Jammy Chicken

Glutney, and November already.

Yikes. November already.

I had this whole list of things to do in October, and I got none of them done.

Nada. Zip. Zilch.

Nuffin.

That's just the way it is sometimes, and it is one of those times.

I am slowly working my way through the very alluring salt sugar smoke by Diana Henry. The British cover is here, and the American here - I like the plump and mouth-wateringly tart cherries burst open and strewn across the page of the rumtopf or bachelor's jam recipe featured on the American version best.

I got a lovely email from Ms. Henry, who aptly surmised that I like a little tipple now and again, and directed me to head straight to the booze section of her book.

She was not mistaken.

I have apricots in muscat and pear ratafia lined up for some much anticipated kitchen dabbling this weekend.

I made up a batch of chutney before I headed out to New Jersey in a race with Sandy to see who would arrive first. Hugh's affectionately named glutney recipe is a lifesaver when the garden is heaving with veg, or in this case, lots of tomatoes rescued before the first killing frost sitting on the counter threatening to turn to slime before they get even remotely ripe. Add in one butternut squash, bits and bobs of dried fruits (sultanas a.k.a. golden raisins, regular old raisins, dried currants), some cider vinegar and a gigantic pot to hold it all, and 4 hours of slow simmering later I had 5 pints of glorious tart, sharp chutney. I am keenly observing the jars as they sit and mellow on the shelf.

I am making the last tweaks on gluten-free chocolate cupcakes and almond flour carrot muffins, which will be ready to share soon. Until then, the chutney in action.

Day after a hurricane lunch.

I had been planning on visiting my parents in NJ this week ever since the end of the summer, and as it turned out Sandy decided to arrive in town on the same day as my flight. American Airlines willingly - eagerly - assisted me in changing my flight plans, and I decided to leave early Sunday to beat the storm to the east coast. I snuck in to Philadelphia just as the rain started to fall that evening, passing scores of glum, sober travellers piled into airport gate sitting areas watching their flights out disappear. We were in the path, a direct hit, here in south central New Jersey, but 53.3 miles from the coast and every single foot counted. Backyard trees, 40-footers, were blowing around like an over-caffeinated cheerleader's pom-poms. I thought for sure we'd have some trees ripped out of the ground, if not splinter into toothpicks first, especially after the inches of rain dumped ahead of the wind front. 

Last night, we feared the worst and were filling pitchers with water for coming days, cooking large batches of chicken so we could still eat if - when - the power went out, expecting the food in the fridge to spoil and wondering exactly how many days we could last on cans of soup. 

Amazingly, luckily and totally unexpectedly, we have nothing more than a serious pile of wet fall leaves covering everything. We were without a doubt some of the luckiest ones affected by this natural disaster. The power is still on. The cable TV cooking shows I usually watch with my mom (talkin' about you, Ina) seem like even more of a luxury now, knowing how many millions of people were hit hard, flooded out, snowed in, without electricity, without homes.

Our grasp on the magnitude of this event is still unfolding, Sandy continues to impact the country and is likely to do so for another day or more. We think about the 10's of millions of people who are struggling through this, and send well-wishes to them all.

For lunch today, that hurricane-prep chicken, anticipated to be eaten in candlelight, and not the romantic kind, with no heat and no modern conveniences. We are indeed lucky.

Lucky Chicken Quinoa Veggie Salad for Sandy.

1 chicken breast, cooked
1 small zucchini, raw
1 carrot, raw
3-4 roasted artichokes, from a jar and packed in oil
1-2 cups cooked quinoa

Chop the chicken into small cubes or shred into pieces.

Cut the zucchini in half the long way and slice into thin half-moons. Cut the carrot the same way.

Chop the artichoke into small pieces.

Mix together in a large bowl, with generous salt and pepper and a drizzle of whatever chicken pan juice and artichoke oil you have around. 

Serves 4, and best served room temperature.

Saturday Farmer's Market.

This week was all about tomatoes at the farmer's market. [Plus I may have a source of duck eggs! I got so excited I think I actually forgot to take the chicken thighs I had just paid for and walked away without them...]

Everybody had beautiful tomatoes, so I went for a riot of multi-colored heirloom varieties. I snagged a box of small ones - grape to cherry sized - that had 13 different kinds in. The colors are inspiring, and I am still overcompensating from having to look at the wooly anemic pink rocks impersonating tomatoes at the grocery store all winter long.

Perhaps a little too much overcompensation [although that's kinda the whole point of overcompensation, innit?], as we will be eating tomatoes at every meal for a while to get through the farmer's market haul.

And that was before the British Guy spotted all the little ripe ones in our feral tomato patch. I've been checking out our bedroom window, but have only seen flowers up to now. You have to go tomato diving into the shrubbery to find the little buggers.

