla
Scant ¾ cup (100 g) flour
1 Tbs unsweetened cocoa powder
½ tsp ground cinnamon
A pinch of salt

* For an added flavor boost, add 2 tablespoons Grand Marnier, Amaretto, Limoncello or Kahlua, or replace the ground cinnamon with 1 to 2 teaspoons instant, powdered coffee or espresso.

Separate the eggs, placing the whites with a few grains of salt in a very clean bowl, preferably plastic or metal. Beat the whites until soft peaks hold and then gradually add about 2 teaspoons of the sugar while you continue beating. Beat until stiff peaks hold. Set aside.

In a large mixing bowl and using an electric mixer, beat the softened butter with the rest of the sugar until well blended and fluffy. Beat in the egg yolks, the vanilla and a pinch of salt until smooth. Scrape down the sides of the bowl, add the flour, the cocoa powder and the cinnamon and beat in just until combined and smooth.

Fold the whipped whites, gently but firmly, into the Madeleine batter until completely blended in and no more white is visible. The batter should be thick and completely smooth.

HONEY MADELEINES
From recipes in Madeleines et Financiers by Thomas Feller 

Makes 12 large + 20 mini or 30 mini madeleines
2 large eggs
10 Tbs (140 g) unsalted butter, softened to room temperature + more for the molds
½ cup (100 g) granulated sugar
2 Tbs liquid honey
Scant ¾ cup (100 g) flour
A pinch of salt

Separate the eggs, placing the whites with a few grains of salt in a very clean bowl, preferably plastic or metal. Beat the whites until soft peaks hold and then gradually add about 2 teaspoons of the sugar while you continue beating. Beat until stiff peaks hold. Set aside.

In a large mixing bowl and using an electric mixer, beat the softened butter with the rest of the sugar and the honey until well blended and fluffy. Beat in the egg yolks and a pinch of salt until smooth. Scrape down the sides of the bowl, add the flour and beat in just until combined and smooth.

Fold the whipped whites, gently but firmly, into the Madeleine batter until completely blended in and no more white is visible. The batter should be thick and completely smooth.

Prepare the Madeleines:

Preheat the oven to 400°F (200°C). Butter the indentations in your Madeleine molds/tins. I used large 3-inch long x 1 ¾-inch wide Madeleine molds (8-cm x 4 ½-cm) and round, shallow 2 ¼-inch diameter molds (6 cm). Making two batters, I filled the large Madeleine molds twice and the round molds once.

Prepare the two batters. Spoon equal parts batter – or one or the other – into the indentations not coming up higher than the edges of the indentations. You can marble the two batters by cutting a sharp knife through the two colors. Or you can make single flavor cakes.

Place in the preheated oven and bake: about 15 or 20 minutes for the large Madeleines, 10 to 15 minutes for the shallow, round tins. Remove the tins from the oven when the center of each Madeleine is set and puffed (slightly – with this recipe don’t expect huge, classic humps in the center) and the edges are golden. Allow the Madeleines to cool for a minute or two in the tins on cooling racks before popping them out, one by one, using the point of a sharp knife and a gentle hand.

Repeat with cooled tins, just wiped out and lightly buttered again, and the rest of the batter.

Take a bigger bite ...

SEPTEMBER 15 - SEPTEMBER 18

I will love the light for it shows me the way, 

yet I will endure the darkness because it shows me the stars. 

– Og Mandino 

Silence in the night; no bedroom door flung open, banging into the radiator in the wee hours, no odd tapping, no creaking wood, no sharp crack emanating from the armoire making my heart jump. Except for the faint accustomed noises of the night, echoes of far-off laughter bouncing from one building façade to another, carried closer on the wind before being whipped away into nothingness, hurried steps of lone stragglers down in the street fading into the distance, the occasional screeching of car tires on the cobblestones below, the warm, gentle snoring of a pup down the hallway breaking through the silence, there is nothing. Most would be comforted by the utter noiselessness and calm of one’s home, yet I lie awake in the darkness waiting, hoping for a noise, a sign, something…. anything that will let me know that he is still here. But no ghosts remain. The doors don’t slam anymore.

