Delightful Crumb

around these tables

May 23, 2013

For many of us, particularly those of us in large cities or places where folks speed straight from the front door to the car, it is incredibly easy to go about our days anonymously. We are known in our workplaces and homes and perhaps a few favorite shops or eateries, but as we walk down crowded streets and hop on public transit during peak commuting hours, we are surrounded by strangers who know nothing of us, people we may never knowingly see again.

Sometimes, this is a blessing. Take, for instance, last week, when I was walking a familiar route to the train station, sunglasses in place more so I’d be left alone as I retreated home at the end of a long day than to shield my eyes from the sinking sun. Approaching the station, I reached to take off my sunglasses and found that one of the lenses was missing. I had a tinted lens covering one eye alongside an empty black frame encircling the other, and I somehow had not noticed during my mile-long walk. Strangely, no one had given me a second look. But, then again, this is San Francisco.

This might be the sort of anecdote I should keep to myself, but it is just so ridiculous that I cannot.

I am also grateful to be anonymous when I lap the grocery store upwards of seven times because I can’t decide which obscure flour I should purchase, or if I should or should not buy that bunch of carrots, or if my budget will allow that bottle of red wine that would be so nice to have on hand. Additionally: when ridiculous gusts of wind swirl my already voluminous hair into an enormous mane around my head, when I trip, when I have chosen to not shower following a run.

STRAWBERRIES FOR CRUMBLE // Delightful Crumb I realize that in some cities and neighborhoods, this is far from the case. Even in my most recent place of residence—a good-sized, bustling city—much of my life was centered around a few neighborhoods. I frequented my favorite bakeries and restaurants and little groceries, and I knew plenty of people who lived on nearby streets or belonged to my gym. I would go to pick up a bottle of wine and inevitably find myself in an extended chat with a friend or acquaintance.

Both of these scenarios have their benefits. We find community and comfort when we are known; we are free and unashamed when surrounded by strangers. But regardless, whether in an tiny, rural town in which everyone knows everyone else’s business or in a fast-paced metropolis packed tightly full of strangers, we want to be seen and recognized, to be understood and loved despite our flaws, to feel we are not alone.

When I find the markets brimming with summery fruits, I think of the desserts my mother made when I was growing up: fresh fruit crumbles topped with ice cream, peach cobbler, quick bread dotted with flecks of pink rhubarb and sprinkled with sweet, brown sugar crumbs. I recall the pies my grandmother would make on our annual summer visits to South Dakota. She always baked more than one pie, a habit she has retained since the years in which the opinions of seven children, and their corresponding appetites, demanded it. Though various family members have their strong preferences to this day, I will attest that all of the pies that come out of that woman’s oven are delicious.

Gingered Rhubarb & Berry Crumble // Delightful Crumb Around these tables—the tall, square island perched in the middle of my parents’ kitchen, the round one always adorned with a flowery tablecloth that I would sit at with my grandparents—I knew I was loved, cared for, fed, part of a family. Perhaps that’s the feeling I’m seeking when I bake. I want to give that feeling to others when they sit at my table. I want to remember it myself.

This is what I love about food. As we gather around it, we feel a sense of belonging—whether through the company we keep or in the way a dish sparks our memory or simply because we are tied together by the truth that everyone must eat—even when this eludes us in every other place.

Our bellies full, our plates wiped clean, the evening’s laughter fading, we feel what is true: we are not alone.

Gingered Rhubarb & Berry Crumble

I was thrilled to find strawberries, raspberries and rhubarb all in season at once, and I think they’re lovely together, especially with the extra punch of ginger I’ve thrown in here. However, feel free to swap fruits in and out of this recipe depending on what is available in your region. Using only strawberries or only raspberries would be an easy alteration. But if you change the amount of rhubarb, be sure to increase or decrease the amount of sugar accordingly, as rhubarb is quite tart.

While the crumble easily stands alone, I recommend a scoop of vanilla ice cream. Yogurt and crème fraîche would pair wonderfully as well.