They started out as white currant tomatoes about 15 feet away and 3 years ago, before they went native and colonized what used to be a potato patch being overgrown by mint. I can confidently say that these tomatoes have outgrown, overgrown, and otherwise completely strangled the mint into oblivion.

Mint, people.

Plus, these babies haven't been watered in about ... well, never.

I would be scared if I actually thought about how well they were growing overtaking our yard in these dustbowl-like conditions.

Except they are so darned tasty.

And I have to say I really love no-maintenance plants with tasty free food on them.

Aren't they cute?

We took a drive around yesterday [which is why Saturday Farmer's Market isn't getting posted until Sunday evening], showing James the Nephew the sights of Iowa before he leaves to return to the homeland in a few days. One must-see stop for any self-respecting Iowan proudly showing off the state is: Riverside.

Yes, that Riverside.

Although as we all know, with the alternate reality reboot he's not born in Iowa anymore (btw this link is awesome).

Murphy's Bar and Grill has improvised, and put up this plaque under the pool table.

Gotta love Iowa.

Fresh Apricot Jam.

I read cookbooks like they are novels, for the romance, suspense and intrigue.

New techniques are as good as dramatic plot twists in detective stories, inventive combinations of ingredients the surprise cliffhanger I never see coming. Favorite ingredients or dishes, described lovingly and tenderly, become even more special to me when seen through someone else's words and the meaning they have in their life.

And that's really the heart of it, isn't it?

Some cookbooks inspire me because I want to learn - how to use new [and sometimes scary] ingredients, how to employ new techniques. I want to bring something new and exciting into my cooking and my life that other people can teach me.

Some cookbooks inspire me because I want to be the kind of person who uses those ingredients, makes those kinds of dishes. I want to throw breezy dinner parties, have friends over for drinks and cocktails, or whip up a delicious, fantastic meal based on nothing other than sheer celebration of perfect ingredients. I want those occasions to happen in my life, even though they don't, really.

Some cookbooks inspire me because I want to have the life itself. Living with the seasons on a farm in the countryside. Raising chickens and grabbing a fresh egg or two from a straw nest for breakfast. Walking the Parisian cobblestone streets cruising the best pastry shops for dessert. There are people who make a living out of living the lives we want, and while I don't necessarily want that as a job, I do want that as a life.

The problem is, I think, that it is a job, and like any job, you have to work really hard and be really good at it to make it look easy to casual gawkers like me.

That's quite apparent, both the coveting of the life and the hard work it takes behind the scenes to actually make it happen, in my new favorite fantasy escape represented by Orlando Murrin's cookbook A Table in the Tarn. Who doesn't have even a tiny stab of wistful longing to buy a ramshackle old stone house in France and lovingly restore it, then spend your days cooking delicious food for people who pay you to do so?

I know I did, through almost every page of this book.

Except, of course, I don't speak French.

And renovations are a nightmare, and trying to organize one in a different country, in a different language?

Shoot me now.

Plus, the whole cooking breakfast for a table full of strangers early in the morning, when I am not my best?

Yeah, right.

But hey, that's why it's a fantasy, right?

And for now, I get to pick and choose the best parts of this fantasy life to add to mine. Temptingly, though, the gorgeous house is for sale, making the fantasy just a little more tangible, if still completely unattainable.

If you do decide to cash it all in and go for it, invite us over, would you?

This fresh apricot jam is extremely quick to make and very easy, the perfect way to use those gorgeous fresh summer apricots coming to market right now. I love to stir this into a little yogurt for breakfast, in order to pretend, even just for a moment, that I am basking in the southern French sun on a gravel patio, with nothing but a day of leisurely strolls and coffee drinking to accomplish.

Sadly, that is not the case, but for a few seconds every morning it feels like it just possibly could be.

Fresh Apricot Jam.
From Orlando Murrin's A Table in the Tarn.
Makes about 2 1/4 cups.

2 1/4 pounds of ripe apricots - about 12 apricots
1 cup plus 2 tablespoons raw sugar

Cut each apricot in half, remove the pit, and then cut each half into quarters. Stir the apricot pieces with the sugar and cover, then allow to sit on the counter overnight.

The next day, when the apricots have yielded lovely juice, pour into a large pot and slowly bring to a simmer over medium heat. Stir regularly. There should be bubbles across the entire pan, not just the edges. Continue to simmer for about 10 minutes, as the apricots move towards soft while the juice moves towards thick. Some apricot pieces will start to break down and thicken the jam. The apricots will look glossy and jammy, with thick syrup. If you have a thermometer, aim for 205 to 210 degrees F (about 95 degrees C).