Three years is a long time, almost forever. So much happens, so many places visited, two sons grown up. Three years flies by in the blink of an eye; it seems like yesterday we were gathered together, a dozen or so of us, standing in the sweltering sun of a Florida September morning. It was an otherwise ordinary early autumn day, already too hot for any sane person to be outside in anything other than swimsuit and flip-flops. Barely the whisper of a breeze, no shade whatsoever to speak of, even under the white, white tent perched above us in the guise of shelter. Little respite from the rising, hellish temperatures. My eyes averted from the glaring blaze of light, a bead of sweat trickling down my back, shifting from foot to foot, the heels of my sandals sinking into the soft grass, clutching a crumpled handkerchief already damp with tears, I wait for the Rabbi to begin, a Rabbi called away from the Rosh Hashanah holiday preparations to perform the saddest of rites; not the joyous celebration of the New Year but a funeral. Three years ago, through blinding tears, I watched as we buried my brother.

The odd noises began just after the funeral, a few shorts months after I returned to France. Unexpected, random slamming, banging, tapping woke each of us. Breathlessly, hearts pounding, we called out into the inky blackness of the night, “Who’s there?” White feathers lying on the landing before our front door, white innocence and ethereal lightness against earthly dark chocolate wood, glaringly out of place. So many signs, yet it took me just too long to realize, like hearing the phone ring, yet not quite hearing it through the haze of a half-awake dreamy obscurity, an indistinct background noise seeking your attention. Then all of a sudden, snapping back to reality, not quite knowing for how long it has been ringing as you plunge for the receiver. A ghost playing jokes, trying to make contact, yet finally – hands balled into ghostly fists, fists propped onto ghostly hips, that trademark smirk playing on ghostly lips – his determination and persistence paid off and we understood that it was he. Not his cackling, infectious burst of laughter, not his comical shrug and familiar sarcastic eyeroll but rather a bedroom door flung open wide and fast, a door that had been securely snapped shut and nary a breath of breeze. And at the very same moment, at the other end of the house, a tap tap tapping on another door, waking his nephew inside who called out “Who’s there?” Or a sudden, ear-rattling crack of wood emanating from our armoire as we, husband and I lie reading in bed before turning out the lights.

Fearful at first. Fearful of the inexplicable, curious nighttime events, the chaos visiting an otherwise peaceful, uneventful home. And then it dawned on us, it was Michael come to call and we welcomed these friendly visits. Understanding Michael’s dry wit and sense of humor, we laughed each time it happened, laughed and simply rolled over and went back to sleep. And knowing how protective he always had been of me, recognizing our closeness as a brother and sister, we felt comforted that he thought of me and of coming back to tease and to play and to let me know he was still near me. That everything was okay.

And then it stopped, as suddenly as it began. Dead silence now echoes through the house each and every night. I often wake up in the middle hours, eyes open to peer hard into the darkness searchingly, or I squeeze shut my eyes in a little prayer, begging him to show himself. It has been a year, a very long, quiet, lonely year without his presence. I utter his name when I am alone, listening, looking for a response, a fleeting shadow, a bump in the night. But I know that he has slipped away.

In order for the light to shine so brightly, the darkness must be present. 

- Francis Bacon 

Three years is a long time, an eternity. Three years flies by in a flash and the guilt still lies heavily on my heart for not being with him, holding his withered hand as he died, the sadness weighing on me like a cold, hard stone. Life is often described as a long, quiet river or as a bumpy road with so many twists and turns; life brings both expected and unexpected joys and sorrows and that, as they say, is life. All we can do, they continue, warm hand lying softly on your shoulder, sympathy-coated words playing somewhere around the periphery of your senses as your mind wanders elsewhere, all we can do is remember and focus on the good times – and there were so many! Concentrate on the happy times the two of you spent together as kids making up games, singing, acting out plays and tv shows in the familyroom at the back of the house. Stir up memories of time spent cooking together in your twin apartments in that old Brooklyn walkup, Thanksgiving and Rosh Hashanah meals, bottles of wine opened, loaves of bread baked, pies and cakes galore. Be thankful for the time life afforded your sons with their fun uncle; visits to museums and Ellis Island, rambunctious family reunions and joyful kid-sized sightseeing around New York, Paris and Milan; all the things he had the time to teach them, share with them, impart and interest them.

