March 31, 2010
Fettucine with Lamb Ragù and Ricotta
We’ve been living in our house for just shy of two years now. Having been foreclosed on and neglected for over a year, it was (and still is) in disrepair. It’s our 75 year old baby. It demands lots of love and attention and patience and savings. It’s been the cause of many moments of bickering (we’re both relatively new to this home improvement gig and, thus, feel entitled to our own very strong opinions), hours of waiting for paint to dry, and too many trips to Home Depot ten minutes before closing. It’s the reason I can recite more of Behr’s color palate than I wish to admit, carry paint swatches around in my purse, and drive Kyle crazy with my shade, tone and hue indecisiveness. Me: But don’t you think Rocky Mountain Sky is a bit more grey than Himalayan Mist and would work best in the master? Kyle: Sure sounds good, honey (read: I don’t really give a damn, they’re both mountains to me. Please just pick one). This baby of ours is the reason I’ve cried at three o’clock in the morning when the bathroom doorknob jams, shown up to work with primer and Cliff Rock in my hair, and slept with lights on when Kyle’s away because of weird nighttime creaks. But I wouldn’t take back a single sleepless night or trade a single second we’ve spent tending to this house for anything. Because at the end of the day, this house is our home regardless of all the trim that needs painted or the basement that needs waterproofing or the garage that needs rebuilt. I really love this place, our home.
This past weekend we were hit with a bout of “get’er done”. After a couple months of housework slacking (hey, it was winter after all), we were ready once again to don paint splattered pants and ball caps, blast Ok Go and cross a few more chores off the (exhaustively long) to-do list. Working in separate corners of the house (we’ve discovered this works best for keeping unnecessary opinions to ourselves) we taped, primed, painted, caulked, wired and replaced. On Sunday evening, after calling it a day, we were reminded of the “housework aches”, the stiff lower back, the throbbing calves, the sore neck. Proof that we’d put in some solid hours of real gosh darn work and were deserving of a big steaming bowl of pasta (and glass of red wine). You know I’m excited about a recipe if I choose to cook after a long day of inhaling paint fumes. This did not disappoint.
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March 28, 2010
Tuscan Tuna and White Bean Sandwich
I sometimes daydream about owning a little bakery cafe. In my next life. A friendly place where everyone knows your name. Bob would stroll in at 6:05 am for a black coffee, a slice of banana bread and a newspaper. Kate would stop by at 1:30 for a lemonade, a sandwich and a chat. Susan would call ahead twice a month to order roasted beet salad or rolls for her next dinner party. It would have butter yellow walls and crisp white trim, mismatched chairs, chalkboard menus and vintage style dishes. (Ok, perhaps I daydream about this a bit too much.) We’d be that place in the neighborhood with the best latte. The best cinnamon chip scone. The best sweet potato bisque. The best tuna sandwich.
In a world where the standard menu tuna sandwich too often promises soggy mayo-laden mush scooped between some limp white bread, this Tuscan Tuna and White Bean Sandwich deserves praise. It’s mayo-less! It has flavor! It has texture! It has lemon and basil and kalamata olives and white bean spread! Seriously, what’s not to love about this sandwich? My taste buds did a happy dance. When I own that little cafe (wink), you’ll see some variation of this sandwich on the chalkboard menu.
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March 24, 2010
Peanut Butter Fudge Krispies
I don’t know what possessed me to make these evil, evil things. Rice krispy treats laced with peanut butter and studded with salted peanuts? A layer of creamy peanut butter fudge? And a slathering of dark chocolate fudgy frosting to top them off? Am I really that batty! Clearly these are not yo’ mama’s rice krispy treats. My hips are a bit perturbed. My jeans refuse to speak to me. Fortunately a certain someone doesn’t find these too rich and will be forced to help me eat them. As will anyone I happen to run into this week.
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March 22, 2010
Roasted Butternut Squash with Coriander
I guess I’ll miss a few things about winter. How quiet and still the earth seems after a very heavy snowfall. Ginormous fluffy snowflakes that seem to fall to the ground so slowly you can almost make out their intricacies. Sweaters and scarves. Skiing. The excitement of a possible snow day, even if they never happen. Flannel pajamas. Watching smoke escape from chimneys and the sight and scent of a crackling fire. And, of course, all of the good things that happen in the kitchen during the winter months. Aromas of a Sunday roast or braise wafting throughout the house. Never tiring of steaming bowls of soup. The comfort of hearty lasagnas, casseroles and pot pies. And roasted winter squash. From September to March there is no shortage of winter squash in this house. The bright yellow-orange flesh of acorn, kabocha and butternut lend just enough cheer to keep the promise of warmer days in our sights.
I probably don’t need to list the things I won’t miss about the winter months. To paraphrase: snow, cold, ice, cold, dark, cold and freezing. Yes, I think that sums it up nicely.
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March 19, 2010
White Cheddar and Black Pepper Scones
Baking is what first landed me in the kitchen, years ago when the sound of my mom’s stand mixer usually meant a layer cake or whipped frosting. Catching her donning her apron suggested something sweet was in the works. A pie, her favorite thing to bake, meant leftover pie dough rolled with cinnamon and sugar and baked until golden brown would be waiting for us kids on the counter in little dishes. Yes, scraps! Spice cake meant penuche icing and devil’s food promised bright white marshmallowy boiled frosting. Either way, I was there with a spoon, eager for a dip into the leftovers. I remember watching her bake peanut butter cookies, rolling balls of dough in sugar then branding each with a fork-pronged crosshatch. She is so good at this. And when they emerged from the oven, accompanied by a scent I was convinced would also exist in Heaven, they cooled on brown paper grocery bags which seemed to occupy every inch of counter space. One of my favorite sights. I’d sashay into the kitchen. Whatcha doin’? And would leave with one (or a few) warm golden cookies. These moments stand out so vividly in my memory. Good times, good aromas, and, of course, good eats.
I don’t remember when I first wanted to do the baking myself. Here I was surrounded by amazing women who baked. And baked well. Mom’s pies and layer cakes. Grammy’s spritz cookies and pizzelles. Grandma’s potica and yeast rolls. And all of my aunts and extended family who followed in their mothers’ footsteps. Over time, holidays brought not one batch of almond crescents, but several, from the matriarch and her children who desired to carry on traditions. The changing of the cookie and nut roll guards. Perhaps this is what led me to bake. The unwritten, unspoken handing down of tradition. Not so much an expectation or duty, but rather a “hey, if you’re interested, here’s Grammy’s thumbprint recipe”. Though my one dear aunt did entrust me with my grandmother’s potica recipe along with an encouraging nudge to keep this tradition alive. I’ve committed to mastering that recipe, all five or so typed pages of it. I’ve tackled it once but have many more attempts ahead of me. You will likely hear about that recipe one day.
And so I started baking because I really enjoy the art of it all. I enjoy replicating recipes which have made regular appearances at family gatherings and holidays for as long as I can remember. I re-live certain baking memories, like cooling peanut butter cookies on brown paper bags, and create my own traditions, like toffee bars for Kyle’s birthday and chocolate covered cherries at Thanksgiving. There is a comfort in baking that drives me to bake two dozen scones on a Saturday afternoon for no particular reason. No family function or girls’ brunch. Just because. A tribute to the many who baked (and continue to bake) before me.
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