Happy once, happy twice

When I was growing up, Saturday mornings meant trips to the farmer's market (weather permitting) and library (always).  I suppose it's no surprise, then, that two of my greatest interests now are local seasonal cuisine and reading.  I always have a pile of books sitting in my bedroom, waiting to be read.  Often, I'm working my way through three or four of them at the same time.  Just now, for example, next to my bed I have bookmarks in The Meaning of Tingo, How to Pick a Peach, and a collection of Robert Frost poems.  There's also a copy of Richard Olney's Simple French Food there on standby for any necessary late-night perusal.  In other words, I have a really active social life.

This week I've worked my way through a few other books as well, what with having 12 hours of train rides to fill, and then, once I got back home, spending an inordinate amount of time recumbent while resting with a cold.  I've spent more time thinking about breathing than cooking this week, but now that I'm starting to feel better, it seems criminal to have almost gotten through a cold without slurping up a heart-warming bowl of every mom's favorite panacea, chicken noodle soup.

But back to the books - I can't think about chicken soup without thinking of Maurice Sendak's classic, Chicken Soup with Rice.  I'm not sure I totally agree that "All seasons of the year are nice/ For eating chicken soup with rice" (let's go with gazpacho in summer instead, please), but is there anything more perfect than chicken soup in winter?  And with last week's hint of spring once again hidden under a fresh blanket of snow, I'll seize the opportunity - especially if it means I might get some cake, too.

Chicken soup with rice (and kale)

I've been meaning to make chicken stock all winter, but somehow I never got around to it.  Ah well.  Poaching the chicken lends some of its flavor to the soup, but it also takes away from the flavor of the meat itself, which is why I take it out as soon as it's cooked through.  The kale adds both a new texture and a vivid green color, but it can easily be left out per your taste.

1 3-4 pound chicken, preferably free range
water
salt
tellicherry peppercorns
cloves
3 bay leaves
1 tablespoon herbes de Provence (or a bouquet garni, whatever herbs you have on hand)
3 leeks
4 carrots
5 stalks of celery
3 cloves garlic, minced
A good bunch of kale (I would guess I had six cups or so when all chopped)
1 cup leftover cooked rice

Rinse the chicken, then place it in a large soup pot, breast side down.  Add enough water to cover the chicken (I used about four quarts), and then about four teaspoons salt, a dozen whole peppercorns and just as many whole cloves, the bay leaves, and any herbs you're using.  Cover the pan and set over high heat to bring up to a boil.

While waiting for the water to come to a boil, prepare the leeks, celery, and carrots.  Start with the leeks: cut off the stiff green tops, then wash the tops thoroughly and toss them in with the chicken to lend their flavor to the stock.  Next, return to the whites of the leeks: cut them in quarters lengthwise, then in 1/4" strips, making sure to wash them thoroughly.  Wash the celery and carrots and dice into thin slices, then set aside.

When the stock comes to a boil, lower the heat to medium and let simmer for 20 minutes, then flip the chicken onto its back and continue to let simmer until cooked through.  Remove the chicken from the pot and let it cool.  Discard the leek tops and any fresh herb stalks.  If you aim to impress guests, this would be a good time to strain the stock and remove the peppercorns, cloves, and bay leaves.  But if you're uninterested in dirtying a strainer and another pot or bowl, this step can be skipped - just be sure to warn eaters to look out for any tough aromatics.

Let the stock simmer for an hour or so uncovered, until the flavor goes from light and fresh to rich and toothsome, by which time the liquid has reduced by about a third.  During this time, wash and prepare the kale, removing tough stems and chopping the leaves into bite-size strips.

When the chicken has cooled, shred it into bite-size pieces and set aside.

Once the stock has reduced, use a spoon to skim off any fat and scum from the top of the broth, then toss in the celery, carrots, and leeks with the garlic and let simmer for another 30 minutes or so, stirring occasionally.  Now we're in the home stretch!  Toss in the kale, appreciate the vivid color it takes on as soon as it heats through, and let simmer another ten minutes.  Throw in the rice and the shredded chicken, and let simmer until all heated through, just another minute or two.

Serve immediately with good crusty bread.

Makes lots, and keeps well in the fridge for a few days of soul-warming leftovers.

In February it will be

My snowman's anniversary

With cake for him, and soup for me!

Happy once, happy twice, 

Happy chicken soup with rice!