Transfer to jars, cover and refrigerate until used. Eat within 10 days.

Goat cheese, fruit, herb and honey open-faced sandwiches.

Scandinavian open-faced sandwiches, or smørrebrød, are not just a means of getting nosh into your gob, they represent a way of thinking about food that reflects restraint, simplicity and clarity.

It's not all that surprising, considering that those also seem to be the hallmarks of Scandinavian design.

Simple, functional, and useful.

Also, fast, easy and tasty.

I spent some time in Denmark, so I've eaten my fair share of smørrebrød, and the trick to creating one is to focus on a single ingredient and allow all the parts to highlight that one thing.

The bread is a pedestal, providing support and structure to hold up the filling, and adding texture and flavor contrast. Typical choices are rye (German-style with whole rye grains), white (sometimes toasted), or sourdough. The bread may or may not be buttered. Mayonaise is sometimes used as a garnish on top of the sandwich, but never smeared on the bread. These are usually eaten with a knife and fork.

Sometimes, the open-faced sandwich may consist of only one perfect thing.

How about an open-faced sandwich of plain white sourdough bread, generously buttered, with an artfully arranged row of tiny, impossibly fresh, cooked and peeled fjord shrimp?

Contrast this with a typical American deli sandwich - sometimes with an entire deli's worth of filling.

Now, I am not saying they're not good, those American sandwiches you need two hands to pick up.

I'm just saying, sometimes, something lighter is called for.

This is a hot-weather lunch, one that shows off prefectly fresh fruit. It's simple, fast and you can make it from whatever you want, and make it into whatever you want.

Use what you have, and embrace the open-faced sandwich.

Goat cheese, fruit, herb and honey open-faced sandwich.

For each person, you will need:

Two small or one large piece of fruit: I used one each of a small peach and a nectarine.
Two slices of bread: I used crispbread.
1/4 cup spreadable soft cheese: I used a local handmade soft goat's milk cheese.
Some runny honey, to taste.
Some fresh herbs, to taste: I used English thyme and orange mint.

Spread the cheese onto each of the pieces of bread.

Cut the fruit into 4 good thick slices and lay on top of the cheese. I put nectarine on one and peach on the other.

Drizzle the honey onto the fruit open-faced sandwiches, and any extra pieces of fruit.

Wash and dry the herbs, and finely chop any with large leaves if you want. I put thyme on the peach open-faced sandwich, and very thinly sliced mint on the nectarine open-faced sandwich.

Eat with a knife and fork for a traditional lunch - or with your fingers if you want, I won't tell.

Limoncello, two variations: Sweet Lime and Blood Orange.

I find that homemade liqueurs open up a wide variety of flavors that would not otherwise be available: sloe gin, bacon vodka, quince rum, strawberry vodka (still glowing pink in the back corner of my freezer, by the way). Homemade variations of favorite flavors, like coffee-chocolate liqueur, make for a novel dinner table conversation when you break them out with pride of place, taste fresher and less processed than the kind you buy, and cost a lot less.

Plus, it's fun.

Who doesn't like to have fun, especially when booze is involved?

For all those reasons, plus having a pile of exotic citrus that needed using up in a bad way, I decided to try some variations on limoncello. This popular Italian drink is made from lemon zest, but there are other fruit variations, such as blood orange, that sounded quite intriguing.

There are oodles of recipes: Giada, Epicurious, Imbibe Magazine, 177,00 of 'em in all.

What they all have in common is this: you zest the lemons, discard the fruit, and make a syrup of sugar and water.

Now, I want a liqueur that has loads of fruit flavor, and a hearty kick to it.

I was thinking about my wants, and all these recipes, and I said to myself:

'Self, why are we going to waste all that fruit juice?'

Myself said 'Dunno.' Very articulate, she is.

'Self, isn't that where we can find loads of fruit flavor?'

'Guess so.'

'And Self, why would we then dilute the alcohol with water?'

At which point, Self got a little peeved and belted out:

'Why do you keep asking me all these stupid questions when you already seem to know the answer, aye?'

And Self was right, I did have an answer. And that answer is so simple, so obvious.

Use the fruit juice, Luke. 

So I did.

Zest, juice, sugar, booze.

A holistic liqueur experience, two snazzy citrus flavors.

Sweet Lime0ncello & Blood Orangecello.
Based on a recipe for limoncello from Jam, Jelly & Relish by Ghillie James.

4 sweet limes or 4 blood oranges

For each flavor you make:
2 cups vodka, not best quality
1 cup white granulated sugar
juice from the citrus

You will also need a fine microplane, a strainer, and a large mason jar or other storage jar for each liqueur.

