Maple Dreams

Here is my dirty little secret: (Ok, so it's neither dirty, nor a secret. Semantics.) Jerusalem is not my favorite Ottolenghi cookbook. Gasp! Shock and dismay! Don't get me wrong, I love Jerusalem. I love, love, love Jerusalem. I am cooking my way through Jerusalem, but it is not my sun and my stars. My most favorite Ottolenghi cookbook, is simply put, Ottolenghi. Ottolenghi was Yotam and Sami's first cookbook, and it is filled with recipes from their store, Ottolenghi. It is more rambling and yet somehow more grounded than either Jerusalem or Plenty. It's a very real book- the foods in it are distinguished by the fact that people love to eat them rather than by genre or geography, which makes it eclectic, meandering and friendly.  Everything I've cooked from it has been great, and I find myself coming back to those recipes again and again and again. In fact, I've pared Roast Chicken with Sumac, Za'atar and Lemon down to its very basics- around here everyone just calls it Ottolenghi Chicken.

This Rosh Hashana, I was faced with the task of feeding vegetarians. Ordinarily this would not be a difficult task, but somehow on Rosh Hashana it seemed like a test indeed. Whence brisket and chicken with dates? To hearten myself against this arduous task, I decided it was time to expand my Rosh Hashana dessert repertoire. Usually, I make nothing but honey cake, honey cake, honey cake, but this year I could move beyond that. I could use butter and milk and cream. The possibilities were endless. I went with Ottolenghi. After all, how could I resist a recipe called Apple and Olive Oil Cake with Maple Icing? I mean how could I?  Lucky for me, my brother had just recently gifted me with a large jug of real, live maple syrup from the U.S. And let me tell you a thing: Cream cheese-maple frosting? Pretty fucking spectacular. Highly recommended. Totally worth the lack of brisket.


Apple and Olive Oil Cake with Maple Frosting

Adapted from Ottolenghi: The Cookbook by Yotam Ottolenghi and Sami Tamimi

So. Here's the thing: much as I love olive oil cakes, I don't think the olive oil in this cake is strictly necessary. The frosting is intense enough that you don't really feel the delicacy of the olive oil. The next time I make it, I'll probably just save some money and use vegetable oil. If however, you are making the cake without frosting, definitely use olive oil. Also, Ottolenghi's original recipe calls for 80 grams of raisins. I don't like raisins in my apple cake, but if you'd like to add them, feel free to do so. (Simmer the raisins in 4 tablespoons of water until the water is absorbed before adding).

Cake:
280 grams flour
1/2 teaspoon cinnamon
1/4 teaspoon salt
1/2 teaspoon baking powder
1 1/4 teaspoon baking soda
120 ml olive oil or vegetable oil
160 grams sugar
1/2 teaspoon vanilla
2 eggs
3 apples, peeled, cored and diced
zest of 1 lemon
2 egg whites

Frosting:
100 grams butter at room temperature
100 grams light muscovado sugar
85 ml maple syrup
220 grams cream cheese at room temperature

1. Preheat the oven to 350 f. Sift together the flour, cinnamon, salt, baking powder and baking soda. Set aside.
2. In a freestanding mixer, beat the oil, sugar and vanilla, using a  paddle attachment. (If you don't have a freestanding mixer, use a hand-held one.) Add the eggs one at a time, until the batter is smooth and thick. Mix in the apples and lemon zest. Fold in the dry ingredients.
3. In a clean bowl, beat the egg whites until they hold soft peaks. Gently fold them into the batter in two additions. The batter will be stiff and thick even after you have added the egg whites.
4. Pour the batter into a greased and lined 8-inch springform pan.  Bake 1 1/2* hours, or until a skewer comes out clean. Remove from oven and cool and remove from pan.
5. Make the frosting:  Beat together the butter, sugar and maple syrup until light and airy. Add the cream cheese and beat until smooth.
6. Assemble the cake: Use a serrated knife, to cut the cake in half, horizontally. Spread a layer of frosting on the bottom half of the cake. Carefully top with the top half of the cake. Spoon the rest of the frosting on top and smooth with a knife. (To make ahead, do not frost the cake. Wrap well and refrigerate it for up the three days. Frost before serving.)