If only he had hung around a little longer, both in life and in death. Three years, a long, hard slog of time without his laughter, phone calls, gossip, news. Three years of restaurants he’ll never be able to try, films he will never see, voyages he won’t be going on. A lifetime of not seeing what becomes of his nephews and niece, a lifetime of the four of them not being able to enjoy his company or profit from his knowledge and experience. Time flows by, I’ve watched my boys each start college, one fly off to volunteer his time, energy and passion in the rebuilding of New Orleans, the other to create a company and a reputation. I’ve changed my own course, am living a new adventure; we would have spent hours on the phone analysing, debating, celebrating and planning strategies for each and every exploit and undertaking, struggle and success. My big brother.

I could spout platitudes just about now, but I won’t. Those of you who have lost a sibling, a best friend, understand already. Each September, every Rosh Hashanah that comes and goes, slips by in the golden glow of an autumn day, I pause to count the years on my fingers one-two-three and add to that the months and then the years that his spirit has slipped from my home, leaving silence in its wake.

Our dead are never dead to us, until we have forgotten them. 

– George Eliot 

Take a bigger bite ...

CHOCOLATE BERRY RUM TRIFLE

LET’S DRINK TO…. FRIDAY COCKTAIL

Do not cease to drink beer, to eat, to intoxicate thyself, 

to make love, and to celebrate the good days. 

– Egyptian proverb 

There is something dangerous and sexy about drink. Bubbles that tickle the nose, bite the back of the throat; a feverish flush crawling up your neck, coercing you to let down your hair, laughter bubbling up uncontrollably. Heat like a flow of lava over the tongue, burning a path down the gullet, clawing at your chest. Fumes rushing up into your head, behind your eyes, seething, foggy warmth clouding your thoughts and all reason. A powerful blast of sexy is drink; shimmering gold or pink or deep jewel red, wrap your hands around the sensuous curve of a glass, breath in the heady bouquet, the electrifying scent, a fusion of fruit and earth and the devil that makes your head spin, makes you think of things, creates desire that burns like the liquid as it courses through your body.

Why the fascination with drink? Why the necessity to imbibe, to ring in each holiday, to toast each celebration with something boozy? There’s no way around it, drink is the very essence of conviviality. We pop corks, the spicy sweet blaze of alcohol rushes into the glass amid laughter and merriment with each milestone, each festive event. Refined and savage, sophisticated and fierce, a glass of something straight up or a mad inventive cocktail brings a dash of hospitality, a splash of romance, an infusion of cheer. And out of nothing but a feeling of wellbeing, a burning passion, we toast our beloved, nothing but the best, the booziest will do.

Worthless people live only to eat and drink; 

people of worth eat and drink only to live. 

 – Socrates 

One would think that after twenty-five years and more of living in France that having a drink, a flute of bubbly, a glass of wine, a splash of brandy or a drop of grappa, would have sunken into the trite and meaningless, like a glass of milk or a cup of coffee. A banality, a glass of red for lunch, a glass of white with dinner, wine drunken like water to wash down a meal. A sweet sip of Cointreau, the burning heat of brandy, the tickle of Champagne, popping corks whenever the mood hits, everyday, yes, the liquor flows like water in France.