Windy City reunions

In an average week, I see approximately zero of my former college teammates (speaking of whom, congrats to the ladies on the team this year, who won their conference championship meet this past weekend!).  In the last seven days, I have seen not just one or two, but six. And that, my friends, is kind of a big deal.

Last Tuesday, Elissa, one of my roommates during our sophomore year, had a long layover at DTW on her way home to Houston from a work conference in DC.  Her layover was over lunch, which would have been simple except that Elissa has developed a number of food allergies in the last few years, and now she avoids gluten, dairy, tomatoes, and strawberries - and perhaps other items I'm forgetting.  After a brief driving tour of Ann Arbor, we caught up with conversations on friends, relationships, marriages, and pregnancies over gluten-free crackers, sausage, apple, and peanut butter.  It was a good few hours, but entirely too short!

Then on Friday, I took the train into Chicago to meet up with more friends... and to eat.  After an exhilarating six hours on the train, including a bonus hour and a half of delays, I headed up to Evanston to meet up with Kayla, a PhD candidate at Northwestern.  We proceeded to chow down on garlic bread and, of course, deep dish pizza at Lou Malnati's.  The thick, gooey, oozing cheese and marinara sauce piled onto a crisp, flaky crust were best when hot, but we had five years of gossip to remember and catch up on so we couldn't just sit there and stuff our faces.  After dinner, we headed downtown to meet up with Lisa, also a PhD candidate at Northwestern, with whom I was staying for the weekend.  Lisa lives with two other swimmers from our team, each of whom attends a different graduate school in the Chicago area, so staying at her apartment was quite the mini-reunion.

The next morning, Lisa and I had some serious discussions on where to head for brunch before we finally selected Xoco, Rick Bayless's new venture.  I am so glad we did - it was superb.

I had the torta ahogada, or drowned Mexican subway sandwich (it sounds so much less romantic in English), a Guadalajaran classic that gets is name from the spicy arbol chile sauce the sandwich is served - and subsequently dunked - in.  The thick-crusted balillo bread was substantial enough to stand up to serious dunking and pleasantly sour - delicious.  The balillo was mostly successful in containing the mounds of roasted carnitas, black beans and pickled onions placed within it.  The chile sauce brought just enough heat to give a mild kick, but not so much to make me cry.  Everything came together perfectly - YUM.  To chase that down, I had a mug of champurrado, a masa-based hot chocolate sweetened with piloncillo (raw cane juice) and redolent of mild spices that I could not name but which brought the drink to a new level of hot chocolate I have never before experienced.* 

Bravo, Rick Bayless.  Well done.

Following brunch, Lisa played the dutiful tour guide, leading me around Chicago to see some of the sights, and then to get some tea at Fox & Obel.  As we wandered, we came across a long line stretching outside the doors of the NBC building.

We asked them what they were waiting for and were informed they were trying out for the next season of the Biggest Loser.  They told us we couldn't try out, but if I keep eating at this rate, maybe I'll be with them for the next year's casting call.

In the afternoon, I met up with Meg, a third-year medical student at Loyola University.  I hadn't seen Meg in probably almost two years, and it was wonderful to see her shining face and shiny week-old engagement ring.  Meg already had plans for the evening, but recommended La Madia for dinner.  Lisa, Kayla, and I took her up on her suggestion, scarfing down oven-roasted artichokes dipped in olive oil and mustard sauce, thin-crust pizza for Lisa, gnocchi for Kayla (her first!), and seared scallops on polenta with surprisingly delicious brussels sprout leaves for me.  We washed everything down with a bottle of fruity, floral pinot grigio and then, just for good measure, finished off the meal with a lemon zabaglione.

Our evening ended in a booth at the Elephant and Castle, nursing glasses of cider or beer and laughing about old friends and new colleagues.  Eventually we got back to Lisa's and declared ourselves exhausted, though Kayla (who also slept over) and I did manage to stay up for the entirety of Love Actually.

While Saturday had been chilly but sunny, Sunday was chilly and gray and rainy.  We started the day with breakfast at a nearby Einstein's bagels, where we probably drove the staff crazy by returning to the counter every 10 minutes to place additional orders with more nearly-expired coupons - we are nothing if not resourceful (/cheap?).  After breakfast, we took the bus down to the aquarium to take advantage of the free admission, only to find every other Chicagoan and tourist in the city had the same idea.  However, unlike the rest of them being tough and sticking it out in their longgg lines stretching around the the courtyard in the wind and rain, we didn't linger, instead heading back downtown to window shop from the comfort of the mall hallways.  The mall is at the foot of the Hancock tower, who was feeling shy and hid her face from foot traffic below.