I'll dig with it.

"What a gift, since my life so often feels like a hallway of closed doors"

The quote above comes from this post in The Toast. The Toast is one of my favorite new websites. It's intelligent and weird and whimsical and funny. (If you haven't yet read Texts from Miss Havisham, you have not yet lived). Anyway, I've been thinking about that post a lot as Rosh Hashana came and went. I've been thinking about doors and gateways and keys that lock and unlock.

This year, my friends, this year has been hard. It's been hard emotionally and financially and just all around stressful. The thing is though, I also think that this year has been an important year. Maybe it was a key or a gateway-something to go through until you reach the other side; something to unlock hidden things. So that they become what they are. Maybe one day I will look back and think, yes, that year, that hard year, was the year. It made me. It's getting there already, wherever there is. I have a new job. I like it (knock on wood. spit over your shoulder). I have a new roommate. So far, so good (knock on wood, spit over your shoulder). It's a bit easier to breathe now, like a key halfway turned inside of me.

I've also been thinking a lot about Seamus Heaney, lately. It's only natural. He was my first poet. No, that's not true. My first poet was probably Yeats or Blake or any of the other poets my father tried to make us love while we rolled our eyes. I wasn't introduced to Heaney until I was in college. But still, he was the first poet to make me really think about poetry- about how specificity of language, and place and sense could yield something universal. You didn't grow up in a farmhouse on the fault line between the modern world and the past, with nature steadily creeping in to all your rhythms and associations. You have never heard the sound of someone cutting sod. And yet, you are there in those moments that Heaney remembers for you. You are present in a memory and feeling that isn't specific to you, but is somehow yours anyway.

I was saddened when I heard that he had passed on. It felt as if the world had lost a truth-teller, and if there is anything we need right now, it is a teller of truths. So I re-read Station Island, aloud, as these things should be read, and it has followed me into the new year:

"...'Your obligation
is not discharged by any common rite.
What you do you must do on your own.

The main thing is to write
for the joy of it. Cultivate a work-lust
that imagines its haven like your hands at night

dreaming the sun in the sunspot of a breast.
You are fasted now, light-headed, dangerous.
Take off from here. And don't be so earnest,

so ready for the sackcloth and the ashes.
Let go, let fly, forget.
You've listened long enough. Now strike your note.'"

The following recipe was meant to be part of my Rosh Hashana menu. This post was also meant to be posted before Rosh Hashana. Neither of those things happened. The first did not happen because I was feeding vegetarians and as such, didn't make chicken or meat for Rosh Hashana. Like at all. It was weird at first, but all in all, my meals turned out lovely, the food was good and a good time was had by all. The second did not happen because life is sort of hectic at the moment.

In any case, this recipe isn't just for Rosh Hashana, in fact, I think the first time I made was a Passover, many years ago, but it is sweet with honey and dates, tempered with the tartness of lemon and the sharpness of a good amount of black pepper. That's a hope for the new year- may it be sweet and sharp.

Poulet aux Dattes (Chicken with Dates)

 Adapted from The Book of Jewish Food by Claudia Roden

6 chicken quarters
4 tablespoons vegetable oil
2 large onions, chopped
2 teaspoons cinnamon
1/4 teaspoon allspice
1/4 teaspoon nutmeg
1 tablespoon honey
salt
a good amount of black pepper
1/2 pound dates, pitted
juice of a lemon
a pinch of saffron

1. In a large pan,  heat the oil over a high heat. Brown the chicken quarters until lightly golden -about three minutes each side. When, brown, remove them, turn the heat to low, and add in the onions. Cook until soft. Add the cinnamon, allspice, nutmeg and honey and about 1 3/4 of a cup of water. Stir and return the chicken to the pan. Bring to a boil, add a healthy pinch of salt and a lot of freshly ground black pepper. Lower the heat again and simmer for 25 minutes.

2. After 25 minutes , add the dates, lemon juice and saffron. Cook for another 10 minutes until the chicken is tender. Remove from heat and serve.