Choose sweet lime or blood orange. Use the microplane to zest the citrus very gently. You want no white pith, only colored zest. I find that one delicate downward drag on each section of citrus, without re-zesting any area, accomplishes this nicely.

 I got about 1/3 of a cup of zest from 4 sweet limes and about the same from 4 small blood oranges.

Put the zest from the lime or the orange into a mason jar.

Now, juice the citrus. I got about 2/3 cup from the sweet limes and 3/4 cup from the blood oranges. 

Strain the juice and pour into the mason jar with the zest.

Add the 2 cups vodka and 1 cup sugar.

Shake well, and then shake every day for a week. After that, shake once a week for at least 3 or 4 more weeks, or up to 6, if you can stand to wait that long.

Before serving, strain the liqueur through as fine a strainer as possible, or through a coffee filter.

Store in the freezer if you want, but it should keep in a cool, dark place for up to a year.

Serve very cold.

Seville Orange Marmalade Cake.

Let's be completely honest here, shall we?

This is not a looker of a cake.

If it were a she, and she were walking down the street, no-one would wolf-whistle.

I doubt she'd really even get a second look.

She's not a glamazon, sugar-bomb, over-the-top confectionary flight-of-fancy.

But don't discount her for that, because it's a feature, not a flaw.

She's an honest, approachable kind of cake. Suitable for all occasions, not just super-fancy frosting-laden affairs. Not that she can't handle a super-fancy, frosting-laden affair, mind you.

She's just understated, that's all.

If she were your friend, she'd be the one you call first with good news, and bad. The one who volunteers to drive you to the airport at 4 am. The one who makes you laugh so hard you can't breathe.

She's just a really good cake, she is. So don't hold her lack of exotic looks against her, because she makes up for it with character. Lots of orange marmaladey character.

For those of us who make jam, we're always on the quest for recipes to use that jam. And jelly. And preserves. And marmalade. Because, you see, our goal in life is to make more jam. And in order to make more jam, we need to use the current jam up, to make more space, free up more jars. So we can make more jam.

It's a vicious, never-ending circle of obsessive-compulsive preserving.

I am sure there's a self-help group out there somewhere. But I can stop any time. Really, I can.

This cake is a holy grail of using the preserves - three-quarters of a cup of marmalade in it, more on it. That's a whole jar gone. Plus you get a really great cake out of it.

So, bust this baby out for an afternoon snack. She's great with tea or coffee. After dinner, as a not overly sweet nibble. Breakfast, even. I mean, it's got orange marmalade in it, and that uses oranges, and so does orange juice, and orange juice is for breakfast, so there you go. Am I right or am I right?

Seville Orange Marmalade Cake.
Based on a recipe from the incomparable Darina Allen's Forgotten Skills of Cooking.

350 g self-rising flour
150 g butter, plus more for greasing the tin
150 g sugar
generous 3/4 cup orange marmalade* 
2 eggs
1/4 cup milk
hearty pinch of salt
powdered sugar for dusting (optional) 

You will need a 6 inch diameter, 3 inch high cake tin or springform pan, and a scale. 

* If the marmalade has coarse shreds, pop it in a food processor and give it a whiz, or chop by hand.

Note: I measured dry ingredients by weight, which I find faster and more accurate. There are internet sites that offer conversions based on ingredient, but I find them infuriatingly inconsistent. That truly irks the scientist in me. If you have the option, go for the scale. I can't guarantee success with a dodgy conversion.

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees F, and grease the tin (or use cooking spray).

Rub the butter into the flour and salt until the mixture is crumbly and the butter is incorporated, then add the sugar and mix. 

In a separate bowl, whisk the eggs and marmalade until combined, then stir in the milk. Add the liquid ingredients to the dry ingredients, and mix until just combined. This will make a robust, spoonable batter.

Scrape into the cake tin, smooth the top, and bake in the oven for 75 minutes until the top is browned and a cake tester comes out with only a few crumbs.

Leave to cool on a wire tray, and when ready to serve, dust the top with powdered sugar and eat with a generous slather of marmalade.

Keeps well for several days in an airtight container. Can be frozen for longer storage.

Quinoa Salad with Salt-Preserved Lime Pickles.

A gal can only eat so many sandwiches before things get a bit dull.

Since I take lunch to work almost every day, I have five opportunities each week to explore non-sandwich lunch options.

My lunch bill of rights:

I shall not have to suffer from a leak in my bag on the walk in to work.

Who wants a backpack drenched in olive oil, or tomato soup? Or worse, a marinated laptop?

I shall not have to assemble something complicated in the early morning when I am not at my best.

I have a hard enough time keeping the toothpaste and face cream separate, let alone making something that requires coherent thought.

I shall not harm any electronics in the eating of the lunch.