Serves: about 6

FOR THE TOPPING

3/4 cup old-fashioned oats

3/4 cup whole wheat flour

1/3 cup chopped walnuts

1/2 cup natural cane sugar

3 tablespoons chopped crystallized ginger

1/2 teaspoon salt

1/2 teaspoon ground ginger

1/4 teaspoon cinnamon

1/3 cup coconut oil, melted and cooled

FOR THE FILLING

1 cup (4 ounces) strawberries, hulled and quartered

1 cup (4 ounces) raspberries

2 cups (8 ounces) rhubarb, sliced into 1/2-inch pieces

1/3 cup natural cane sugar

1 tablespoon tapioca starch

1/4 teaspoon ground ginger

Juice of 1/2 lemon

Preheat the oven to 375.

First, make the crumble topping. In a medium bowl, combine the oats, flour, walnuts, sugar, crystallized ginger, salt and spices. Add the coconut oil. With a fork and/or your hands, stir until the liquid is evenly distributed. The dough will be loose and crumbly. Refrigerate until needed.

Place the sliced fruit into an 8 by 8-inch pan and stir gently to combine. Add the sugar, tapioca starch, ground ginger and lemon juice. Toss until the fruit is evenly coated.

Removed the chilled topping from the refrigerator. Crumble it evenly over the fruit filling.

Bake for 30 to 35 minutes, until the filling bubbles and the topping is golden brown. Allow the crumble to cool for about 15 minutes before serving. Serve with vanilla ice cream.

Published in Desserts, Spring 4 Comments

this will help us

May 17, 2013

I walk to the train station in the cool, quiet morning, rain misting gently from the sky. More than falling, the tiny drips hang in the air like stars in the night sky, and I am strolling through the constellations, collecting their magic dust on my skin.

Walking through the rain-like-stars, I feel lyrical, poetic. But is this right? I wonder, my mind spinning with the combination of angst and hope that plagues me in the early morning. Does anyone want my lyricism, my roaming prose? Or was I better off writing dry grant proposals and pithy newsletter articles? How can life feel so lovely and so hard all at once? What am I doing, anyway?

I try very hard to pay attention to what surrounds me, to think more about the raindrops and stars and less about myself. I usually walk with a podcast in my ears, but not today, and the lake laps like a whisper, the cars pass and the construction workers labor with a quieter rumble than I’d expected. I wonder what I thought I was canceling out all this time. As I walk past the trees that bloom with glorious red flowers boasting tinsel-like fronds, I notice that the flowers are beginning to fade; their blood-red strands rest in the cracks of the sidewalk like so many threads of saffron. Tiny succulents are growing amongst the trees and rocks that line my path; they are adorable, like most small things, and suddenly I feel a little better.

One morning last weekend, a slightly-too-brown cake threw me into a tailspin that ended with me facedown on the bed, crying not so much about the cake but about everything else that feels wrong in my life and the world. Artichokes “en cocotte” brought me to similarly desperate tears not so long before. It’s rather clear that I ought to be spending more time in silence, focusing on small miracles, reveling in every last thing that is beautiful and probably also returning to the practice of yoga. It’s easier, most days, to fill the quiet with NPR and music and food podcasts so that I don’t have to be alone with my crazy, overactive brain, but that crazy is mine, after all, and the two of us must make peace.

In the interest of peace, and just in case I’m not alone, I offer a dish that is straightforward and uncomplicated, the sort of recipe that is unlikely to bring you to tears and may even quiet existential musings.

I first roasted rhubarb a few years ago as an easy, unfussy dessert to share with my mom when she visited me during springtime in Grand Rapids, and after that one go, I was hooked. The preparation is simple, and after mingling with just a few ingredients for a half hour in the oven, rhubarb emerges with an incredible depth of flavor and color. It’s marvelous. I’m rather obsessed. Which led me, of course, to an experiment last weekend in which I made several (eight?) versions of this dish in small ramekins, comparing white sugar and brown sugar and honey and various combinations and amounts of wine and orange. The recipe below is the winner, at least in my kitchen.

