No Rise, No Fooling

I've already heard about a couple of great April Fools pranks today. The one I pulled was accidental and happened a day early, when the Easter cake I baked and served turned out to be a sodden lump.

I just relived the process and realized my mistake: no baking powder... no fooling!

Some of the men in the family seemed to like the cake in its unrisen state, especially one of my sons-in-law, who took a few slices home, bless his heart. But others wisely stayed away. 

The cake still sits on the counter ... but the garbage can beckons. 

Happy April Fools Day — or something like that! 

(A photo of the cake from the first time I made it, when I remembered the baking powder.) 

Recipe Hunter

Like my address book, my recipe box is in need of some serious pruning. I pull out both this time of year: the first to address cards, the second to find my standard go-to Christmas cookie recipes. 

But this year I'm in search of something a little different: instructions for spritz cookies, for instance, for which I've drawn a complete blank, even when I delve into Mom's old recipe box. Ideas for savory snacks, also nada.

Which means I turn to that great recipe box of cyberspace. Online recipes, anyone?

Give a Little Whistle

At home it announces itself with a steady crescendo of gurgles and hisses and a click when the water has boiled. Almost foolproof.

At Fort Worden, I heated water the old-fashioned way. I filled the pot, flipped the top down and waited for the whistle. Ingenious ... but not foolproof. For instance, you could (and I did) forget to close the contraption. I quickly learned — no top, no whistle.

You could also (theoretically) leave the kettle on until the water vaporized and the pot was singed. But for that you would have to ignore the whistle, which is mighty difficult to do. 

I'm glad to be back with my electric teakettle. But the whistling version is fun, too ... maybe the original smart appliance? 

The Full Fridge

Long ago, when I was writing a magazine article about what parents could do to promote family happiness, I remember being surprised at the additional point my editor suggested adding. It's good to keep the refrigerator stocked with good food, she said.

I'd been interviewing experts about family self-esteem and other heady topics, forgetting that all the good feelings in the world aren't much help unless there's a healthy body to receive them. 

Our refrigerator serves only two people now, so there's a limit to how stocked it can be. But a couple of recent holidays plus entertaining out-of-town family last weekend means it's been fuller than it usually is. And yes, that is happy-making ... but only because it means I won't have to cook this week. 

(No open-fridge photos this morning, but here's one of a salad that came out of it.)

Last Meal

On Sunday the Octave of Easter ended, though the season of Easter will last until Pentecost. But for me the celebration truly came to an end when I ate the last turkey sandwich made from Easter dinner leftovers. 

Sometimes I forgo the turkey on Easter, serving only ham along with the deviled eggs, asparagus, ambrosia salad and potatoes au gratin. But this year's crowd required reinforcements. I was happy to oblige with a 23-pound bird. That's a lot of turkey sandwiches — and I have relished every one.

You have to understand that if I were offered a last meal, I wouldn't hesitate. It would be a turkey sandwich made from all white meat, thinly sliced, on white bread (which I usually avoid) and mayonnaise (ditto). If I'm feeling virtuous I garnish with lettuce ... but I usually don't feel virtuous. 

I would illustrate this post with a picture of a turkey sandwich, but alas, the turkey sandwiches are gone. A glass of iced tea will have to do. It, of course, would be the last beverage. 

Turkey Time

The other night I had a funny anxiety dream. I was strolling through a store on Thanksgiving afternoon, casually browsing, picking up treats for the holiday meal, when I suddenly realized that I had not put the turkey in the oven. Not only that, but I had failed to bake the pumpkin pies the night before. 

As I frantically tried to figure out how to feed 20 people with no turkey or pie ... I woke up. 

Ah yes, I thought groggily, a Thanksgiving anxiety dream.  When I came to full consciousness the next morning, I remembered my middle-of-the-night panic with a smile — but a jolt, too.

Yes, I was given a reprieve. But the big day is coming up. I hope I'm prepared!

(As close as I can come to a turkey photo: a turkey teapot photo!) 

Cake for No Reason

It was near the end of a fascinating Zoom book group conversation — which moved from the book itself to a discussion of memoir — that one of us mentioned having just sampled the best white cake ever. 

Baking the perfect white cake is something of a holy grail for me, the attempt to duplicate the most delectable wedding cake-like texture, dense and fine of crumb. I don't have much time to devote to this quest, but I have experimented with several recipes over the years and was delighted to have another one to try. 

When I saw the King Arthur Flour "Tender White Cake" recipe I was immediately encouraged. I had all the ingredients in my pantry and fridge — or so I thought; it turned out I was missing almond extract. But a quick stop at the grocery store remedied that, which is how I found myself up to my elbows in flour and sugar at the end of a long work week. 

Thanks to my power mixer, though, I was able to cream the unsalted butter with the (sad to say not King Arthur brand) flour, add one egg white at a time, and finally whip in the cup of yogurt laced with vanilla and almond extracts. 