Let's face it, I am going to dribble. And let's face it, I eat at my computer. I don't want to run the risk of shorting out my computer when I do. [Sometimes, though, I am surfing E! online, so it's not as bad as you might think, the whole eating at my desk thing.]

I shall not have to eat uninteresting food.

Lunch is a shining moment of peace and solitude in the middle of mostly crazy, hectic, sometimes laughably insane days. If I'm not looking forward to it, what's the point?

And if it's healthy, too? A double win.

If only celebrity gossip could take the place of exercize, I'd be totally set.

Quinoa Salad with Salt-Preserved Lime Pickles.
Serves 2 as a main course or 4 as a side dish.

1 cup quinoa

1 blood orange
8 dried apricots
1 green apple
1/4 cup shelled pistachio nuts
6 to 8 pickled lime wedges

2 tablespoons pickled lime oil
1 tablespoon lemon juice 
salt and pepper 

Cook the quinoa. First, rinse the quinoa, then put into a pot with 1 cup of water and a pinch of salt. Bring to a boil, turn down to low and cover with a lid. Cook for 20 minutes, until the quinoa has absorbed all the water and is fluffy and light.

While the quinoa is cooking, peel and cut the blood orange into wedges or rounds. You could also use regular oranges or canned mandarin oranges if you want, but the juicy citrus is an important contrasting flavor in the salad, so do use something.

Core the apple and chop into 1 cm pieces. Chop the lime wedges and apricots into small, 1-cm sized pieces. Coarsely chop the pistachio nuts.

Make the dressing by mixing the oil from the pickled lime jar with the lemon juice, a pinch of salt and a good grind of pepper. If the lime wedges in the pickle jar are exposed by the dropping oil level, top up with a little more oil for storage.

While the quinoa is still warm, mix in the dressing and other ingredients. Taste, and add more salt and pepper if desired.

Serve warm, or cold.

Store in the refrigerator for up to a week.

Quince, Blood Orange, Rosemary and Vanilla Syrup.

I have been making lots of quince things recently: Paradise Jelly, quince rum, and also quince and summer fruits mincemeat.

Many of these recipes generated piles of quince peel, and normally these would go straight onto the compost pile. Lately, though, I have been thinking about wastefulness a little more consciously. Not that I'm wasteful, but more that I can be more mindful.

Soured cream, for instance. Where once it went down the drain, now it makes deliciously rich and tangy scones.

This is not a sacrafice. They're good. Better, even, than the old, non-soured cream scones I used to make.

It's satisfying and has me thinking - what else can I make that will get every last drop of goodness out of what I have?

Turns out quince is so full of goodness, it's easy. Take those scraps of peel and make a fragrant and flavorful syrup for a refreshing drink with sparkling water or soda. Use it to soak a cake to maintain moisture and add a tantalizing floral aroma. Make a simple powdered sugar glaze for pound cake or scones.

Creating something unique and delicious from kitchen scraps - fantastic! 

Quince, Blood Orange, Rosemary and Vanilla Syrup.
Makes about 5 cups.

2 cups of quince peel
2 blood oranges
1 sprig rosemary
1/2 vanilla bean, split

3 cups white granulated sugar
1 teaspoon citric acid 

You will also need sterilized jars to hold approximately 5 cups.

Put all the ingredients into a pot and add 5 cups of water to cover. Bring to a boil and simmer on very low, with the lid on, for about 1 1/2 to 2 hours, until the orange rind is soft.

Turn off the stove and allow to cool in the pot.

Strain the large pieces out of the liquid, then pass the liquid through a very fine sieve or cheesecloth to remove all remaining solids. Discard the solids, and reserve the liquid, which should measure 4 cups.

Return the flavored liquid to a pot and add 3 cups of white sugar.

Warm gently and stir until all the sugar is dissolved. Remove from heat, add citric acid and stir until dissolved. Bottle in sterilized containers. Store in the refrigerator or process according to your favorite canning instructions.

Keeps for up to a year.

Orange Flower and Custard Cream Heart Cookies.

Aaah, heart-shaped cookies.

Is anything else quite so smarmy and cute?

Especially with you-know-what coming up soon.

I generally avoid V-Day, as a rule. 

I am trying to formulate a really good reason why, but honestly I just don't care about one day a year overflowing with pink and sugary sweet tidings of love.

Give me any excuse to bake a cookie, though, and I will jump at the opportunity.

Last year it was chocolate sugar cookies.

Love. Love. Love playing in decorating sugar and novelty sprinkles.

This year we're going classy and upmarket with a monochromatic theme and an orange flower water and custard cream filling.

They may be hearts, but don't hold it against them, they're tasty cookies any time you want a little cute smarmy lovin'. 

