Yes, it is spring in Paris, France. After sunny Spain and bright southern France, we thought that Paris might be a bit cooler. As we get off the the high speed train that brings us to the city of light, we discover that the sun is shining here too. Since it’s Sunday, everyone is out, walking, riding bikes, sitting in parks and just all around enjoying the warm weather. Our itinerary takes us from the train station to the metro station. We finally surface close to our destination and as we come up the stairs to street level, we smell the fragrance of sweet things baking. We know we will find a bakery open today in our neighborhood. Our home away from home here is on a small side street, close to the large public gardens. We find the arched double wooden doors, press the keypad with the magic numbers and we find ourselves within a courtyard with trees and shrubs, the street now a memory behind those doors. Our landlord greets us and is on his way. We unpack, take a deep breath and head back out to enjoy the weather and to orient ourselves in this new neighborhood. As we walk around the block, people are sitting at cafe tables on the sunny side of the street, watching the rest of the world go by. Once again, we find the little store that has everything one short block from our apartment. We fill up there for our staples. And two blocks away, a line of people lets us know that there is still bread available at the bakery. I choose an ordinary baguette and a rustic baguette. That will last us for supper and breakfast. As we stroll down the sidewalks, we marvel at this city. Old yet elegant, traditional yet modern, it does have that certain something that draws you right in. Maybe it’s because at every turn something catches your eye: a specialty food store with goodies in its window display, an old street fountain, an even older church, an architectural detail on a building, a green area with a bench, a policeman eating his baguette sandwich for lunch. We’re happy to be back here again.
The next day, we go to the market in the middle of the boulevard. We purchase carrots, bread and small little goodies called “Financiers”. And we do what all good Parisians do on a beautiful spring day. We pack a simple picnic lunch and head over to the public garden, Jardin du Luxembourg, where chairs are scattered for the taking. Jim finds a spot overlooking the fountain with two chairs. We take off our jackets, sit down and roll up our sleeves so the sun will soak in. We pull out two halves of baguette, spread with butter, and filled with ham and cheese and take that first bite. Along with our carrots and some Orangina (an orange soda), we eat our baguette sandwiches sitting in the park with five hundred other people or more. The murmur of voices around us gives us a cozy feeling. The mood is informal yet restrained, relaxed yet orderly, social yet low-key. Some are here on their office lunch break; others are here between university classes. A man is reading a book. Two women are just finishing their picnic lunch. Everyone seems to be there for the same reason: beautiful weather and friends.
To top off our meal, we eat the “financiers”, little pieces of goodness. We sit back in our chairs and think, “Ah, life is good.” And yes, it is spring in Paris!
Financiers
1/2 c. flour
1 3/4 c. confectioner’s sugar
1 1/4 c. ground almonds
5 egg whites
1 1/2 stick butter
Put the butter to melt. Let it cook for a little bit without letting it brown. Mix the flour, almonds and sugar in a bowl. Slowly, mix in the egg whites with a spatula. Then, add the melted butter.
Butter well mini muffin tins. Spoon the dough in filling only halfway. Bake at 450 degrees for 5 minutes. Turn the oven down to 400 degrees and bake another five minutes. Then turn oven off and leave in oven another five minutes. Remove from oven, let sit for five minutes and pop out of pans. Makes 30 to 35.
Monday, September 7, 2009
A day at the Market in Southern France
From sunny Girona to even more sunny southern France, we have found a place where spring has sprung. Today, we’re eager to walk to the market in the next town. From where we live, it’s an up and down hike along the road that follows the Mediterranean Sea’s coastline. The wind is up and the waves are slapping the beach and sending spray our way. Even though the sun is out and quite warm, we lean into the wind on our way to the market, wondering if it will be well attended. No worries! It sits in the sheltered cove of the port and even though the wind every now and then tries to blow things away, the vendors are there in full force lined up six rows strong and we weave our way through and around the people to look at hats, shoes, tablecloths and food of all sorts.
Our destination is the fish booth where we hope to find some filets for a new recipe. Our hostess is part of a group of women who are passionate about local food. They come from farm families and want to share the richness of their traditions in food. I just bought a cookbook that they have published with some of the local recipes. So tonight we are hoping to make a fish dish. At the fish booth, five men are working. They all wear long rubber aprons and rubber boots. They’re all wearing black sweaters with the sleeves rolled up. And they are doing a brisk business. On their table, set in ice, lay shrimp, octopi, tuna, merlans, sardines, mussels and salmon. We are fishing for merlans and we have found them. These fish are from the cod family and are relatively small. I wait my turn while others are being helped. One man orders three octopi. Someone else is getting a bagful of mussels. Now it’s my turn. I ask for a pound of merlan, in filets. The young man grabs five and weighs them on the scale. He takes them back to the table and starts scraping off the scales then cleans and filets them as I stand and watch. Here are my fish filets.
Now on to the the produce booths where I need to find eggplants, tomatoes, lemon, onions and mushrooms. As we wend our way, we stop at the booth of the man selling sheep cheese by the rounds. The price is high but the cheese looks even better. Slyly, the cheesemaker slips us a taste of the cheese: one is aged three months and tastes like a delicious mozzarella with a bite; the other is aged six months and tastes like a sharper swiss. It’s the best cheese we’ve ever tasted. We give our money and get our treasure. Back to business, we gather the rest of our ingredients for our supper and head back now with the wind at our back. The air is fresh, the sky is a deep blue and the sun shines on. When we lick our lips, they taste like salt.
Our home away from home awaits us. We pull out all of our ingredients and to work we go. Tired and hungry, we sit down at the table, take a sip of wine and dig into the plat du jour.
We decide that the locals eat well here and that we’ll find another recipe for tomorrow night.
Later, when it’s time to leave, our hostess signs the front of our cookbook, writing that she “hopes it will be the ambassador of Provençal cooking on the other side of the Atlantic!” I share this recipe in that spirit.