The Kids are Alright

This has been the summer of family. My brother, sister-in-law and the niecettes 5 came for an extended visit. They rented an apartment down the block from mine, and for the first time in over ten years, I lived within walking distance from my brother, albeit for a mere two months. Of course, the last time I lived near my brother, he didn't yet have five wonderful daughters, so this was a little bit of a new experience for me.

It was nice having my nieces living down the block from me. It was nice popping in for dinner, or just to say hi. It was nice having them raid my bookshelves, and my friends' bookshelves, because my nieces are nothing if not voracious readers. It was nice taking them to the Botanical Gardens and to the park and to the bookstore. It was nice having them in my everyday life. It was nice having them in my kitchen.

The kitchen part only happened at the way end of their trip, a few weekends ago. I had had various niece-aunt cooking projects planned (homemade pasta! caramel brownies! Marcella Hazan's pasta sauce!), but alas, this summer was a busy one on all fronts, and somehow, they never came to pass. And then, on Friday, on a total whim, I decided I needed to bake and also on a whim, my two middle nieces decided to bake with me. There was a lot of negotiating of turns (it's my turn to mix, no, it's mine  I want to pour. Why did you let her pour? You get the picture. ), but all in all, it was a good time. There was even some bowl licking.

When I was a kid, my mother used to make a vegan chocolate cake that we called Wacky Cake because it didn't contain eggs and that's just wacky. It was one of the first things I ever baked on my own. It's a fun recipe for a kid, because it involves digging holes in the dry ingredients and then watching the volcanic eruption of baking soda and vinegar doing their explody thing as they meet (see, science is fun!). I haven't made Wacky Cake in years, because even though it is an excellent cake, I have grown up and moved on to more, er, mature things (sort of, not really. Explody things are never not fun)- by which I mean coffee and beer. I like to call this cake the Everything You Need Cake, because it contains everything you need in life- chocolate, coffee and beer. Mrs. Larkin on Food 52, from whom I adapted this recipe, calls it Fudgy Stout Chocolate Cake, and that's a fine name, but personally I feel that my version really gets to the heart of the matter. I know what's important in life.

Everything You Need Cake is basically a more complex version of Wacky Cake. Like Wacky Cake, it's vegan and it gets its lift from that spectacular vinegar-baking soda combination. The two cakes are also incredibly versatile. You can double the recipe, you can cut it in half, you can bake it in a loaf pan, or cut the baking time and make cupcakes. Awesomeness all around. However, unlike Wacky Cake, Everything Cake is not afraid of deeper flavors, which is where the coffee and beer come in. And maybe, when introducing my nieces to vegan chocolate cake, I should have started with Wacky Cake for tradition's sake. But I guess part of growing up is taking traditions and then making them your own so they can, in turn, be passed on to someone else to be changed again.

Everything You Need Cake

Adapted from Mrs. Larkin on Food52.com

A note: Mrs. Larkin suggests using Guinness Stout in this recipe. I use whatever beer I have on hand, which is usually something a good deal cheaper than Guinness. Still, I happen to like dark beers, so whatever I use is usually fairly rich and bitter and malty.

1 1/2 cups flour
7 tablespoons cocoa
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 cup sugar
1/2 cup dark beer
1/2 cup strong coffee
1/4 cup water
2 teaspoons vanilla
1 teaspoon apple cider vinegar
1/2 cup vegetable oil.

1. Preheat the oven to 350 F.

2. Sift  the flour, cocoa, baking soda and salt into a medium bowl. Whisk in the sugar. In a measuring cup, combine the beer, coffee, water, vanilla and vinegar. Add to the dry ingredients. Mix until combine. Pour in vegetable oil, whisk vigorously until you have a smooth, loose batter.

3. Pour into a greased and lined 8 inch cake pan. Bake for 30-35 minutes. Cool. Serve plain, or with a mocha glaze like the one in this recipe

Be there. Swim through.

"Sit, be still, and listen
because you're drunk
and we're at the edge of the roof"
-Rumi

Change, even good change, makes me anxious. There's nothing to be done about it, really. It's just the way I'm wired, I guess.