Orange Flower and Custard Cream Heart Cookies.
Inspired by Nigella Lawson's recipe from Feast.
Makes 18 custard heart sandwich cookies.

For the Custard Cookies.
1 1/4 cups all-purpose flour
1/4 cup Bird's Custard Powder*
1 teaspoon baking powder
4 tablespoons butter (1/2 stick)
1/2 cup vegetable shortening
1/4 cup superfine sugar
1 egg, beaten lightly

For the Orange Flower Custard Cream.
2 tablespoons Bird's Custard Powder*
3/4 cup confectioner's sugar
1/2 cup vegetable shortening
1 teaspoon orange flower water

* This is one of those British ingredients that we simply don't have an equivelent for here in the US. You can find Bird's Custard Powder online, and it's so useful to have around for instant gratification when you absolutely need to pour custard over cake or fruit right away...which happens more often than I'd like to admit around here.

You will need a food processor, a 2-inch heart-shaped cookie cutter, a rolling pin, and a cookie sheet lined with baking paper.

Mix the flour, custard powder and baking powder together and put into a food processor with the butter, cut into pieces, and the vegetable shortening, scooped in as spoonfulls. Pulse until combined and the mixture forms a crumbly texture.

Add the sugar and pulse again, and with the processor running drizzle in the egg until the cookie dough comes together and clumps into a ball. You may not need to add all of the egg.

Put the dough onto a piece of plastic wrap and press into a disk, then wrap completely and refrigerate for a minimum of 30 minutes. The dough can be stored in the refrigerator for up to 3 days.

When ready to bake, pre-heat the oven to 350 degrees F.

Roll the dough out on a lightly floured surface until it is approximately 1/4 inch thick. Dip the cookie cutter into flour and cut out a heart. Repeat as necessary to keep the dough from sticking. Make an even number of hearts. You can make about 24 from the first episode of cookie cutting, and an additional 10 to 12 if you re-roll the remaining scraps in a second round. The dough will need to be refrigerated before you roll it out the second time.

Space the cookies about 1/2 inch apart on a baking paper-lined cookie sheet. You should be able to fit the first 24 on a single cookie tray. Bake additional cookies in a later batch.

Bake for 15 minutes, until the cookies are gently puffed and just starting to color.

Cool on the cookie sheet for 15 minutes, then remove gently to a rack to finish cooling.

To make the orange flower custard creme, mix the custard powder and confectioner's sugar and add to a food processor with the vegetable shortening. Process until you get a smooth creme, then add the orange flower water and pulse until combined.

When the cookies are completely cool, gently spread 3 to 4 teaspoons of the custard creme on the bottom side of a cookie, and wiggle a second cookie into place on top, bottom side onto the frosting. The cookies are very delicate, so avoid pressing forcefully or they may break.

Cookies can be stored at room temperature, and last for 2 to 3 days in an airtight container.

Pork Tenderloin with Apple, Apricot and Pink Peppercorn Stuffing.

We have a freezer full of pig. Well, technically, we have a freezer full of half a pig.

Plus an entire lamb, including the head. But that's another story.

We were inspired to go the whole hog, if you pardon my pun, by an overdose of Hugh and his pigs.

Which is cuter? Hard to tell, really.

We got this half-pig, or rather this pig that was cut in half, from a local farm in the fall. We now have 80 pounds of various pig parts in the freezer. Each package is so neatly wrapped in white paper, like lumpy, meaty presents just waiting to be opened. Our half a pig makes for a rather lot of packages. The labels are small, and they're all stacked up, so it's hard to aim for something in particular.

Usually we just reach in and grab for the one that catches our fancy.

Today's grab was tenderloin.

Here in the heartland, we take a tenderloin, or t-loin, as we affectionately call it, pound it flat, dredge it in bread crumbs, deep fry it. Then, we stuff it in a too-small bun, so its embarrasing pulchritude overflows the inadequate bread mitt we use to keep a grip on the hot, crispy hubcap of a meal.

That has a certain appeal, I will not deny.

But sometimes tenderloin would like to be treated with a little more respect.

Restraint.

Class, even.

And that is truly where pork comes into its own. It has a sweet, mild taste that pairs well with a variety of flavors, but it can stand up to a little bit of heat, too. I found it hard to resist the glowing combination of green apples, orange apricots and pink peppercorns, topped with a golden zesting of Meyer Lemon. It's a veritable rainbow of colors that cuts through the dreary winter weather and also makes a surprisingly complex combination of flavors - sharp, tart, citrusy, with zing from small pops of scattered pink peppercorn.