Fricassee of Fish with Eggplants
1/2 c. of parsley, chopped
2 or 3 cloves garlic, diced
2 bay leaves
2 lbs of merlan filets
2 lbs of eggplants, peeled and sliced
1/2 lb mushrooms, sliced
1/2 lb of tomatoes, sliced
2 lemons
1 onion, sliced
olive oil
1/2 c. cream
Preheat the oven to 200 degrees. Rinse the filets under water then towel dry. Squeeze lemon juice on them and on the eggplant slices. In a large skillet, heat some olive oil and fry the onions. Put the onions in the bottom of a casserole. Keep it in the oven while you work. Next, one after the other, fry the mushrooms and the eggplant and put them in the casserole on top of the onions. Put the bay leaves on the eggplant. Continue with the fish. Fry and place on top of the eggplant. Fry the tomatoes. Place them around the fish. Sprinkle with the parsley and garlic and return to the oven. Finally, put the cream in the skillet. Stir to loosen all the juices. Then pour over the contents of the casserole. Serve immediately. Serves four.
Sunday, August 30, 2009
Around the Dinner Table
Is March coming in like a lion or a lamb? Cold yet sunny might be more lamb-like. All I know is that in three weeks, it will officially be spring and then no one can deny that we have reached a turning point.
I’ve been thinking quite a bit of my family this week and how they shaped my interest in good food. Eating patterns reflect family patterns and I was brought up with some good ones. From my perspective at our dining room table as the youngest child in my family, I breathed in much information: not only about food and manners but also about community, values, the world around me and parenting to name a few. There was always a table to sit down to. Rarely did we eat on the run. We gathered at the table as a family at the end of the day. Being the daughter of a pastor meant that often my father’s seat was empty because he had been held up by a lengthy meeting, a parishioner needing a listening ear or a phone call from someone asking for assistance. I remember answering the phone for him and saying that I was his secretary and would they like to leave a message. Or writing him a note in my childish script to put down in front of him while he was on the telephone in his office: “Dinner is ready!!”. I didn’t want to share him during our meal together! When these delays happened we waited as long as we could and then would sit down, four children and their mother, to not only eat but also share the stories of the day.
When my father joined us, I always knew that there would be something to learn. The lively conversation would seesaw from English to French. A discussion about politics and war, a critique of a news story, a detailed review of a historical event, a briefing on philosophy, an explanation of a religious view, these all were part of our supper table and often we would have to pull out the big encyclopedia to ascertain a date, a spelling or a definition. One year, we were going to Italy on vacation so every night we would learn an Italian word or two before we started in on the food.
I also learned that others were always welcome at our table. Sundays after church, guests would often accompany us back to our house for dinner. We didn’t always know who might be coming but my mother seemed to know how to make the food stretch so no one would leave hungry. Roasts would be cooking in the oven while we were at church and as we came home, the smells would welcome us in. At my family’s table, I met people from all over the world and from all walks of life and observed how everyone was fed and treated equally with warmth and acceptance. This is where I learned that food does more than feed the body. From these guests, I discovered that the world was more than just mine. I also found out that different people eat different foods as I saw my mother planning a meal for a vegetarian visitor.
And then, there was the food. My mother made meals with love and lots of planning. The food she put on our table created an atmosphere of sharing and enjoyment. Her menus combined flavor, colour and nutrition all in one big package that said Bon Appetit! Sometimes a simple meal of soup, cheese and bread gave us all the nourishment we needed. Colourful tablecloths, luminous candles and fresh flowers were little things that contributed to an overall feeling of comfort and pleasure.
Today, when I host guests, I hope that I can offer at least half of what my parents did, and I will feel that I’ve done a great job! Thanks to them for being role models of a world where good food coupled with good conversation brings out the best in people. Here is a recipe we worked together on in the kitchen.
Sweet Sour Pork
1 c. pork tenderloin, in cubes
1/4 c. peanut oil
1 c. green pepper
1/2 onion, sliced thin
1 c. pineapple
1 c. diced tomato
Dip pork pieces in batter made as follows: 1 egg, 2 T. milk, 1/4 c. flour 1/2 t. salt. Combine and beat until smooth. Let stand 10 minutes. Fry pork. Add pineapple, onion and peppers and cook together for a few minutes. Add sauce made as follows: mix 1/3 c. brown sugar, 3 T. cornstarch and 1//2 t. salt. Add 1/2 c. vinegar, 1 c. pineapple juice and 3 T. water. Slowly blend this sauce into the veggie and meat mixture. Cook until thick and transparent. Last fold in the tomatoes. Serve with rice.
I’ve been thinking quite a bit of my family this week and how they shaped my interest in good food. Eating patterns reflect family patterns and I was brought up with some good ones. From my perspective at our dining room table as the youngest child in my family, I breathed in much information: not only about food and manners but also about community, values, the world around me and parenting to name a few. There was always a table to sit down to. Rarely did we eat on the run. We gathered at the table as a family at the end of the day. Being the daughter of a pastor meant that often my father’s seat was empty because he had been held up by a lengthy meeting, a parishioner needing a listening ear or a phone call from someone asking for assistance. I remember answering the phone for him and saying that I was his secretary and would they like to leave a message. Or writing him a note in my childish script to put down in front of him while he was on the telephone in his office: “Dinner is ready!!”. I didn’t want to share him during our meal together! When these delays happened we waited as long as we could and then would sit down, four children and their mother, to not only eat but also share the stories of the day.
When my father joined us, I always knew that there would be something to learn. The lively conversation would seesaw from English to French. A discussion about politics and war, a critique of a news story, a detailed review of a historical event, a briefing on philosophy, an explanation of a religious view, these all were part of our supper table and often we would have to pull out the big encyclopedia to ascertain a date, a spelling or a definition. One year, we were going to Italy on vacation so every night we would learn an Italian word or two before we started in on the food.
I also learned that others were always welcome at our table. Sundays after church, guests would often accompany us back to our house for dinner. We didn’t always know who might be coming but my mother seemed to know how to make the food stretch so no one would leave hungry. Roasts would be cooking in the oven while we were at church and as we came home, the smells would welcome us in. At my family’s table, I met people from all over the world and from all walks of life and observed how everyone was fed and treated equally with warmth and acceptance. This is where I learned that food does more than feed the body. From these guests, I discovered that the world was more than just mine. I also found out that different people eat different foods as I saw my mother planning a meal for a vegetarian visitor.
And then, there was the food. My mother made meals with love and lots of planning. The food she put on our table created an atmosphere of sharing and enjoyment. Her menus combined flavor, colour and nutrition all in one big package that said Bon Appetit! Sometimes a simple meal of soup, cheese and bread gave us all the nourishment we needed. Colourful tablecloths, luminous candles and fresh flowers were little things that contributed to an overall feeling of comfort and pleasure.