The train that took me back to Ann Arbor didn't want to miss out on all the fun I'd had on the way out, so it, too, came in almost an hour and a half behind schedule.  But it was a lovely, delicious weekend, and I feel so lucky to have seen so many good friends in the course of a few days!  Many thanks to Kayla, Lisa, Spiros, Bob, and Meg for your time and hospitality, and to Elissa for planning her travel so conveniently.  It was wonderful to see you all!


* It gets better: apparently, champurrado is best made with a special whisk called a molinillo.  Molinillos look like they may be even more fun than spurtles - though its a toss up as to which one is more fun to say.

Prelude to spring

Don't tell winter, but there's something decidedly springtimey in the air.

Oh, sure, there's still a few inches of snow covering most of the ground, no hint of budding leaves on the trees, and we could still be getting snow or ice storms for another two months.  But temperatures are in the 50s(!).  It's light out till almost 6:30 - quite an improvement over 5:00 sunsets.  Birds are starting to sing.  And best of all, something on the breeze smells decidedly vernal.  I can't name the smell*, but it's there.

It's unfair to winter, really.  We should have another lovely month together, filled with homemade bread and soup.  But springy smells like these make me long for artichokes, asparagus, and peas.  And rhubarb.  Oh, for a stalk of tart, crisp, perfect rhubarb!

I know you're just teasing me, spring.  Your green bounty will have to wait a little longer.  And that's okay, tonight I can pretend with a green dinner based on last summer's pesto, waiting patiently all winter in my freezer for just such an occasion.  It's no rhubarb, but tossed on pasta with chicken, it's definitely a harbinger of months to come.

Though to be honest, I'm not sure I've had enough homemade bread and soup.  I haven't made my cassoulet or my bread pudding yet, and it would be a real shame to keep that duck confit and loaf of challah waiting in the freezer much longer.  Good thing cooler temperatures are rolling back in over the weekend - I've got time for warm winter comforts yet. 

But don't tell spring.

*If I could, it would probably be something like "mud."  Lots of snow melting means wet, mucky puddles.  Yech.

On being a college swimmer, or the best and worst brownies I ever ate

In college, I had the great privilege of being a member of the varsity swim team for four years.  Life as a swimmer was slightly different from that of the average undergrad.  With teammates who would become lifelong friends, I endured 20 hours of practice each week.  While our friends and classmates slept, we bundled up and stumbled groggily across the dark, blustery, deserted campus for 6:00 am practice where we might swim four miles or hit the weight room and “kill some abs” doing endless lemon squeezers with our overly-energetic but amicable trainer.  We were done by 8:00, just in time to go to class or get some studying in before starting all over again at afternoon practice.

But all that working out had its perks – swimmers can eat.  On Saturday mornings, we commandeered long tables in the dining hall for post-practice brunches, our plates piled high with omelets and bagels and buttermilk pancakes drenched in syrup.  Back at our apartment, my roommate Kate and I stirred up batches of peanut butter cookie dough that never got baked, living in a bowl in the fridge for a day or two before being finished off raw.  It was alimentary heaven.

In December and February, the team tapered (that is, rested by swimming less) to get ready for big meets.  These were grueling competitions, with three days of morning preliminaries and evening finals sessions.  For each taper meet, my parents traveled from Michigan to Ohio or North Carolina to watch me swim, and my mom always brought trays of homemade Ghirardelli box-mix brownies for the team.  Those brownies were incredible – dense chocolatey bliss.  There is nothing – Nothing! – like a brownie at the end of a hard practice or after a long day of racing to soothe your aching muscles.  In my hotel room in the evening, I would plow through a tray, sometimes eating three or four brownies before I could stop myself and put them away for a while.  I might eat six or seven in a day – and what a glorious day that would be!  Though I know rationally that an ideal brownie would be made from scratch and served piping hot and fresh, I don't think I'll ever be able to top my pure gluttonous joy in those taper meet brownies.

I'm the gourmand (coughpigcough) holding the tray, of course.

But not all exercise-induced brownie needs work out so well, as Kate could tell you.  Kate and I met our first day on campus as incoming freshmen on the team, but our friendship wasn't truly solidified until four months later when we discovered our mutual love of musicals.  We lived together our sophomore through senior years, during which time I learned of Kate's dislike of pork and of her affinity for cooked carrots.  But most of all, I discovered her love of brownie batter.  When making brownies together, Kate would reserve a good quarter of the batter for us to eat raw.  Being so very obliging, how could I say no to that?