When stuffing a tenderloin, you want to make as much surface area as possible to spread the filling onto. I used a knife to cut open this 2-pound pork loin roast with tenderloin, a little like unfolding a book. It naturally fell open along the muscle bundles, and then I cut lengthways from the center to the left about two-thirds of the way through, and from the center to the right,  about two-thirds of the way through, and opened up each side.

If you have a thinner tenderloin you may only be able to cut it once, but be careful not to cut completely through the meat, as you want to be able to unfold it. Your tenderloin may not fully wrap around to meet in the middle. If you want to further increase the surface area, you can pound it a little flatter with a meat tenderizer or flat-bottomed heavy pot.

All that's left to do is apply the stuffing and tie up the tenderloin around it, and you have a showstopper of a dinner.  

Pork Tenderloin with Apple, Apricot and Pink Peppercorn Stuffing.
Serves 8 to 10.

One 2 pound pork tenderloin or loin roast

Stuffing Ingredients.
1/2 pound breakfast sausage or other mild sausage
1 Granny Smith Apple
1/2 cup dried apricot
1 Meyer Lemon
1 generous tablespoon pink peppercorns

Salt and pepper

You will also need a large roasting pan and kitchen twine.

Assemble the stuffing ingredients in a large bowl. Zest the lemon, and juice half of it. Core and chop the apple into 1-cm sized pieces, leaving the skin on. Chop the apricots into 1-cm sized pieces. Remove the sausage from the casing, if necessary. Combine all the ingredients together. The mixture will not blend well, but the fruits will mix into the sausage meat. Add the pink peppercorns and mix through.

Open the tenderloin up according to the directions above, until you have a rough rectangle. Squeeze the remaining half lemon over, then sprinkle with salt and pepper.

Distribute the stuffing ingredients evenly down the center of the tenderloin.

Cut a piece of twine that is 5 or 6 incles longer than the width of the tenderloin. Work it under one end of the tenderloin, and gently bring the twine up and tie it off. The tenderloin may not meet at the top, and that's just fine. Try to keep the stuffing in, but also to tie fairly snugly. If any stuffing squeezes out, just stuff it back in again. Continue to tie until the entire tenderloin is bundled up in a long, narrow roll.

You can refrigerate the tenderloin, rolled, for up to a day. When you are ready to cook, preheat the oven to 425 degrees F. Make a snug nest of aluminum foil that fits around the tenderloin, to catch the juices. Place the tenderloin and foil nest in a large roasting tray. Roast for 15 minutes, then turn the heat down to 35o degrees F and roast for a further 45 minutes, until the meat registers 145 degrees F. Baste with the juices every 15 or 20 minutes.

Remove from the oven, place onto a warmed plate, cover, and allow to rest for 10 or 15 minutes before serving.

Remember to remove the twine before you eat!

Make a gravy with the juices if you want, and serve with a green salad.

Wine-Poached Peach and Almond Tart.

This is a multi-step, multi-component recipe, so it is not to be undertaken on a whim and finished in a flash.

Instant gratification, not found here. But don't see that as a drawback, rather it is a bonus.

It is quite a perfect winter dessert (or breakfast, I dare say), in that winter is never really the time of instant gratification, anyway. Breezy summer is when you want to throw something together in a snap, staying away from fuss and complexity, flitting from thought to completion in the blink of an eye.

Winter is for planning, organizing, meticulous attention to detail. No siren song of sweet breeze is calling you out, distracting you with promises. Instead, there is time for thoughtful preparation. Peaceful enjoyment of simple and honest ingredients. Creating something rustic but meaningful and satisfying.

Taking joy in the process.

The process of making this tart is a delight. Basic ingredients transform themselves into a grand design, where each part comes together to become a whole that is so much more than the mere sum of the individual components.

This tart, it is is not overly sweet or cloying. The only sweetness comes from the dried, then wine-plumped, peaches. It is sturdy and robust, what one needs in these wintry days. It glows with a sunny golden radiance, bringing cheer to short hours. Rememberances of this tart will linger with you through hectic, busy days of summer until you again have time to enjoy the process of taking time.

Wine-poached Peach and Almond Tart.
Serves 8 to 10.

Inspired by an apricot tart recipe in Canal House Cooking vol. 3 by Christopher Hirsheimer and Melissa Hamilton.

Makes one 9-inch tart. Requires a 9-inch, removable bottom, fluted tart pan, a rolling pin, and a food processor.