Today, when I host guests, I hope that I can offer at least half of what my parents did, and I will feel that I’ve done a great job! Thanks to them for being role models of a world where good food coupled with good conversation brings out the best in people. Here is a recipe we worked together on in the kitchen.
Sweet Sour Pork
1 c. pork tenderloin, in cubes
1/4 c. peanut oil
1 c. green pepper
1/2 onion, sliced thin
1 c. pineapple
1 c. diced tomato
Dip pork pieces in batter made as follows: 1 egg, 2 T. milk, 1/4 c. flour 1/2 t. salt. Combine and beat until smooth. Let stand 10 minutes. Fry pork. Add pineapple, onion and peppers and cook together for a few minutes. Add sauce made as follows: mix 1/3 c. brown sugar, 3 T. cornstarch and 1//2 t. salt. Add 1/2 c. vinegar, 1 c. pineapple juice and 3 T. water. Slowly blend this sauce into the veggie and meat mixture. Cook until thick and transparent. Last fold in the tomatoes. Serve with rice.
Grandma Hollopeter is my example
On a cold and windy February night, I think of small changes I see around me. The sun is setting a little later and there are a few more minutes of light to enjoy. Small buds on trees show that I’m not the only one thinking about the end of winter. Talk of spring break edges into conversations. And we all know that February is the shortest month of the year. This Saturday the Clay Guild hosts its Empty Bowl Fundraiser to benefit Interfaith Hospitality Network and that always closes out the month of February and ushers in March.
Lately, I’ve been thinking about my Grandmother Hollopeter. Maybe it’s because my mother showed me a picture of her and her siblings taken when she was ten. It shows them standing by the old barn on their property. In my mind, I went back to my grandma’s house in Ohio. Whenever we came back from Belgium, usually every three to five years, we would always set feet first at her house. It was a safe place to land, familiar among an unfamiliar culture, enough in the country that we were protected from the shock of too much too fast. The house itself was an old farmhouse with a large front porch sitting back from the road. It had enough room that our family of six could find their own space in it. I say, my grandma’s house but my grandpa lived there also.
Grandma, though, was the rock. She fed us and listened to us and carried on in a comforting way. I slept upstairs in a room with a screened window that was open to let the summer air and smells float in. Sometimes at night the sound of the train’s whistle just down the road would bring me out of a deep slumber. In the morning, I would go down the stairs into the kitchen. Grandma would always have a big breakfast spread for us. Coffee, milk and orange juice, eggs and bacon, toast and cereal, even Long Johns and donuts would cover the table. It was a feast for the eyes and the stomach. The kitchen was the central hub of the house and I remember the sun streaming in the windows as I sat and ate foods that I hadn’t had for a long time. Built-in cupboards lined the one side of the kitchen and behind one of those doors, Grandma had a glass chicken that was always filled with pink peppermint candy or cinnamon red hots. We knew we could sneak a few of those as needed.
Grandma also had a garden and since we usually visited in the summertime, there would be tomatoes and corn and produce from just outside her back door. In the apron she always wore, she would carry things back to the house with our help. I think the thing that stands out the most from my visits there is that she accepted me without question. If you lived there, you were part of the household and life kept on going. She had a natural way of making me feel totally at ease. She never put on airs. If we disagreed, that didn’t change a thing between us. The family bond was greater than that.
So this week, my mother reminded me that my grandma was a coffee drinker. I continue that tradition as a third generation coffee drinker. And I hope that I can also be like my grandma in other ways: calm, hardworking, honest and natural. Here is one of her passed on recipes which I made this week in my new Le Creuset cooking pot that my daughters gave me for Christmas.
Swiss Steak
Pound a 1/2 c. seasoned flour* into both sides of a 3 lb round steak (2 inches thick). Brown 2 onions (sliced) in hot fat in heavy skillet. Remove onions and brown meat on both sides. Top with onions and add 2 c. cooked tomatoes. Cover and cook slowly until tender 2 1/2 to 3 hours. (8 to 10 servings)
*Seasoned flour: 1 t. salt and 1/4 t. pepper mixed with a 1/2 c. flour
(I followed my mother’s notes: “My steak is never 2 inches thick! I do mine in a roaster, covered in the oven for 2 hours or so. I test it to see when it is tender.” I fried my onions in olive oil. The meat took 2 1/2 hours at 300 degrees. I served it with boiled potatoes.)
Lately, I’ve been thinking about my Grandmother Hollopeter. Maybe it’s because my mother showed me a picture of her and her siblings taken when she was ten. It shows them standing by the old barn on their property. In my mind, I went back to my grandma’s house in Ohio. Whenever we came back from Belgium, usually every three to five years, we would always set feet first at her house. It was a safe place to land, familiar among an unfamiliar culture, enough in the country that we were protected from the shock of too much too fast. The house itself was an old farmhouse with a large front porch sitting back from the road. It had enough room that our family of six could find their own space in it. I say, my grandma’s house but my grandpa lived there also.
Grandma, though, was the rock. She fed us and listened to us and carried on in a comforting way. I slept upstairs in a room with a screened window that was open to let the summer air and smells float in. Sometimes at night the sound of the train’s whistle just down the road would bring me out of a deep slumber. In the morning, I would go down the stairs into the kitchen. Grandma would always have a big breakfast spread for us. Coffee, milk and orange juice, eggs and bacon, toast and cereal, even Long Johns and donuts would cover the table. It was a feast for the eyes and the stomach. The kitchen was the central hub of the house and I remember the sun streaming in the windows as I sat and ate foods that I hadn’t had for a long time. Built-in cupboards lined the one side of the kitchen and behind one of those doors, Grandma had a glass chicken that was always filled with pink peppermint candy or cinnamon red hots. We knew we could sneak a few of those as needed.
Grandma also had a garden and since we usually visited in the summertime, there would be tomatoes and corn and produce from just outside her back door. In the apron she always wore, she would carry things back to the house with our help. I think the thing that stands out the most from my visits there is that she accepted me without question. If you lived there, you were part of the household and life kept on going. She had a natural way of making me feel totally at ease. She never put on airs. If we disagreed, that didn’t change a thing between us. The family bond was greater than that.