But no. No matter how often we partake, no matter how many bottles line our kitchen shelves, no matter how many corks fill our utensil drawer, a drink is still something special; it is downright celebratory. Birthdays or anniversaries, New Year’s eve or a personal success, what better way to celebrate than with….booze! And there are so many things to fete, so many people to honor. The applause is loud, the memories are great, we raise a glass to commend and praise, to congratulate and rejoice. Big or small, in this mad, wild, uncertain world we live in, every little pleasure, milestones both large and small, the chance to share joy with others, pat friends on the back or triumph with loved ones, there is such delight in raising a tumbler, hearing the click click of glasses meeting, the charm and comfort of sharing a drink with friends and strangers.

I generally avoid temptation unless I can't resist it. 

– Mae West 

Therefore, each and every Friday I dash excitedly over to my friend Barb’s wonderful blog Creative Culinary to discover what new cocktail she has concocted for The Friday Cocktail hour. And each Friday, I sit back and savor her words and images, sit back, close my eyes and imagine that I am holding one of her cocktails, surrounded by girlfriends on her terrace while the warm sunshine filters through the trees. Or maybe at a noisy, rambunctious party or even something a tad more solemn. Or curled up with the one I love the most to quietly exult in whatever we have accomplished together.

And this week, Barb is celebrating – celebrating! – one year of Friday Cocktail and we are pulling out the booze! But as Barb’s Friday cocktails are not just cocktails, as Barb spikes dessert after glorious dessert – from Blueberry Basil Martini Pops to Sicilian Chocolate Gelato with Bourbon and Strawberry Ricotta Gelato Fizz – she has shown us that something boozy doesn’t have to be liquid! So to help Barb celebrate the one-year anniversary of her Friday Cocktail, I have created a Chocolate Berry Rum Trifle. A dense Chocolate Fudge Chiffon Cake, a mix of blueberries and cherries in their juice (and why not a splash of Cointreau?), a Rum-Infused Vanilla Pastry Cream and clouds of whipped cream make one hell of a festive treat!

And now you scoot on over to Creative Culinary and check out all the boozy delights, cocktails and desserts, that we have all brought to the party! Happy Cocktail Anniversary, Barb!

Favorite boozy treats from Life's a Feast:

 Cherry Prosecco Granità





 

Chocolate Rum Bundt Cake

Gâteau Nantais

Chocolate Orange Grand Marnier Madeleines

Orange Cointreau Brownie Tiramisu





 NOTE: Drink sensibly and always in moderation.

CHOCOLATE BERRY RUM TRIFLE

FUDGE CHIFFON CAKE
From Abigail Serves, Choicest Recipes Presented by Sisters of Abigail No. 3, United Order of True Sisters, Albany, New York, 1956 – of which my Great Aunt Mae Cohen was co-chairman

¾ cup (scant 200 ml) boiling water
½ cup (50 g) unsweetened cocoa
1 ¾ cup lightly spooned into measuring cup and levelled (220 g) cake flour
1 ¾ cup (350 g) sugar
3 tsps baking powder
1 tsp salt
½ cup (125 ml) vegetable oil
7 medium or large eggs, separated
1 tsp vanilla
½ tsp cream of tartar

Preheat oven to 325°F (160°C). Have ready an ungreased 10-inch tube pan.

Sift the cocoa powder into a small mixing bowl and whisk in the boiling water until smooth. Allow to cool.

Sift or whisk together the flour, sugar, baking powder and salt in a large mixing bowl. Make a well in the center of the dry ingredients and whisk in the oil, the egg yolks, the vanilla and then the cooled cocoa mixture until smooth.

Place the egg whites in a large mixing bowl (I prefer plastic) and sift on the cream of tartar if using. Whip the whites until very stiff; beat stiffer than for angel food or meringue. Fold the stiff whites carefully into the cake batter with a rubber or silicone spatula until blended. Pour into the tube pan and bake for 55 minutes at 325°F (160°C) and then increase oven temperature to 350°F (180°C) and continue baking for an additional 10 or 15 minutes, until the top of the cake springs back when lightly touched.

Cool the cake in the tube pan upside down before loosening with a long, sharp blade and remove from the pan.