This will help us, I think.

Roasted Rhubarb with Vanilla, Red Wine & Orange

Roasted rhubarb is delicious warm, room temperature or cold and adorned with vanilla ice cream, crème fraîche, mascarpone, Greek yogurt or nothing at all. I find it pretty magical with a dollop of crème fraîche, as I’ve directed here, but feel free to substitute your favorite creamy topping. The rhubarb will also pair wonderfully with many breakfast items: oatmeal, muesli, granola, yogurt and fruits, pancakes, waffles, etc. In these cases, spoon it atop or alongside.

In the interest of frugality, I don’t often purchase vanilla beans, and you can certainly substitute extract here. However, if there is any time to splurge and spring for a vanilla bean, this would be it.

Serves: 2 to 4

1 pound rhubarb

1 vanilla bean (or, substitute 1 teaspoon vanilla extract)

1/3 cup red wine

1/4 cup natural cane sugar (or, substitute honey)

Zest of 1/2 an orange

Generous squeeze of orange juice

Crème fraîche, for serving

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees.

Trim the rhubarb and cut it into 1 to 1 1/4-inch pieces. Place the rhubarb in a Dutch oven or other deep, oven-safe pot. Split the vanilla bean, remove the seeds and put both the pod and seeds into the pot. Add the wine, sugar, orange zest and orange juice. Stir to combine.

Bake, uncovered, for 25 to 30 minutes, until the rhubarb is soft and beginning to collapse. Stir once midway through cooking.

Remove the vanilla pods. Serve the rhubarb warm, at room temperature or cold in small bowls and dolloped with crème fraîche.

Published in Breakfast, Desserts, Spring 4 Comments

at our fingertips

May 9, 2013

When I think of spring, I think not only of these months we’re in but also of the way the season spills right into summer. The fruit appearing at the market of late is just the start—strawberries that will be joined by an army of other bright berries, the first stone fruits hinting at the many varieties to come. The school year decrescendos; nature crescendos. The occasional unseasonably warm day prompts us to pull out our sundresses and shorts and sandals. We’ve nearly forgotten what it feels like to be so warm.

For the young, summer is the anticipated moment, the marker indicating the end of one thing and the start of another, the time of such wonder as only sprinklers and ice cream in waffle cones and vacation can provide. I remember well what it felt like: the temperatures creeped upward, the tulips bloomed to my mother’s great delight and I waited impatiently for the day I could walk barefoot through the thick green grass, for the day when sidewalk chalk and library books galore and the radio’s “Lunchtime with the Oldies” would trump desks and homework and routine. The big, square vegetable garden we kept in the backyard was coming alive, and I felt alive, too, in the deepest part of me, awakened like nature from the quiet slumber of winter.

For years, we had a screened-in porch in our backyard. It was rather dark inside, with artificial grass that gently scratched our feet. One summer, my parents replaced it with the deck they had long dreamed of having. Suddenly, we could feast out in the open all summer long. My dad grilled; my mom made pies and crumbles with fruit from the market; we sat together for dinner each evening, eating, laughing, enjoying the cooling breeze. We ate off of the brightly colored plastic plates that were reserved for outdoor meals and shouted greetings across the back lawn to our neighbors. We hung a swing from the tree that grew alongside the deck, a development that seemed one of the more glorious and fantastic I’d experienced in my young life. The swing was round and made of teal plastic, with a thin yellow rope stretching up to the strong branch that easily held the weight of my little body. I would swing back and forth, back and forth, nearly convinced that given the chance, I could fly.

Something inside of me still says that anything is possible in these warmer seasons, that joy is somehow more readily at our fingertips at the very moment when warmth creeps into our bones. In the mornings, the blessed ones on which neither my husband nor I must wake before the sun, light creeps through the blinds and lands on our bed, throwing geometric patterns onto the blue-gray comforter we’ve pushed to our feet. Was the light so gracious in winter? I didn’t notice. I don’t think it was.