So this week, my mother reminded me that my grandma was a coffee drinker. I continue that tradition as a third generation coffee drinker. And I hope that I can also be like my grandma in other ways: calm, hardworking, honest and natural. Here is one of her passed on recipes which I made this week in my new Le Creuset cooking pot that my daughters gave me for Christmas.
Swiss Steak
Pound a 1/2 c. seasoned flour* into both sides of a 3 lb round steak (2 inches thick). Brown 2 onions (sliced) in hot fat in heavy skillet. Remove onions and brown meat on both sides. Top with onions and add 2 c. cooked tomatoes. Cover and cook slowly until tender 2 1/2 to 3 hours. (8 to 10 servings)
*Seasoned flour: 1 t. salt and 1/4 t. pepper mixed with a 1/2 c. flour
(I followed my mother’s notes: “My steak is never 2 inches thick! I do mine in a roaster, covered in the oven for 2 hours or so. I test it to see when it is tender.” I fried my onions in olive oil. The meat took 2 1/2 hours at 300 degrees. I served it with boiled potatoes.)
The Day We Almost Fell off the Mountain
So here it is February. After a January chockfull of surprises and of events beyond my control, it’s now time to recover and find an even keel. It amazes me how both our bodies and our minds slowly throw away the piercing pain and the bad memories and what we keep is the good. That’s what I call healing. And so after a few balmy days, we almost forget that we are still in the middle of winter.
Several years ago, Jim and I were on our walking trip. One of our adventures led us to a beautiful mountain town in the Southern Alps of France. In this column, I’ve already described the village of Guillestre and our stay in an eleventh century renovated stone mill. Set in the middle of the mountains, we were both eager to climb the trails that led out from all sides of the town. Guillestre is on one side of the river Guil, which runs turquoise down in the valley. Across the chasm, on the other side, sits Fort Mont-Dauphin, an old french fort and village built in 1693 and finished in the eighteenth century. During our one week stay there, we were hoping to take trails that would take us into all those surrounding mountains and to the fort. Our enthusiastic hostess gave us helpful maps that described the trails very clearly and gave excellent directions. Dazzled by the deep blue sky and sun, on our very first day we decided to tackle one of the longer trails which sounded both manageable and beautiful though it did mention one difficult passage. After a filling breakfast of cafe au lait, bread, Nutella and orange juice, we packed our small backpack with the required water bottles, maps, toilet paper (you never know) and also included snacks and a healthy lunch. We made sure to wear something on our heads to be protected from that high mountain sun: Jim opted for his baseball cap, I wore a green bandanna. We also layered our clothing, knowing that hiking up would make us sweat but cool mountain air would make us chilly. So by 9:45 we were off. We headed out of Guillestre up the hill and onto a forest road which followed the one side of the Guil river below in the canyon. It was a fairly easy trail through piney woods with incredible views of the canyon and the town. The trail took us down to the the river which we crossed on a road. From there the trail climbed back up 1,000 feet, zigzagging back and forth along the side of the mountain. The vegetation here was more brushy and prickly and we saw salamanders slithering through the underbrush. We could smell pine and lavender as the sun shone warmer and we finally reached the top. In a little meadow, we stopped for lunch in the shade. In my journal, I wrote: Very relaxing! The next part of the hike was on a stony trail down the side of the rock with hardly any vegetation except for scrub pines, thorn bushes and clumps of grasses. We followed this trail down for awhile, thinking that it was O.K. to be going down rather than up! And so it was here that all of sudden, we realized there was no longer a trail but rather that difficult passage. What had been a trail that crossed the gorge at its deepest had been washed out by a stone avalanche. Loose shale covered the path to the other side. Since I was leading I took one step and discovered that if I didn’t move quickly and exactly right, I would be the avalanche going down the mountain! Somehow I made it across, with Jim holding on to my back pack! The trail then continued very slippery and very narrow along the face of the rock. Somehow we made it across and down that mountain, happy to finally get our feet on solid ground in the next little village. We decided to walk the rest of the way “home” on the road. After a quick stop at the grocery and bakery, we got back to the mill at five and sat down to a snack of apples, raspberry tarts and Orangina. We still talk about the day we almost fell off the mountain but in my mind, the fear that made me sore from head to foot the next day has been replaced by the memories of incredible peaks covered in snow, craggy canyons with a thin turquoise line, villages tucked into the mountains and fantastic weather. Time heals and so does food like this spaghetti recipe from a friend in Barcelona.
Spaghetti a la Carty
1 1/2 lb. ground beef
1/2 lb. ground pork sausage
2 medium-sized onions, diced
1 large green pepper, cut in thin strips
5 tomatoes, chopped
5-6 cloves of garlic, minced
1/2 lb. mushroom, sliced
3 celery sticks, diced
1 can tomato paste
1/2 c. red wine
spices: basil, oregano, chili powder, pepper, salt
Fry meats under medium flame with a little olive oil. Add onions, garlic, celery and spices. Fry until meat is coked and veggies soft. Add green pepper, then mushrooms. Add tomatoes. Mix tomato paste with one can of water. Add to mixture. Let simmer 10 minutes then add wine and bring back to temperature. Serve with spinach spaghetti. Serves 6.