Anxiety is the feeling of always being at the edge of roof. It's like being drunk- everything is raw and cushioned all at the same time. The world has sharp edges. You are exposed and you are in fog. It's a constant, stomach-churning feeling- the compulsion, to do something, do something; to take arms against a sea of troubles, even when the troubles aren't troubles. But there's nothing to do. There's nowhere to go.

Sit, be still, and listen.

This is a mantra. I know the drill.

Be there. Swim through.

The push off the wall. The cool water rushing past your body- your outstretched arms, hands overlapped. The dolphin kick. The silence. That breath you take as you surface- the first measure of a meter that will take you across a great expanse.

Be there. Settle into it. There is only the moment you are in. There is only one way across this great expanse.

Breathe.

This potato salad is a little late. I am sorry about that. It took a while to get it right, and besides, I was busy swimming.

I got the framework for this recipe from my friend, Yehosheva. Yo was my college roommate, the person who made me love cilantro, who introduced me to tamarind and polenta and food that is bright, bright with flavor; the person with whom I went to my first folk-rock concert (Dan Bern- where its at!) and dream-cast a ridiculous number of movies. Now, she is my skype-buddy. We may live across the ocean from each other, but we still dream-cast movies. We read books. We talk food and movies and art and culture. We commiserate about life. We fangirl over Pardes, only the best kosher restaurant in everywhere.

This potato salad is one of those foods that is bright, bright with flavor. It's a punch your in the mouth sort of dish, but in a good way. It gets its kick from lemon juice, garlic, ginger, soy sauce and a good dose of sesame oil, and that's just the dressing. I think though, what I like best about this potato salad, are the roasted radishes. I've been eating roasting radishes for years. I like the way radishes sort of mellow and sweeten when they're roasted. Sometimes, I eat them plain and sometimes I use them as I would use bitter greens and add them to pasta with some garlic, olive oil, lemon zest and pecorino. That's a pretty good dish. But it never occurred to me to pair them with potatoes, or that they would play well with Asian flavors, even though now that I think about it, it seems like the most obvious thing in the world. But that's what I have Yo for, to point out all the things standing in front of my face this whole while.

Yo, thanks for this salad. It's awesome and I miss you. Let's go to Italy and eat all the food.



Potato and Roasted Radish Salad with Sesame Dressing

Adapted from Yehosheva Markovitz

For the salad:
6 medium red potatoes, unpeeled
1 bunch radishes, with their greens
1 medium carrot, grated
olive oil
salt
pepper

For the dressing:
2 cloves garlic, crushed
juice of 1 small lemon
1/4 cup soy sauce
1/4 cup vegetable oil
1 tsp sesame oil
2 radish leaves, chopped
1 heaping teaspoon ground ginger
1 heaping teaspoon ground mustard

For garnish:
scallions
cilantro


1. Preheat the oven to 375 F. While the oven is heating, cut the potatoes into medium chunks, about a 1/2 an inch big. Dice the radishes in the same manner.

2. Toss 3/4 of the radishes with olive oil, salt and pepper. Place in a roasting pan and roast, covered for 20 minutes. Uncover the pan, and continue roasting for another 15 minutes. They will become milder, both in color and in taste. Remove from oven.

3. While the radishes are roasting, place the potatoes in a large pot filled with cold, well-salted water. Bring to a boil and then turn down the heat and simmer until the potatoes are tender. Drain and then return to the pot to keep warm.

4. Combine the ingredients for the dressing in a blender (or use a hand blender). Blend until until smooth.

5. In large bowl, mix together the warm potatoes, roasted radishes, the remaining raw radishes and carrot. Pour the dressing over the potatoes. Toss. Garnish with plenty of chopped cilantro and scallions. Serve.

Inspiration - Red and Green

It's been a while...

Jerusalem in Jerusalem: Barley Risotto with Marinated Feta

This is a temporary measure. Really what I would like to be writing about is this wonderful potato salad with roasted radishes that I have been making, but it is not quite ready yet. The dressing still needs a bit of work, and I don't want to post it until I get it down. In the meantime, have some Ottolenghi, which, to be fair, is a pretty awesome temporary measure. As temporary measures go, I would say it's a 14/10 in a blow your mind kind of way.