The first week of January meant training trip, when we would pack our bags and head to North Palm Beach, Florida for a week of double practices, afternoon beach lazing, and team pizza dinners.  One year, I had the brilliant idea that we should make brownie batter on training trip.  So when stocking up on milk and bread and peanut butter at the local Publix, we also picked up eggs, oil, and a cheap box mix.  A couple days later, we mixed up our brownie batter in the hotel ice bucket and proceeded to gorge ourselves silly for the rest of the afternoon.  I bet Kate and I ate at least three-quarters of the batter.  And it was a brilliant idea indeed, or at least it was until a couple hours later at evening practice, which started on the deck with an invigorating round of mountain climbers.  Suddenly my stomach was less than pleased with me for causing it to be full of brownie batter while bouncing around upside-down.  I'll spare you the gruesome details, but let's just say that practice wasn't the most enjoyable two hours I've had in the pool.

These days I train with a Master's team, swimming 90 minutes, two to three times a week.  It's a good work out, but it's no college 20-hour-per-week regimen, and my brownie consumption has fallen dramatically.  But in honor of my former teammates, off to compete in their conference championship meet starting tomorrow (smoke 'em lady jays!), I baked a batch of brownies last night.  Sadly, I'm not the magnanimous soul my mom was – these ones are staying right here with me.

Intense Almond Brownies

I combined the best parts of a few other brownie recipes to develop this one.  These are lovely hot, but I think I prefer them after they've cooled, when the flavors have had some time to meld together.  They are deeply, intensely chocolatey, so proceed with caution and small pieces!

1 cup all-purpose flour
1/2 cup almond flour
1/2 tsp baking powder
1/2 tsp salt
1/2 cup chocolate chips
4 oz unsweetened baking chocolate
1/2 cup unsalted butter (4 oz, or one stick)
1 cup sugar
2 eggs
1 teaspoon vanilla

Grease an 8"x8" pan and preheat the oven to 325 degrees Fahrenheit.
Sift together the flour, almond flour, baking powder and salt, then toss in the chocolate chips.
In a double boiler, melt the chocolate and the butter.  Once completely smooth, remove from the heat.
Slowly add the sugar, whisking to combine.  Next, whisk in the eggs one at a time, and finally add the vanilla.  When smooth and homogeneous, add the chocolate mixture to the dry ingredients, folding with a rubber spatula to combine.  When just mixed together, pour the batter into the greased pan.  Bake 20-30 minutes, until a toothpick inserted in the center comes out clean.
Pour yourself a tall glass of milk and dig in.  (Unless you want to cut perfect, pretty brownies.  Then you should wait until they're completely cool first, but what's the fun in that?)

Fusion cuisine

Last night's dinner was an unparalleled example of the recent trend toward global fusion cuisine.  Think Italy meets France meets Spain meets Wisconsin meets Mexico. 

I made pizza.  (For those of you keeping track, that would be Italy.)  That is, I made two pizzas. The first covered the European influences: without sauce, I sprinkled on some mozzarella, then topped it off with some morcilla de Cebolla (a beautiful Spanish blood sausage) that I had browned with a diced granny smith apple for the classic French boudin aux pommes combo.

I should have stopped there – the sweet, mild, greasy sausage and juicy, barely-tart apples were at their best on their own; being atop a pizza did nothing for them. Those French really know what they're doing – but then, that's hardly a surprise.

The second pie turned to the Americas for inspiration. I fried up some diced Nueske's cherrywood smoked bacon, produced just across the lake in Wisconsin. Before we continue, let me pause for a moment in reverence to this majestic piece of pork.  I had the bacon in my freezer, and when I opened the bag the kitchen was immediately perfumed in a deep, smoky, rich eau de pork belly.  It's intoxicating.  I may have swooned momentarily.  Oh baby, this is good stuff.

When the bacon was crispy and perfect, I removed it from the pan but retained the rendered fat - I'm pretty sure discarding this bacon fat is a mortal sin.  Into the sizzling fat went slivered onions and red peppers, for a pseudo-vegetarian (in that the bacon was now out of sight, out of mind, and that there was no flank steak) pseudo-fajita (again due to the absence of flank steak - and there's my Mexican connection) mix, which sauteed over low heat for a good thirty minutes until sweet and soft and irresistible.  The onions and peppers then got reintroduced to the bacon, and everything was tossed on a second round of dough over a bed of mozzarella.  Again, no sauce - I felt the acidity of tomato would be out of place.