Several years ago, Jim and I were on our walking trip. One of our adventures led us to a beautiful mountain town in the Southern Alps of France. In this column, I’ve already described the village of Guillestre and our stay in an eleventh century renovated stone mill. Set in the middle of the mountains, we were both eager to climb the trails that led out from all sides of the town. Guillestre is on one side of the river Guil, which runs turquoise down in the valley. Across the chasm, on the other side, sits Fort Mont-Dauphin, an old french fort and village built in 1693 and finished in the eighteenth century. During our one week stay there, we were hoping to take trails that would take us into all those surrounding mountains and to the fort. Our enthusiastic hostess gave us helpful maps that described the trails very clearly and gave excellent directions. Dazzled by the deep blue sky and sun, on our very first day we decided to tackle one of the longer trails which sounded both manageable and beautiful though it did mention one difficult passage. After a filling breakfast of cafe au lait, bread, Nutella and orange juice, we packed our small backpack with the required water bottles, maps, toilet paper (you never know) and also included snacks and a healthy lunch. We made sure to wear something on our heads to be protected from that high mountain sun: Jim opted for his baseball cap, I wore a green bandanna. We also layered our clothing, knowing that hiking up would make us sweat but cool mountain air would make us chilly. So by 9:45 we were off. We headed out of Guillestre up the hill and onto a forest road which followed the one side of the Guil river below in the canyon. It was a fairly easy trail through piney woods with incredible views of the canyon and the town. The trail took us down to the the river which we crossed on a road. From there the trail climbed back up 1,000 feet, zigzagging back and forth along the side of the mountain. The vegetation here was more brushy and prickly and we saw salamanders slithering through the underbrush. We could smell pine and lavender as the sun shone warmer and we finally reached the top. In a little meadow, we stopped for lunch in the shade. In my journal, I wrote: Very relaxing! The next part of the hike was on a stony trail down the side of the rock with hardly any vegetation except for scrub pines, thorn bushes and clumps of grasses. We followed this trail down for awhile, thinking that it was O.K. to be going down rather than up! And so it was here that all of sudden, we realized there was no longer a trail but rather that difficult passage. What had been a trail that crossed the gorge at its deepest had been washed out by a stone avalanche. Loose shale covered the path to the other side. Since I was leading I took one step and discovered that if I didn’t move quickly and exactly right, I would be the avalanche going down the mountain! Somehow I made it across, with Jim holding on to my back pack! The trail then continued very slippery and very narrow along the face of the rock. Somehow we made it across and down that mountain, happy to finally get our feet on solid ground in the next little village. We decided to walk the rest of the way “home” on the road. After a quick stop at the grocery and bakery, we got back to the mill at five and sat down to a snack of apples, raspberry tarts and Orangina. We still talk about the day we almost fell off the mountain but in my mind, the fear that made me sore from head to foot the next day has been replaced by the memories of incredible peaks covered in snow, craggy canyons with a thin turquoise line, villages tucked into the mountains and fantastic weather. Time heals and so does food like this spaghetti recipe from a friend in Barcelona.
Spaghetti a la Carty
1 1/2 lb. ground beef
1/2 lb. ground pork sausage
2 medium-sized onions, diced
1 large green pepper, cut in thin strips
5 tomatoes, chopped
5-6 cloves of garlic, minced
1/2 lb. mushroom, sliced
3 celery sticks, diced
1 can tomato paste
1/2 c. red wine
spices: basil, oregano, chili powder, pepper, salt
Fry meats under medium flame with a little olive oil. Add onions, garlic, celery and spices. Fry until meat is coked and veggies soft. Add green pepper, then mushrooms. Add tomatoes. Mix tomato paste with one can of water. Add to mixture. Let simmer 10 minutes then add wine and bring back to temperature. Serve with spinach spaghetti. Serves 6.
Baking is a Passion
Cold days followed by even colder nights are the norm for January. It sometimes feels like the longest month of the year. Waking in the dark and going home in the dark make for short periods of light. But we are turning a corner. A small warmup announces February and since it is the shortest month, it won’t be long now until things start stirring below the ground and slowly waking and regaining momentum for growth.
One thing that keeps me going year-round is The Baking. I write it in capital letters because it has carried me through all kinds of experiences. During the high times and the low times, I turn to baking as a way to work out my struggles or my celebrations. As I work the flour and feel the dough against my fingers, as I punch and roll its bulk against my palms, as I pat it and cover it for its rising, my heart goes along for the ride. I punch it down then I shape and bake it. Just as the baking goes through its full cycle so do I. I can start all over again the next time.
Baking is a passion that I have no matter the weather or the season and those who feed it are my friends: the millers. I have two childhood memories about millers. One came from a book my mother read to me about a boy who thanks his parent for his nice warm roll and is sent back to find the source of the roll. He goes to the miller who grinds the grain that the farmer grows. My other memory is a Christmas play we would listen to every year where a miller whose wife has left him stops grinding grain and even ties the sails of his windmill so that they will not turn the wheel to grind. But when Jesus is born, the windmill starts up and grinds the finest flour that he has ever seen and he immediately bags it up and takes it as a gift to baby Jesus.
I remember seeing the bags of flour in the back entryway of the bakery down our street. Now I have bags of flour at my bakery. I like to know where my food comes from and so around here, I’ve been lucky to find some millers who grind the wheat for baking. Here in Elkhart County, Bonneyville Mill grinds flour from May through October. The mill there is powered by the river and turns out a variety of flours for the passionate baker. I’ve enjoyed using their corn grits for a bread I call “Jimmy Crack Corn”. A little further afield, New Rinkel flour is milled close to Howe, Indiana. My life and baking have also been enriched by a miller named Howard who ground wheat, rye and corn on a stone wheel. He always had a story to tell with each bag he brought. Once I even received a special bag of blue cornmeal from him. And more recently, Justin or his wife, Melissa, have brought me bags of freshly ground wheat. The smell of the grain turned into fine flour is amazing. And every miller I’ve ever met seems like the most interesting person in the world.
If you have never met a miller then you probably don’t know that when you see them, they will have flour stuck somewhere on their clothing or shoes. Even as a baker, I find that my dark shirts turn into lighter shades as the flour insinuates itself everywhere. It’s the opposite of being a coal miner; instead of black dust, it’s white dust. So, if you decide to do some baking in these cold winter months, I recommend you find some locally ground flour (New Rinkel is available at grocery stores) and relax with a batch of bread. Things will work themselves out.
Oatmeal Bran Bread
In a large bowl, mix:
2 c. whole wheat flour
2 c. regular rolled oats
1 c. oatmeal bran
2 1/2 T. sea salt
Add and stir in:
1/2 c. honey
2 t. oil
4 c. hot water
In a measuring cup, mix 1 c. warm water and 2 scant T. yeast .
When the ingredients in bowl are lukewarm, add the yeast mixture. Stir in 3 c. whole wheat flour and enough white flour to make a soft dough. Turn out onto a counter and knead until smooth.
Let rise in a greased bowl, covered with a moist cloth. When doubled, punch down shape into 3 or 4 loaves. Brush with a mixture of egg white and water. Sprinkle with rolled oats. Let rise again until almost doubled. Bake at 375 degrees for 40 minutes.
One thing that keeps me going year-round is The Baking. I write it in capital letters because it has carried me through all kinds of experiences. During the high times and the low times, I turn to baking as a way to work out my struggles or my celebrations. As I work the flour and feel the dough against my fingers, as I punch and roll its bulk against my palms, as I pat it and cover it for its rising, my heart goes along for the ride. I punch it down then I shape and bake it. Just as the baking goes through its full cycle so do I. I can start all over again the next time.