The cake was as exquisite as advertised, with a rich, old-fashioned flavor that my mother would have said reminded her of a cake my Aunt Mary made. Beyond the taste, though, was the experience.  It was fun to bake a cake for no reason — that is, for no reason other than the cake itself. 

Jammin!

Every year at Christmastime, Mom made a jam cake. It was a recipe from Dad's side of the family, and was passed down with great care. Mom copied the recipe over several times, but she saved the old versions. Reading through them, which I did to make sure I was getting the ingredients right, was like an archaeological dig; there was the same fragility to the oldest artifact.

Once I figured out that the "modern version" (which included purple crayon scribbles, proof of its age) was indeed a fair and true copy, I still had to make the cake, which began, as it did for Mom, with an all-out search for jam with seeds. In my case, the search took me 20 miles away, to a Walmart Super Store in Sterling. (I found this highly ironic since Mom never visited a Walmart; she thought the stores were destroying small-town America — and in this case, as with so much else, she was right.) 

Once the jam was purchased and the other ingredients assembled, I proceeded to make the cake. Mom had always made a very big deal of it, as if she was making a four-tier wedding cake. How hard can it be, I wondered. 

Pretty darn hard, it turns out. There is the sheer muscle involved in stirring the thick batter. There's separating the six eggs, beating the whites till frothy (I was convinced I had botched this part) and pre-mixing certain ingredients (such as vinegar and baking soda) before adding them to the batter. 

By the time I got the cake in the oven, it looked like a small tornado had ripped through the kitchen. But after a tense baking period (I can remember holidays where the jam cake fell — and that was not a pretty sight), the cake emerged more or less intact. I couldn't have been prouder. Now all I had to do ... was frost the thing.

Filling the Fridge

It has come to my attention that today is Saturday, a day I usually get groceries into the house. It has also come to my attention that I have not completed said grocery expedition in several weeks. Oh, I've run out for powdered sugar and cold cuts. But I've been neglecting the tried-and-true, list-driven expedition.

I kind of dread the trip, if you want to know the truth. It seems too much like work, which I've sworn off these last 10 days. But we're running low on milk, eggs and salad —  things that don't freeze well, you may notice — and you can't live on chocolate cake and Christmas cookies forever.

So here I go, back into a routine. I'm sure it will be fine once I get in ... a little like the shock of cold water in a pool, which ultimately refreshes. And even if it isn't, the fridge will be full again.

Cooking Up Memories

I just pulled out an old cookbook that falls apart when you open it. There are a few recipes in there I still use, and one of them is the cranberry salad I make at Thanksgiving. It's a molded salad that involves Jello — yes, Jello! — but goes way beyond church potlucks in its appeal. It's tangy and elegant, a different way to do cranberries.

This cookbook is a window into my past, a long-ago birthday gift from a friend I still count among my dearest, given to me at a pivotal point in my life, when I was moving back to Lexington from Chicago. 

The move was designed to let me try teaching and writing at the same time and see which one "won," which one I would pursue further. There was no contest, and generations of high school English students are the poorer for it. 

Only kidding, of course. It's I who am the richer for it. And seldom a day goes by that I don't realize it.

Musical Chores

I'm always listening to music while walking with my iPod, but until recently I'd lost the ability to blare symphonies or musicals or folk tunes at home. But now, a jerry-rigged system is once again filling the house with sound. 

On Saturday morning, while putting away the groceries, it was Simon and Garfunkel's "Old Friends." "Bye-bye Love"  is a surprisingly apt tune for wiping down packages of peppers and strawberries and finding a place for them in the fridge. The "bye-bye" part is good for jettisoning leftovers.

Later in the day, I listened to Benny Goodman while chopping vegetables for potato-leek soup. "Sing, sing, sing" mimicked "Chop, chop, chop," the driving bass beat perfect for making quick work with the potato peeler. Dad must have been behind the scenes for this pick, loving both food and Big Band.

And finally, while making pot roast in the crockpot, I matched the cool, foggy weather outside with the Hernon Brothers' "Across the Sound," an album picked up two summers ago on the isle of  Inishmore. 

Chores fly when they have a musical accompaniment. 

Gloveless

It's ironic that after months of wearing gloves for grocery shopping, a doctor's visit and most any other time I've ventured into a public space, I wasn't wearing them when I needed them most — in my own kitchen.

Last night's dinner was a Thai shrimp dish I'd never made but which sounded good when I found it online. It called for a jalapeno pepper, two of them, in fact, with or without seeds. I settled on one and one-half without seeds. That was about right, flavor-wise. Blended with the coconut milk, fish sauce and Thai curry paste, they provided just enough kick.

But my hands told another story. Hours after I'd rinsed, de-seeded and diced the peppers my fingers and palms felt like they were on fire. A couple of hours of keeping them wrapped in a cool wet washcloth or on top of a bag of chipped ice left them little better than before.