I’m ready for meals eaten outdoors, parties with good food and good company and twinkly lights, long walks in the evening light, popsicles on regular rotation, glasses of rosé while sitting on porches. Last summer was filled with wedding plans, a marriage, a move across the country, transitions to the max… I am ready for another go at the season. This time, I just want to take it all in.

And in the interest of summer dinner parties and simple food, I offer these toasts. Flavorful spring onions sit atop fluffy clouds of lemony, herbed ricotta, all of this carried on hefty slices of toasted bread. I’ve spoken before of my love of toast, so you’re familiar with my feelings on the subject. Here, I offer a new reincarnation of one of the most excellent foods around.

Cheers—to all that is to come!

Lemon Ricotta Toasts with Spring Onions

I used red torpedo onions simply because they are so dang pretty, but you can use any kind of spring onion. I think a hearty sourdough loaf works best here, but feel free to use another bread if you’d like!

Yield: 6 toasts; serves 3 to 6

8 medium spring onions, about 10 ounces

1/2 tablespoon butter

1/2 tablespoon extra-virgin olive oil, plus additional for brushing and drizzling

Sea salt and freshly cracked pepper

1 1/2 cup fresh ricotta

1 tablespoon finely chopped parsley, mint and/or chives

Zest of 1 lemon

Juice of 1 lemon

Pinch red pepper flakes

6 thick slices sourdough bread

1 or 2 cloves of garlic, sliced in half

Maldon sea salt, for finishing

Preheat the oven broiler.

Begin by preparing the spring onions. Trim the tops of the greens and remove the root ends. Slice the bulbs very thinly and the green parts into slices about 1/4 inch thick.

In a large skillet over medium heat, warm the olive oil and butter. Add the sliced onions, sprinkle with salt and pepper and sauté, stirring occasionally, until tender, about 5 minutes. Set aside to cool slightly.

In a medium bowl, combine the ricotta, fresh herbs, lemon zest, lemon juice and red pepper flakes. Generously sprinkle with sea salt and black pepper, and stir again. Set aside. The ricotta can be prepared a few hours up to a day in advance. Keep in an airtight container in the refrigerator until needed.

Prepare the toasts. Lightly brush the slices of bread with olive oil. Toast under the broiler for a few minutes, until golden brown. Turn the slices over and broil for another minute or two, until the bottoms brown as well. Remove from the oven and rub the top side of the toasts with the cut garlic.

Spread the toasts thickly with the ricotta mixture. Top with a spoonful of sautéed spring onions. Drizzle with olive oil and sprinkle with Maldon sea salt and freshly cracked pepper. Serve warm.

Published in Appetizers, Sides, Snacks, Spring 6 Comments

these things are your becoming

May 2, 2013

Of late, I’ve found that the best way to describe my working life is that I’m cobbling it together. I write and edit as a freelancer for a handful of nonprofits, assist a brilliant food-blogger-and-photographer-turned-friend once a week as she works on her first cookbook, have scored some food-related writing projects, bake several mornings a week at my neighborhood cafe and work an occasional shift there as a barista.

I must say first that I’m really grateful for all of these things; I never want to take them for granted. And I also know I’m not alone. Particularly in this economy, and certainly within the blogging community, there are a lot of people cobbling it together. I’m in pretty great company.

But this is challenging. I swear to you, notwithstanding the prettiness of my curated Instagram feed, my situation is not glamorous—though of course, I imagine yours isn’t either, despite what I might think. Some days are lovely, it’s true: I am assigned work that I’m good at, and my contribution feels meaningful and worthwhile. I bake something delicious at the cafe and get to watch someone enjoy it. But on other days, I panic about my career and my trajectory and my future, and I wonder about the desk job I left behind. Or all of my unrelated responsibilities present their demands at the same time, or I just can’t stop the whole intermingled mess of them from swirling around unceasingly in my head, and I feel like a crazy person.