Baking is a passion that I have no matter the weather or the season and those who feed it are my friends: the millers. I have two childhood memories about millers. One came from a book my mother read to me about a boy who thanks his parent for his nice warm roll and is sent back to find the source of the roll. He goes to the miller who grinds the grain that the farmer grows. My other memory is a Christmas play we would listen to every year where a miller whose wife has left him stops grinding grain and even ties the sails of his windmill so that they will not turn the wheel to grind. But when Jesus is born, the windmill starts up and grinds the finest flour that he has ever seen and he immediately bags it up and takes it as a gift to baby Jesus.
I remember seeing the bags of flour in the back entryway of the bakery down our street. Now I have bags of flour at my bakery. I like to know where my food comes from and so around here, I’ve been lucky to find some millers who grind the wheat for baking. Here in Elkhart County, Bonneyville Mill grinds flour from May through October. The mill there is powered by the river and turns out a variety of flours for the passionate baker. I’ve enjoyed using their corn grits for a bread I call “Jimmy Crack Corn”. A little further afield, New Rinkel flour is milled close to Howe, Indiana. My life and baking have also been enriched by a miller named Howard who ground wheat, rye and corn on a stone wheel. He always had a story to tell with each bag he brought. Once I even received a special bag of blue cornmeal from him. And more recently, Justin or his wife, Melissa, have brought me bags of freshly ground wheat. The smell of the grain turned into fine flour is amazing. And every miller I’ve ever met seems like the most interesting person in the world.
If you have never met a miller then you probably don’t know that when you see them, they will have flour stuck somewhere on their clothing or shoes. Even as a baker, I find that my dark shirts turn into lighter shades as the flour insinuates itself everywhere. It’s the opposite of being a coal miner; instead of black dust, it’s white dust. So, if you decide to do some baking in these cold winter months, I recommend you find some locally ground flour (New Rinkel is available at grocery stores) and relax with a batch of bread. Things will work themselves out.
Oatmeal Bran Bread
In a large bowl, mix:
2 c. whole wheat flour
2 c. regular rolled oats
1 c. oatmeal bran
2 1/2 T. sea salt
Add and stir in:
1/2 c. honey
2 t. oil
4 c. hot water
In a measuring cup, mix 1 c. warm water and 2 scant T. yeast .
When the ingredients in bowl are lukewarm, add the yeast mixture. Stir in 3 c. whole wheat flour and enough white flour to make a soft dough. Turn out onto a counter and knead until smooth.
Let rise in a greased bowl, covered with a moist cloth. When doubled, punch down shape into 3 or 4 loaves. Brush with a mixture of egg white and water. Sprinkle with rolled oats. Let rise again until almost doubled. Bake at 375 degrees for 40 minutes.
Sweet honey
As I swing into a new year, I start to look for ways to unclutter my life. The weather helps by keeping me inside most of the time. With a stinging wind and hills of snow to trudge through, I’m glad to get back into a warm house. Spending time indoors means I’m surrounded by things and since it is a new year, it’s time to pare those things down. First, it’s time to take the Christmas tree down and accompanying greens. We always keep these trimmings up one week too long! So we get to take them ourselves to the Enviro center for recycling. Then it’s time to reorganize our living space, find places for newly received gifts and decide what will have to go. I try to stick with the useful: what works well and does a good job. But sometimes I just keep it because it brings beauty! There’s something cathartic in letting go of those things you just don’t really need.
After the holidays, a coworker brought me the perfect gift, something useful and beautiful: a handmade ceramic honey pot with its own little honey swirler. When I think of items that truly serve a purpose, this would be one. It’s only made for honey and it works perfectly. You lift the lid off the jar to fill it--no screwing or popping required. The opening is wide enough to nicely fill it with those golden ribbons of honey, and the server is the best way I know to get honey out of a jar without making a sticky mess. You twirl the honey on it and then twirl it off into your cup of tea or your buttered bread. And to top it off, it was made by a local potter who earns her living making pots.
Honey is one of those ingredients that I always keep in my pantry. It makes its way into all types of cooking and baking. I use it in my whole wheat honey bread and my granola. It flavors a chicken curry that I bake in the oven or a lentil casserole. It sweetens salad dressings or butternut squash. From morning to night, from oven to fridge, from baked item to raw, honey just adds a little bit of goodness to food. I call it liquid gold because there is nothing as rich as honey as it swirls out of a jar in a smooth ribbon of sunshine.
As a matter of fact, honey also has uses outside of the kitchen. If you’re looking for a natural way to cleanse and tighten your facial skin, you guessed it: honey. Spread a thin layer on your face. Let sit for ten minutes, licking what might want to drip off. Then rinse off gently with warm water.
But back to food, when my daughters were young, we often used honey in a quick energy snack that tasted good and was healthy. These days, when I get the urge for a buckeye (like the ones they sometimes make at the Electric Brew), I go to the pantry and look for rolled oats, powdered milk, honey and peanut butter (the natural kind, from a small company, that hasn’t been affected by the recall!!), and mix up a concoction that I shape into balls. And there you have them, honey milk balls. Easy to make and even easier to snack on! And they go very well with hot tea.
Here is the recipe:
1 c. rolled oats
1 c. milk powder
1/2 c. peanut butter
1/2 c. honey
Mix all together and knead until smooth. Shape into balls the size of walnuts. Eat as needed.
After the holidays, a coworker brought me the perfect gift, something useful and beautiful: a handmade ceramic honey pot with its own little honey swirler. When I think of items that truly serve a purpose, this would be one. It’s only made for honey and it works perfectly. You lift the lid off the jar to fill it--no screwing or popping required. The opening is wide enough to nicely fill it with those golden ribbons of honey, and the server is the best way I know to get honey out of a jar without making a sticky mess. You twirl the honey on it and then twirl it off into your cup of tea or your buttered bread. And to top it off, it was made by a local potter who earns her living making pots.
Honey is one of those ingredients that I always keep in my pantry. It makes its way into all types of cooking and baking. I use it in my whole wheat honey bread and my granola. It flavors a chicken curry that I bake in the oven or a lentil casserole. It sweetens salad dressings or butternut squash. From morning to night, from oven to fridge, from baked item to raw, honey just adds a little bit of goodness to food. I call it liquid gold because there is nothing as rich as honey as it swirls out of a jar in a smooth ribbon of sunshine.