Barley Risotto with Marinated Feta

As always, adapted from Yotam Ottolenghi and Sami Tamimi's Jerusalem

1 cup pearl barley
2 tablespoons butter
6 tablespoons olive oil, divided
2 stalks celery, diced
1 small onion, diced
4 cloves of garlic, diced
4 sprigs thyme
1/2 teaspoon smoked paprika
1 bay leaf
4 strips of lemon peel
1/4 teaspoon chile flakes
1  14-oz (400 g) can chopped tomatoes
1 1/4 cups of crushed tomatoes
3 cups vegetable stock or water
1 tablespoon caraway seeds
10.5 oz (300 g) feta, crumbled
1 tablespoon fresh oregano

1. Rinse the barley and drain. In the meantime, melt the butter and 2 tablespoons of the oil in a large pot. Add the celery, onions and garlic and cook  over a low heat for about 5 minutes until soft. Add the barley, thyme, bay leaf, smoked paprika, lemon peel, chile flakes, tomatoes, stock or water and some salt. Stir and bring to a boil. Reduce the heat and simmer gently for 45 minutes, stirring often so that the barley doesn't stick.

2. While the barley is cooking, toast the caraway seeds in a dry pan until they take on some color and smell toasty. Lightly crush them. Add them to the feta along with the rest (4 tablespoons) of the olive oil. Stir to combine.

3. When the barley is soft and most of the liquid has been absorbed, remove from heat. Serve in bowls, topped with feta and a sprinkling of oregano.

What you do

This is what you do. This is what you do when you've screwed up and it has cost you a job interview for a job you kind of really wanted; a job interview you thought you had. This is what you do. You don't go home. You're already home. You lay down on the couch, even though its only 3 in the afternoon. You wallow. You talk to a friend. You talk to your sister. You wallow. Throw the ball for the cat to chase. Wallow. You do not proofread that chapter that needs to be proofread. It needs some time to sit anyway. The client can wait. You do not answer that important email, you do not make that important call. No, not today. Not today when you are feeling too un-moored and paper thin. You read Jezebel. You read the Hairpin and Slate and i09. You watch Modern Warfare, because it is your favorite episode of Community, ever. You wallow. And suddenly it is 7:30 p.m. and you are starving and there is little-to-no food with nutritional value in your house. This is what you do. You take out the butter with flecks of crumbs in it from all the toast you have been eating. You pull out the pecorino because you don't have any parmesan. There is still a little bit of pasta left in its bin. If you were doing this right it would be spaghetti. It's not spaghetti, but that's just fine. That's all you need. Pasta, butter, cheese and the black pepper grinder sitting on its shelf. Vitamins and minerals are overrated.
This is what you do. You put the water up to boil. You add salt, as much salt as you think you can bear, so that it tastes like the sea. That is the key. You pour in the pasta and wait. You put a warm beer into the freezer so it will be cold. You pull out a piece of pasta. You burn your fingers a bit. That's ok. The pasta is not quite al-dante, there's still a dense, starchy bite to it.You pull out some of the cooking water with a mug and set it aside. Watch the steam curl up into the air as you drain the pasta. Now is the time for the butter- a good pat of it- into the pot that is back on the stove, the flame low and steady. The pasta goes back in, the cheese curls over it and a melts. You pour in some reserved pasta water- just a bit. You let it cook and mingle and smooth out, so that when you look down you see that your pasta is glazed in a sheen of something that once was just butter, cheese and water and now is something much more than the sum of its parts. You turn off the heat. You grind some black pepper, a lot of it, over the pot and this part will never not remind you of your friend in high school who lived with your family  and who used to put black pepper on her pasta. For years you wrinkled your nose at her, but you were wrong. So wrong. Black pepper on pasta is where its at. The Italians knew that years ago. (They have a name for it cacio e pepe and you love the way it sounds on your tongue.) So did Adena. It's you who was behind the times.
You eat your pasta. You drink your beer. You wallow. You talk to a friend. You read someone else's writing. Tomorrow. Tomorrow you'll get up. You'll make that phone call, you'll write that email. Or maybe not tomorrow. Maybe Sunday, or Monday. It will get done. But not today. Today this is what you do.