It was on one of those crazy-person days several weeks ago that I arrived at the last essay in Cheryl Strayed’s Tiny Beautiful Things. It is the one that carries the name of the book, and it was my favorite, which is saying something, because I loved them all. The reader asked Cheryl, then the anonymous advice columnist for The Rumpus, what guidance she wishes she could offer to her twenty-something self. Along with a lot of other brilliant and lovely things that I needed to hear, Cheryl wrote this:

Don’t lament so much about how your career is going to turn out. You don’t have a career. You have a life. Do the work. Keep the faith. Be true blue. You are a writer because you write. Keep writing and quit your bitching. …

The useless days will add up to something. The shitty waitressing jobs. The hours spent writing in your journal. The long meandering walks. The hours reading poetry and story collections and novels and dead people’s diaries and wondering about sex and God and whether you should shave under your arms or not. These things are your becoming.

A life, not a career. This, my becoming. The disparate pieces matter, as it happens, every last one of them. And I need to buck up and plunge forward and calm down.

I can certainly say that without the experiences of the last months, I wouldn’t feel the freedom to develop my own recipes for baked goods. I’ve always felt able to improvise at dinnertime, and I tweaked cakes and breads like mad, but I was afraid to start with a blank sheet of paper to create. Until now.

And baking provides an excellent analogy for the lessons I’ve articulated above: Like a myriad of miscellaneous experiences and jobs and projects and pursuits, seemingly unrelated ingredients come together into a slop of batter in a bowl and enter the oven to emerge sweet and crumbling and lovely, full of jammy strawberries, complete and delicious and so much better for the process—the process of becoming—that came before.

Strawberry Cornmeal Loaf // Delightful Crumb Strawberry Cornmeal Loaf

Cut the strawberries into small pieces so that they are well distributed throughout the bread and provide plenty of wonderfully jammy pockets to stumble upon while eating. Along with the bread’s crumbly texture and crisp top, those jammy pockets were a high priority in developing this recipe. I hope you enjoy it as much as I do!

Makes: 1 loaf, about 10 slices

6 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted and cooled, plus extra for the pan

3/4 cup all-purpose flour

3/4 cup white whole wheat flour

3/4 cup cornmeal

3/4 cup natural cane sugar

2 teaspoons baking powder

1 teaspoon cinnamon

1/2 teaspoon salt

A few gratings fresh nutmeg, or to taste

2 eggs

1 cup buttermilk

1 teaspoon vanilla

1 heaped cup sliced strawberries (cut into fourths or eighths, depending on the size of the berries), plus a few for decorating

2 tablespoons turbinado sugar, for sprinkling

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees. Butter a 9-by-5-inch tin, and line it with parchment paper.

In a large bowl, whisk together the flours and cornmeal. Add the cane sugar, baking powder, cinnamon, salt and nutmeg, and whisk again to combine.

In a medium bowl, whisk together the melted butter, eggs, buttermilk and vanilla.

Add the wet mixture to the dry, and with a spatula, stir just until combined. Add the strawberries, mixing gently to incorporate.

Pour the batter into the prepared pan and smooth the top. Decorate with a few slices of strawberries, and sprinkle evenly with the turbinado sugar.

Bake for about 1 hour, until the loaf is golden brown and a tester inserted in the center comes out clean.

Cool the bread in the pan on a wire rack for about 5 minutes before removing it to continue cooling. This loaf is best once cooled.

Published in Breads, Breakfast, Snacks, Spring, Summer 10 Comments

like magic, like clockwork

April 25, 2013

Moving to California from Michigan, I worried about losing the glorious experience of the four seasons. I was ready for a break from the cold, sure, but I had never wanted to escape the natural clock of the seasons, the tick-tock of winter to spring to summer to fall. I wanted to stay in the comfortable arms of those patterns, where each new season sweeps in to provide exactly what the last one left us longing for.