As a matter of fact, honey also has uses outside of the kitchen. If you’re looking for a natural way to cleanse and tighten your facial skin, you guessed it: honey. Spread a thin layer on your face. Let sit for ten minutes, licking what might want to drip off. Then rinse off gently with warm water.
But back to food, when my daughters were young, we often used honey in a quick energy snack that tasted good and was healthy. These days, when I get the urge for a buckeye (like the ones they sometimes make at the Electric Brew), I go to the pantry and look for rolled oats, powdered milk, honey and peanut butter (the natural kind, from a small company, that hasn’t been affected by the recall!!), and mix up a concoction that I shape into balls. And there you have them, honey milk balls. Easy to make and even easier to snack on! And they go very well with hot tea.
Here is the recipe:
1 c. rolled oats
1 c. milk powder
1/2 c. peanut butter
1/2 c. honey
Mix all together and knead until smooth. Shape into balls the size of walnuts. Eat as needed.
Ice Storms, Families and Coffeecake
I am sitting on the couch, knitting furiously, my new warm slippers on my feet and a piping hot pot of tea in front of me. My cat is sound asleep at my side, giving us both extra warmth. These are the nights of winter. Frost collects on our front porch windows, snow falls quietly and I retreat to my own world, slowing down my internal clock. Take a slow breath in, let it out even more slowly-- aah, it’s January!
The Christmas season goes by so quickly and this year was no exception. With breads to bake and food to make, I was suddenly in the midst of family gatherings not quite knowing when I got there. My family journeyed here from out of town from east and west. So Jim and I hosted the large get-together at our small house! With everyone contributing, including a delicious Yule Log from my sister, it wasn’t too much work. It was my first day home for the holidays so we started a puzzle and all the women pulled out their knitting. Despite the outdoor temperatures, inside it was toasty. And you know how families are: a collection of imperfect human beings each with their quirks that somehow make it work when we gather. Each of us brings our experiences and our set of filters but they still are based on a common memory. It was a happy time!
From one family to the next, we were expected in western Pennsylvania late Friday afternoon for the Shenk family Christmas. Our contribution there would be breakfast in the form of my favourite coffee cake that I wanted to make fresh for them on Saturday morning. When we got up early Friday morning ready to hit the road, we had no idea of what the day would bring. It looked cold out as we packed our bags, our gifts and the ingredients for breakfast. We decided on a leisurely mug of coffee while waiting for our nephew to call and check in for a ride. Jim started to load the car and that’s when we realized that our trip might have to be delayed: our street had become a solid ice skating rink overnight! We still decided to give it a go and so off we drove to pick up our nephew. As we headed out of town at a snail’s pace, we discovered that the roads were no better than in town, if not worse. Trucks stalled at the bottom of hills, pickups in the ditches and a line of traffic backed up to the toll road. Jim desperately tried to find a way to get to the toll road but after seeing a car overturned on its roof and realizing that the roads east were even icier than the roads west, we slid home to wait, thinking we would leave the next morning, missing the opportunity to make my coffee cake! But after calls from the family and a couple of hours rest from a harrowing morning, we started out again, car packed with goodies. The next seven and a half hours remain a blur of intense traffic, steady to hard rain, fog and darkness. When we pulled into the lodge in the laurel covered hills of Pennsylvania, it was the beginning of a new day. We were happy to be there, they were glad to see us. And after a few hours of sleep, I woke up the next morning ready to whip up a couple batches of the coffee cake. Sitting together, enjoying breakfast, I thought again about the meaning of family. It was a merry Christmas!
My favourite coffee cake
Filling and topping:
1/2 c. brown sugar
2 t. cinnamon
2 T. flour
2 1/2 T. melted butter
Coffee cake batter:
1 1/2 c. flour
3 t. baking powder
1/4 t. salt
3/4 c. sugar
1/4 c. softened butter
1 egg
3/4 c. milk
Preheat oven to 375 degrees. Melt the butter for the filling in a square baking dish. Mix the filling ingredients together in a small bowl, including the melted butter.
In a larger bowl, mix the dry ingredients for the batter. Cut in the butter. Beat egg and add milk. Combine liquid ingredients with dry ingredients. Spread half the batter in the baking dish. Sprinkle with half of the filling. Add the other half of the batter and sprinkle with the remaining filling. Bake for 25 minutes or until done.
The Christmas season goes by so quickly and this year was no exception. With breads to bake and food to make, I was suddenly in the midst of family gatherings not quite knowing when I got there. My family journeyed here from out of town from east and west. So Jim and I hosted the large get-together at our small house! With everyone contributing, including a delicious Yule Log from my sister, it wasn’t too much work. It was my first day home for the holidays so we started a puzzle and all the women pulled out their knitting. Despite the outdoor temperatures, inside it was toasty. And you know how families are: a collection of imperfect human beings each with their quirks that somehow make it work when we gather. Each of us brings our experiences and our set of filters but they still are based on a common memory. It was a happy time!
From one family to the next, we were expected in western Pennsylvania late Friday afternoon for the Shenk family Christmas. Our contribution there would be breakfast in the form of my favourite coffee cake that I wanted to make fresh for them on Saturday morning. When we got up early Friday morning ready to hit the road, we had no idea of what the day would bring. It looked cold out as we packed our bags, our gifts and the ingredients for breakfast. We decided on a leisurely mug of coffee while waiting for our nephew to call and check in for a ride. Jim started to load the car and that’s when we realized that our trip might have to be delayed: our street had become a solid ice skating rink overnight! We still decided to give it a go and so off we drove to pick up our nephew. As we headed out of town at a snail’s pace, we discovered that the roads were no better than in town, if not worse. Trucks stalled at the bottom of hills, pickups in the ditches and a line of traffic backed up to the toll road. Jim desperately tried to find a way to get to the toll road but after seeing a car overturned on its roof and realizing that the roads east were even icier than the roads west, we slid home to wait, thinking we would leave the next morning, missing the opportunity to make my coffee cake! But after calls from the family and a couple of hours rest from a harrowing morning, we started out again, car packed with goodies. The next seven and a half hours remain a blur of intense traffic, steady to hard rain, fog and darkness. When we pulled into the lodge in the laurel covered hills of Pennsylvania, it was the beginning of a new day. We were happy to be there, they were glad to see us. And after a few hours of sleep, I woke up the next morning ready to whip up a couple batches of the coffee cake. Sitting together, enjoying breakfast, I thought again about the meaning of family. It was a merry Christmas!