RUM-INFUSED VANILLA BEAN PASTRY CREAM

1 cup (250 ml) whole milk
2 Tbs cornstarch
½ cup (100 g) sugar
1 large egg
2 large egg yolks
2 Tbs (30 g) unsalted butter, cubed (at room temperature makes it easier)
The seeds scraped from one vanilla pod or 1 tsp vanilla
2 – 3 Tbs rum, or to taste

Sift the cornstarch into a small mixing bowl. Dissolve the cornstarch in ¼ cup of the milk; whisk until smooth and there are no lumps. Combine the remaining milk with the sugar and the vanilla seeds in a saucepan. Bring just to a boil; remove from heat.

Place the whole egg with the yolks in a medium-sized heatproof mixing bowl and whisk to blend. Whisk in the cornstarch mixture until smooth. Pour the boiling milk in a slow, gradual stream into the egg mixture, whisking constantly so that the eggs do not begin to cook. Return the mixture back to the saucepan.

Whisking constantly, cook over low heat until the pastry cream thickens and comes just to a boil. This should only take a minute or two. Remove from heat and beat in the butter and vanilla extract if using.

Whisk the rum into the pastry cream a tablespoon at a time to taste. Allow to cool slightly, whisking or stirring occasionally to keep it creamy and so a skin doesn’t form on the top.

ASSEMBLE THE TRIFLE

About half the CHOCOLATE FUDGE CHIFFON CAKE
RUM-INFUSED VANILLA BEAN PASTRY CREAM
2 cups (500 ml) heavy whipping cream
Confectioner’s sugar to taste, about 2 Tbs
¾ - 1 cup berries, fresh, jarred or frozen, sweetened with 2 tsps sugar
1 Tbs Cointreau or Grand Marnier for the fruit, if desired
1 Tbs blanched slivered almonds

Place the berries in a small bowl with about ¼ cup of the juices if using frozen or jarred. Stir the sugar into the berries, add about 1 tsp (or more to taste) of the Cointreau or Grand Marnier and allow to macerate while preparing the pastry cream.

Place a glass or metal bowl with the beaters of an electric mixer in the refrigerator to chill. The bowl must be large enough to hold all of the heavy cream once it is whipped.

CHOCOLATE BERRY RUM TRIFLE

Cut 1-inch (2 cm) thick slices of cake and press together, overlapping just slightly, into the bottom of a clear glass serving bowl (mine is approximately 8 inches in diameter): I used 5 slices. You want to see a layer of chocolate cake underneath the layers of pastry and whipped cream. Spoon about ¾ of the spiked berry juices over the cake, allowing the juices to soak into the cake. Spread all of the rum-infused pastry cream on top of the layer of cake slices, making sure all of the gaps around the edges are filled with pastry cream. Spoon ¾ of the berries evenly over the pastry cream.

Add another layer of cake sliced thinner, about ½ - ¾ inch thick.

Whip the heavy whipping cream in the chilled bowl with the chilled beaters, adding 2 tablespoon of confectioner’s sugar. Beat until very thick. Mound the whipped cream onto the Trifle, making sure that the whipped cream comes to the edges of the bowl and fills in any gaps around the edges. Just before serving, top with the rest of the berries and about a tablespoon of blanched slivered almonds. If you like you can grate on some chocolate.

Serve immediately. Store any leftover Trifle in the refrigerator, the bowl covered with plastic wrap.

Take a bigger bite ...

JAYNE COHEN’S FABULOUS ALMOND CHALLAH

THE JEWISH NEW YEAR

Temple Beth Shalom, our neighbourhood synagogue, was a second home to our family. Not only did we walk through those large double doors twice a week for religious and Hebrew school and once a week – if not twice – for Shabbat and holiday services, but the synagogue also played a huge role in our family’s social life, from youth group throughout junior and senior high, spaghetti dinners and cinema nights, activities to raise money for charity to so many Purim carnivals, Hanukkah parties and meals under the Sukkah. My parents were as active, if not more so, than we; dad and mom were both heartily involved in the Brotherhood and Sisterhood respectively, mom was on the bowling team and dad ran Thursday night Bingo – including baking huge sheet cakes to bring along with him. Mom was, for many years, the principal of the religious school and if a handyman was needed for anything at all, they were sure to call dad. And that was only the start. For as long as I can remember, they were involved, in one way or another, in almost every activity, every decision at that synagogue. And we kids weren’t far behind.