Spring, the season of the moment, might be most obvious, bringing on the tail of a blustery winter the blessed reminder that life still abounds, that the long winters always end, that we are never foolish for our hope. Things emerge from the ground—food to fill our bellies, flowers for our tables—like magic, like clockwork. It never ceases to amaze me that despite all that is unpredictable and difficult and wrong in this world, things grow out of the dirt.

After spring, summer! And our jubilance is evidence that deep down, we’re really just children, all of us. The days are long and the gardens brimming, and so we release the little ones from school and celebrate marriages and have parties at parks, on porches.

But when autumn comes, I’m never sad. There’s a different kind of newness then, as the trees shed their leaves, getting rid of the old and worn, changing—we, too, can change. And there are apples that beg to be pressed into cider and big, sturdy squash that withstand the cold. In winter, we hunker down with those we love and stay inside, mugs of that cider warm in our hands, pans of hearty root vegetables roasting in the oven. The world hibernates and rests, reminding us there’s nothing wrong with that.

And then comes spring.

And we begin again.

Creamy Chilled Green Soup It’s not so dramatic here in the temperate Bay Area, this is true, and so I do miss my Midwestern seasons. But to my delight, there are seasons here, however subtle, and there is change that comes between them, the sort you feel deep in your bones and your spirit. In the past few weeks, the cherry trees blossomed with little puffs of pink and the neighbor’s garden exploded with color and fragrance; we walk past slowly, filling our lungs with its perfume. The markets, though never silent, are humming again—they will shout in no time at all.

Considering the turmoil of last week, which felt like too much to bear—too much sadness and pain and upheaval and darkness—I am all the more glad for the rhythm of the seasons and this hope of springtime. I want long walks in the lingering light of the evenings and flowers taken from the willing earth to sit with me at my table and food that tastes like spring: new life and hope and goodness on my tongue.

Here’s a bit of that, for you.

Creamy Chilled Green Soup

Adapted from Sam Mogannam and Dabney Gough’s Bi-Rite Market’s Eat Good Food

Full, bright flavor and a creamy consistency balance one another out marvelously in this chilled soup. This would be fantastic on a warm spring evening, all the more so if paired with a glass of rosé. Note that even with seeds removed, the jalapeño adds significant heat; you can temper this by adding more yogurt as needed.

1 large English or other thin-skinned cucumber, seeds removed and coarsely chopped

1/2 cup plain yogurt, plus additional

1/4 cup well-packed fresh cilantro leaves

3 tablespoons champagne vinegar, plus more as needed

2 tablespoons freshly squeezed lime juice, plus more as needed

9 large fresh mint leaves

1 medium jalapeño, seeds removed (unless you want it very hot!) and coarsely chopped

1 large scallion or 1 small spring onion, chopped into 1-inch pieces

salt

3/4 cup water

2 large or 3 small avocados (about 1 1/4 lbs.), flesh scooped out and coarsely mashed with a fork

1/4 cup extra-virgin olive oil

thinly sliced chives, for garnish

freshly cracked black pepper, for garnish

Combine the cucumber, yogurt, cilantro, vinegar, lime juice, mint, jalapeño, scallion or spring onion, 1 teaspoon salt and the water in a blender or food processor. Puree just until smooth.

Add the mashed avocados and pulse a few times, just to blend.

Transfer to a bowl and whisk constantly as you slowly drizzle in the olive oil.

Taste, and stir in more salt, vinegar and/or lime juice as needed. If the soup is too spicy for your taste, add an extra dollop of yogurt and stir well to integrate it into the soup.

Serve garnished with a dollop of yogurt, a sprinkle of chives and freshly cracked black pepper.

Yield: about 5 cups // 5 small servings

Published in Appetizers, Soups 4 Comments

around these tables

this will help us

at our fingertips

these things are your becoming

like magic, like clockwork

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