My favourite coffee cake
Filling and topping:
1/2 c. brown sugar
2 t. cinnamon
2 T. flour
2 1/2 T. melted butter
Coffee cake batter:
1 1/2 c. flour
3 t. baking powder
1/4 t. salt
3/4 c. sugar
1/4 c. softened butter
1 egg
3/4 c. milk
Preheat oven to 375 degrees. Melt the butter for the filling in a square baking dish. Mix the filling ingredients together in a small bowl, including the melted butter.
In a larger bowl, mix the dry ingredients for the batter. Cut in the butter. Beat egg and add milk. Combine liquid ingredients with dry ingredients. Spread half the batter in the baking dish. Sprinkle with half of the filling. Add the other half of the batter and sprinkle with the remaining filling. Bake for 25 minutes or until done.
Friday, January 2, 2009
Time to relax
With the busyness of Christmas, I found no time to write. Instead, I put myself in low gear and did quite a bit of reading, knitting and sleeping. I think I am now ready to get back to a routine and get myself busy in the kitchen. We are having friends over tonight so Chicken in wine with a nice salad and lemon custard will bring me back to reality, Jim's brother who makes wine as a hobby offered us a large bottle so we'll have to enjoy that as well! I'll have some new recipes soon. Happy New Year everybody!
The joy of reading
Today a walk at the park brought us frisky deer and an amazing sunset. The sky was on fire shooting ribbons of pink toward the rising full moon. Each walk each day reflects a different mood just like our work day never comes out exactly like the one before. I’ve learned to appreciate those changing moments and live them fully.
It has been cold for walking but somehow that makes us move a little faster and then we feel so cozy when we get back to the house. These days I’ve been working on carving woodblocks for printing. There’s also time to make cookies, write notes to friends and read books. I’ve always enjoyed reading. When I was small, I remember my mother reading to me at bedtime, then later reading on my own whenever I had indoor free time. Vacation time always meant having several good books in hand to read together or on our own. Once I had a family, we continued the tradition. I was often working the night shift so Jim was the reader to our girls. As an adult reading to a child, my perspective changed. I reread the books I had read with a new eye. And sometimes reading out loud to my daughters relaxed me so much I would start to nod off while mid-sentence! A “Mama!” would call me back to reality and we would finish the chapter before turing out the lights.
Part of our weekly routine included a trip to the library to check out a pile of books from the children’s section. We liked all kinds: pictures only, pictures and words, mostly words, fiction and nonfiction, hands-on. Several authors or illustrators would catch our fancy and then we had to check out all their books. Such was the case with Peter Spier. Today I remembered the book, Christmas, that we would look at together during the holidays and I had to go down to the basement and find it among the boxes of books that we have stashed away. His very human drawings of the holiday season with funny little details that small eyes like to find made us believe in the magic of the season.
So instead of a recipe today, I’d like to leave you with the titles of a few cookbooks that I have enjoyed over the years. These books have given me the passion to pursue food making in all its joy, mystery and beauty. Maybe these will be gifts for someone you know. Or just go to your public library and check them out. (If your library does not carry them, they can get them for you through inter-library loan.)
Barefoot in Paris by Ina Garten -- Lovely simple and tasteful recipes based on French living.
You’ll love the Rich Chocolate Tart recipe.
Moosewood Restaurant Daily Specials -- A delightful and flavorful vegetarian cookbook
Laurel’s Kitchen Bread Book by Laurel Robertson and Carol Flinders-- A complete primer on breadbaking with whole wheat flour.
The Complete Book of Breads by Bernard Clayton -- The book that got me started on my baking adventure
Saveur Cooks Authentic French -- A beautifully illustrated cookbook that will make you pick up and go to France
While I’m on Christmas vacation, I know I will be spending time in the kitchen but also leafing through cookbooks for more ideas on enjoying good food. And a good, smart novel will keep me out of trouble for a couple days!
It has been cold for walking but somehow that makes us move a little faster and then we feel so cozy when we get back to the house. These days I’ve been working on carving woodblocks for printing. There’s also time to make cookies, write notes to friends and read books. I’ve always enjoyed reading. When I was small, I remember my mother reading to me at bedtime, then later reading on my own whenever I had indoor free time. Vacation time always meant having several good books in hand to read together or on our own. Once I had a family, we continued the tradition. I was often working the night shift so Jim was the reader to our girls. As an adult reading to a child, my perspective changed. I reread the books I had read with a new eye. And sometimes reading out loud to my daughters relaxed me so much I would start to nod off while mid-sentence! A “Mama!” would call me back to reality and we would finish the chapter before turing out the lights.
Part of our weekly routine included a trip to the library to check out a pile of books from the children’s section. We liked all kinds: pictures only, pictures and words, mostly words, fiction and nonfiction, hands-on. Several authors or illustrators would catch our fancy and then we had to check out all their books. Such was the case with Peter Spier. Today I remembered the book, Christmas, that we would look at together during the holidays and I had to go down to the basement and find it among the boxes of books that we have stashed away. His very human drawings of the holiday season with funny little details that small eyes like to find made us believe in the magic of the season.
So instead of a recipe today, I’d like to leave you with the titles of a few cookbooks that I have enjoyed over the years. These books have given me the passion to pursue food making in all its joy, mystery and beauty. Maybe these will be gifts for someone you know. Or just go to your public library and check them out. (If your library does not carry them, they can get them for you through inter-library loan.)
Barefoot in Paris by Ina Garten -- Lovely simple and tasteful recipes based on French living.
You’ll love the Rich Chocolate Tart recipe.
Moosewood Restaurant Daily Specials -- A delightful and flavorful vegetarian cookbook
Laurel’s Kitchen Bread Book by Laurel Robertson and Carol Flinders-- A complete primer on breadbaking with whole wheat flour.
The Complete Book of Breads by Bernard Clayton -- The book that got me started on my baking adventure
Saveur Cooks Authentic French -- A beautifully illustrated cookbook that will make you pick up and go to France
While I’m on Christmas vacation, I know I will be spending time in the kitchen but also leafing through cookbooks for more ideas on enjoying good food. And a good, smart novel will keep me out of trouble for a couple days!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)