 Mom's Sisterhood Cookbook of which she was Chairman.

As the Jewish High Holidays approach, I can’t but help thinking of the Synagogue. My memories of those long days at children’s services are stronger and sweeter than the ones of holiday meals at home. The High Holidays, Rosh Hashanah (the Jewish New Year) and Yom Kippur (The Day of Atonement), were spent in the tiny stretch of six classrooms behind the Temple’s main building. There were old, clunky accordion walls separating each class space from the next, and during High Holiday services, those walls would be pushed open to create one long room where we grade school kids would spend most of the day. A shortened religious service with explanations would be followed by games and songs, stories and, yes, lunch. Metal folding tables would be set up and laden with a cold buffet; all dressed in our holiday best, we would fill flimsy paper plates with fresh bagels and lox, tuna salad and fruit drinks, cakes and cookies and snuggle into a chilly metal chair, one of those folding chairs with a desktop attached, and happily dig in. And more flimsy paper plates would be passed around piled high with apple slices surrounding a gooey, sticky puddle of shimmering, golden honey. Little fingers scooping up a slippery apple slice and, over prayers for a “round, sweet year” we would dip the slice into the honey and, as fast as we could, push the sweet, juicy apple into our mouths before the honey could slither and drip down onto our laps.

My younger brother at the synagogue during the High Holidays

We loved those days, those holidays with our friends at the Synagogue, coming out feeling jubilant, excited for the new start, energized by the significance of the day, the weight and joy of the services. And maybe afterwards going to spend the rest of the afternoon and the ceremonial meal at the home of one or another of our family friend’s. We would pop home to change out of our good clothes then join the others for more food, more apples and honey, more singing and more laughter. There was something so special about those hot Florida September days. A day off from school when all the others had to attend; special meals, special foods with special symbolic meaning: honey, the most well-known customary food eaten as is or baked into Honey cakes galore, symbolizing sweetness, eaten over prayers asking that the year ahead be sweet; new fruits, such as pomegranate, a fruit of the new, approaching season that we haven’t yet eaten this year, in order to thank God for bringing us to this new season; fish, the symbol of fertility and abundance; and apples. Apples and honey to be eaten together; apples for their roundness and honey for its sweetness, eaten together as we ask God to grant us a sweet year circling round from beginning to end. And Challah. Oh, yes, Challah, the same golden, slightly sweet egg-enriched braided bread that is served every Friday night! But for Rosh Hashanah, the dough is braided and shaped into a round loaf. Round…. And then symbolically, as is everything on the Jewish holiday table, dipped in honey to be eaten in the hope of a round, sweet year. 

A family meal before my brother Michael's Bar Mitzvah.

Raising my own sons, as there was no local synagogue, or there wasn’t always one, and no family close by, I had to create our own ceremonies and traditions. I would pull out each of my Jewish cookbooks, my Jewish catalogue and all the old books I owned when I was a kid that have, over the years, made the long voyage from Florida to France. And over the years and across the miles we have bought Yarmulkas and Seder plates, Kiddush cups and candleholders, Menorahs and even Hannukah cookie cutters, everything we could possibly need to celebrate each and every holiday. And as each holiday approached, the excitement grew as we began deciding how to celebrate, what to do, making lists of what needed to be purchased. And as a special meal and particular symbolic foods are the center of almost every Jewish holiday, our little family celebration focused almost completely on those meals.