This time, the combination was inspired.  The sweetness of the mozzarella, the wheaty, crisp crust, the smoky caramelized onions and peppers and the crisp bits of bacon - excellent.

Also of note this weekend:

- Midwest Quarterfinals of the International Collegiate Championships of A Cappella with Celine on Friday night – congratulations of the University of Michigan's G-Men and Amazin' Blue for advancing!
- Reading the fourth book in Jasper Fforde's Thursday Next series in one day.  The Eyre Affair was thoroughly enjoyable; I wish I felt the sequels were as promising.
- Temperatures above 40 degrees – hello spring!  Excuse me while I break out the sun tan oil.

Let's start at the very beginning




I am so excited.  My spurtle just arrived.

So maybe that sounds a little strange.  I'm probably the only person I know who would get excited to receive a spurtle.  I mean, let's be honest here, I'm probably the only person I know who knows what a spurtle is.

It all started on November 6, 2009, when A.Word.A.Day's word of the day was spurtle.  As a lover of silly or particularly useful words, spurtle struck a chord with me.  Just say it aloud - it's like turtle, but ever so much sillier because it begins with a spuh.  After enjoying saying spurtle to myself a few times, I was, as a lover of all things related to food, delighted to learn that a spurtle is a wooden stick for stirring porridge.

For a while, I was content merely to know the word spurtle, to whisper it to myself and giggle.  But as my enthusiasm for a good bowl of oatmeal has grown, so, too, has my desire to own a spurtle.  Because, really, when you need to stir a porridge, who wouldn't want to say, "hey, could you please hand me the spurtle?"  So a week or so ago, I decided to bite the bullet and order one.

I was surprised to discover just how many options there are out there for purchasing a spurtle online (thank you, Google.)  Ultimately, I was besmitten with this gorgeous cherry wood spurtle for its simple carving and its gorgeous toasty sienna coloring.  Plus, being a native Michigander, where summer is synonymous with all things cherry, I liked the idea of having a spurtle that felt representative of my home state.

Now for the test: will I love my spurtle?  Will I love it so much that I'll be glad to have named this blog in its honor?  Will Sam break up with Quinn when he realizes she still has feelings for Finn?  Only time will tell.  But for starters, it must be time to break it (the spurtle, not the Glee cast) in with some porridge.

Golden-Spurtle-worthy* oatmeal

I love oatmeal.  I loved it even when all I did was boil some water, toss in some old fashioned oats, and stir it around for a few minutes until the oats had inbibed a sufficient amount of said water and become edible.  But then I got The New Best Recipe, and I discovered a whole new dimension of smooth, gooey, delectable oatmeal textural possibilities.  And then I discovered Irish oatmeal, and my world was rocked again with new dimensions in nutty, toasty oatmeal flavor.  I'm still working on perfecting the texture of my Irish oatmeal, so today I used regular ol' old fashioned oats.

1/2 cup old fashioned oats
1 Tbsp unsalted butter
1/2 cup milk (I use Calder Dairy skim milk)
1 1/2 cups water
pinch salt
garnishes to fit your fancy

Combine the milk and water and bring gently to a boil.  Spare this mixture a modicum of attention so that the liquid doesn't boil over and make a mess of your stove top, as it often does to mine when I get distracted waiting for the pot to boil.
While warming up the milk and water, melt the butter is a small frying pan until bubbling, then add in the oats, stirring frequently, until the oats smell nutty and toasty and delicious, about two minutes.  Turn off the heat.
When the liquid boils, add in the toasted oats.  Bring back to a boil, then lower the heat to simmer for 20-30 minutes, stirring occasionally (with a spurtle, if you just happen by some lucky twist of fate to own one), until thick.  Stir in a pinch of salt to taste, then turn off the heat and let rest for 5 minutes to continue to thicken. 
Garnish (I used raw sugar, Korintje Indonesian cinnamon, and dried cherries) and serve immediately, chasing the winter blues away and warming your soul.

Serves one

*Each year, the world's best porridge makers get together and compete for fame, glory, bragging rights, and the golden spurtle.  Disclaimer: I should tell you I have never competed in the international porridge racket, and I make no claims as to actually winning the golden spurtle with this recipe or any other.  But I will say that this is damn good oatmeal.