When I finally googled the symptom, I learned that I should have been slathering my hands with milk or yogurt instead of cold water — and, most of all, I should have been wearing gloves. Now you tell me!

(Entries from a salsa competition last year at work.) 

Food Palace

For the last couple of years I've shopped for food at a discount grocery chain where prices are low and brands are simple: basically there's one. This means there's limited selection, and I like it this way. There's no need to deliberate, so I save time and energy.

A couple days ago I found myself in the antithesis of this grocery store. I found myself in a Food Palace. There were a dozen types of pate, mushrooms so exotic I'd never heard of them and a bakery to die for. It was chaotic and amusing. I was often bewildered. But the mushrooms were delicious when sautéed in butter — and I tore into the chewy but tender Tuscan pane on the way home.

It was as if the food choices I've eschewed these last two years had gathered around and started taunting me. See what you've been missing, they said.  Look at this richness, this bounty.

I looked, I appreciated. But the very next day I went back to my discount grocer.

Brahms to the Rescue

Brahms came to the rescue yesterday. He didn't ride in on a white horse, but he was there with his complex melodies and lyricism, with his passion and playfulness.

He was there in the morning when I walked, he was there in the evening when I bounced on the trampoline. And he stayed with me as I sautéed squash and onions and mixed it with farfalle pasta, as I broiled and plated the chicken, as I remembered I had fresh basil to season it all.

What a utilitarian composer! Brahms is not just for bedtime or funerals or academic processions. If you give him a chance, he will stay with you all day long.

(Photo courtesy New York Public Library Digital Collection)

Letting it Soak

Yesterday I returned home from work to find the crockpot I'd left full of sudsy water the night before. It wasn't warm, sudsy water anymore, though. Now it was cold and gray and uninviting.

As I refilled the ceramic with warm water and soap and scrubbed it clean, I thought about how the great procrastination device of children (and adults!) everywhere — letting it soak — is often just what's needed.

Cleaning this the night before would have been a much harder task. Now I could whisk the stew remnants down the disposal, easily peel away the potato bits that had stuck to the sides. Water and time had worked their way.

Not a life-altering realization — but further proof that rushing through life is not always the best way to go.

A Pot of Soup

A few days ago I chopped two onions, peeled three potatoes, assembled a soup bone and stew beef, canned tomatoes, celery, carrots, beans and corn. I set about making vegetable soup the way I learned to as a girl. It takes the better part of a day to do this — but it's not concentrated time, of course, just whenever you can edge it into whatever else you're doing. When you're done, your refrigerator may look a bit like ours above, empty and used up.

I boiled the meat and the bone first, skimmed the broth, then added vegetables according to texture and flavor — onions and celery for seasoning, potatoes, then tomatoes, carrots and so on. It takes a couple hours before it's bubbling on the stove and the vegetables begin to soften and blend into each other. To become less themselves and one with the soup.

Because I started making the soup in the evening I knew we wouldn't eat it till the next day. And more importantly, I knew that the soup wouldn't be at its best until we'd cooled and reheated it several times. There must be a chemical or gastronomical explanation for this but I don't know what it is. I do know that vegetable soup is at its best about three days after you make it. And in fact, soup is one of those slow foods, and making it harkens back to an earlier time when things worth doing took time and patience.

The Sound of Tea

One of our most coveted possessions is an electric tea kettle (not pictured; it's too grungy to photograph) that automatically shuts off once the water has boiled. And one of my favorite sounds of the morning is the steady crescendo of boiling water the kettle produces. It's barely perceptible at first, a quiet hiss, but 20 seconds later, it's rumbling enough that I can hear it from the top of the stairs.

It's a friendly, promising sound. It doesn't demand immediate attention, as a whistling tea kettle does. The boiled water will stay hot for several minutes if you don't reach it right away. Or if you're a purist (as I am), you simply switch it on again to heat the water to the proper just-boiled temperature before warming the pot and making the tea.

I could pick our tea kettle's sound out of a aural lineup any day. It says: you are not alone on this cold winter day. Soon you will curl your fingers around a mug of hot tea, sweetened with a splash of milk and way too much sugar. You will sip, you will wake up, you will take on the day.

Pie Crust

Like everything else, cooking has its seasons. Fall is the time for hearty soups and stews, for roasts and root vegetables and, of course, for pie. I've never been too interested in the fillings; for me, the point of the pie is the crust.

I use Crisco. No butter. No margarine. And when in doubt, I use more Crisco. I sift two cups of flour with one teaspoon of salt, then cut in three-fourths cup (or slightly more) of Crisco. Once that's blended into a pebbly mixture, I add six to eight tablespoons of ice-cold water and lightly stir (just until blended) with a fork.

At this point I barely touch the stuff — I just quickly turn it out onto a floured board, roll, shape and slide into the pie pan. The more I fiddle with it, the tougher it gets.

Pie crust, like so many things in life, is best approached with a full heart and a light hand.