The Jewish New Year always meant a glorious, joyful holiday meal. The boys and I would pull out all the stops to create the perfect celebration: white linen tablecloth and napkins, beautiful table settings, candles placed carefully in their candlesticks, all of my best, prettiest serving platters pulled out and dusted off. Wine and appetizers and a full meal. And of course, Rosh Hashanah meant something sweet or something tangy: either a North African holiday specialty of Lamb Tagine with prunes, almonds and honey or maybe Fish Balls in a Tangy Tomato Sauce. And a special Challah. Once we moved back to France, I had taken the habit of making two homemade Challahs – the tradition – every Friday for our Shabbat dinner. But Rosh Hashanah, the New Year, called out, nay, deserved something even more spectacular! And so I began the tradition of making Jayne Cohen’s Round Almond Challah.

This truly is a Challah special enough to see in the New Year with. As Jayne writes in her wonderful cookbook The Gefilte Variations, long my Rosh Hashanah companion, “this sumptuous, fragrant Challah, a gift from my friend, artist and playwright Linda Rathkopf, is extra-luscious with sweet ground almonds, which stand in for some of the flour.” I fell in love with this beautiful, delicate, rich loaf the first time I baked it all those years ago, and still do. With only a little preparation and the heating of the milk and butter, it is so easy to put together and so worth it! This is our family’s Rosh Hashanah tradition, helping us to ring in the new, sweet year.

I want to share this with Susan of Wild Yeast for her weekly all things yeast Yeastspotting!

JAYNE COHEN’S ALMOND CHALLAH
I made a few slight changes from Jayne Cohen’s recipe in The Gefilte Variations; and I made mine by hand rather than with a food processor as Jayne suggests.

2 ¾ oz (78 g) finely ground almonds (or you can grind whole blanched almonds yourself)
½ cup (100 g) sugar
2 tsps salt
1 cup (250 ml) whole milk
½ oz (2 envelopes ¼ oz each)(15 g) active dry yeast
4 large egg yolks
5 cups (approximately 650 g) bread flour (I used French all-purpose flour), lightly spooned into the measuring cup and levelled off
16 Tbs (225 g) unsalted butter, melted

1 large egg yolk beaten with 1 tsp milk, for egg wash
About 2 Tbs sesame seeds or slivered blanched almonds

Whisk the ground almonds, sugar and salt together in a large mixing bowl. Add the yeast to the bowl, without mixing into the almond mixture.

Gently heat the milk to 100° - 110°F, warm to skin temperature, not hot. Pour the warm milk over the yeast and allow it to dissolve and proof until frothy, about 15 – 20 minutes.

Add the egg yolks and whisk to blend. Whisk in the tepid melted butter. Add 4 ½ cups of the flour, one cup at a time, whisking or stirring until blended after each addition (I used a whisk for the first 2 cups flour then used a wooden spoon). Pour the remaining ½ cup onto the work surface and scrape the dough out onto the flour. Knead quickly just to incorporate the ½ cup flour and the dough is smooth and no longer sticky.

Shape the dough into a ball and place in a clean, well-greased bowl, turning to coat the dough with the oil. Cover the bowl with plastic wrap then a kitchen towel and allow to rise until doubled in bulk, 3 – 4 hours.

Punch the dough down and divide it into 3 pieces, as equal in size and weight as possible. Press and roll each piece into a long rope, making sure that the three ropes are equal in length. Place a sheet of parchment paper on a large baking sheet and place the three dough ropes side by side on the parchement. Braid the ropes – start in the middle and braid one end out, then switch sides and, starting back in the middle, braid the other half out and towards you. Carefully form the braided dough into as tight a circle as possible, tucking under the six ends.

I should have made the loaf much tighter and less spread out...

Cover once again with plastic wrap and allow to double in bulk, about 1 ½ hours.

Preheat the oven to 350°F (180°C). Prepare the egg wash and brush the wash all over the dough, even down the sides and inside the folds. Sprinkle with the slivered almonds or the sesame seeds.

Bake in the preheated oven for about 45 minutes until a deep golden brown and the loaf sounds hollow when tapped on the bottom. Transfer to a cooling rack and allow to cool.

Take a bigger bite ...