For the Peaches.
1 1/2 cups dried peach halves (about 10 to 12 halves)
2 cups white wine, such as savinion blanc
2/3 cup granulated sugar
zest and juice from 1 clementine
1 mace blade

For the Crust.
2 cups flour
2 tablespoons granulated sugar
12 tablespoons (1 1/2 stick) cold unsalted butter, cut into pieces
1 egg
a pinch of salt 

For the Almond Filling.
3/4 cup blanched or slivered almonds (skins removed)
3/4 cup powdered sugar
2 tablespoons flour
8 tablespoons unsalted butter, cut into pieces
1 egg
1 egg yolk
2 teaspoons vanilla extract

Poach the peaches by putting the wine, granulated sugar, clementine zest and juice, and mace blade in a small saucepan and bring to the boil. Stir until the sugar dissolves, then add the dried peaches and turn down to a gentle simmer. Cover, and simmer for 20 minutes, until the peaches have plumped up lightly. Let the peaches cool in the syrup. Peaches can be stored in the refrigerator, in the poaching syrup, for up to a week. When ready to proceed, strain the peaches.

Reserve the syrup for another use, such as a flavoring for sparkling water, sweetener for tea, light drizzle for ice cream, or flavorful soak for pound cake.

Prepare the crust by whisking the flour, sugar and salt together in a large mixing bowl. Use your fingers (this is the time to enjoy the process) to work the butter into the flour until it has the texture of cornmeal. Add the egg, begin to mix with a fork, and then press the dough together until all the crumbs are combined into a shaggy mass.

Empty onto a clean, floured counter and press the dough into a rough disk. Use a rolling pin to shape the dough into a 1/4 inch thick disk slightly larger than the tart pan. Transfer the dough to the tart pan, press evenly across the bottom and up the sides, trim any excess dough from the top edge, and fill any holes or cracks that may have formed.

Cover with plastic wrap and refrigerate for at least an hour, or overnight.

To make the almond filling, grind the almonds in a food processor until they are the texture of coarse sand. Toast the ground almonds in a skillet over medium-low heat for 3 or 4 minutes, until they become fragrant and just begin to brown. Stir constantly. They will go from pale to toasted in an instant, so watch carefully.

Remove the skillet from the heat and stir in the powdered sugar, then set aside to cool.

While the almonds cool, about 10 minutes, preheat the oven to 400 degrees F.

When the almonds are cooled, return them to the food processor. Add the butter, egg and egg yolk, and vanilla, and process until the filling is smooth. It will smell divinely of the best possible smells you could imagine.

Spread the almond filling in the prepared crust, and arrange the peaches on top, gently placing them in a pretty design. Bake the tart until the filling is toasty brown and puffed around the apricots, about 45 minutes.

Allow the tart to cool and the filling to set. Serve at room temperature.

Cornish Saffron Cakes.

These craggy and fruit-enriched drop scones gain a sunny yellow glow and a mysteriously exotic nuance from a pinch of saffron, which makes then both sweet and savory at the same time.

They can robustly support sweet spreads such as jam or lime curd, but can just as easily be taken to the savory side with a good slice of sharp cheese and some tomato and basil jam or tomato chutney. 

 

The sweet side with lime curd and a proper cup of tea. The savory side with yellow cherry tomato and basil jam, black pepper asiago cheese, and a side of cornichons.

Cornish Saffron Cakes.
After a recipe from Marguerite Patten's Best British Dishes.
Takes about 20 minutes of active time, and makes 10 drop cakes.

2 cups of self-rising flour*
2/3 cup unsulphered dried apricots, chopped into 1-cm sized pieces
1/3 cup currants
2/3 cup milk (or more if necessary)
1 large egg
1/2 cup cold butter, cut into cm-sized chunks
1/2 cup sugar
pinch of saffron salt, or plain salt
pinch of saffron (optional)

 * You can make self-rising flour by adding 2 teaspoons of baking powder to all-purpose flour.

You will need a strainer, two baking sheets and baking paper, or extra butter to grease the baking sheets.

Turn the oven on to 400 F and position two racks in the upper third and lower third of the oven.

If the apricots and currants are hard, as dried fruit often can be, place them in a bowl and cover with warm water to plump them up a little.

Heat the milk until it is just warm to the touch (about 10 seconds in a microwave) and add the saffron.

Let the saffron milk and fruit (if plumping) sit for 20 minutes. Immediately before proceeding with the rest of the recipe, drain the fruit in a strainer and allow to drip until you need it.

Mix the self-rising flour and salt in a bowl, and rub in the butter until it is broken down to pea-sized pieces. This takes just a few minutes. 

Add the strained fruit to the dry ingredients and use a fork to gently mix together and break up any fruity lumps.

Strain the saffron milk to remove the saffron threads if you'd like, then beat in the egg until well combined. Add this to the dry ingredients and fruit, and mix gently until just combined. The batter should be spoonable but stiff enough to retain its shape when scooped.

Spoon out approximately 1/2 cup sized rough mounds of dough. Leave the surface craggy. I used one spoon to scoop the dough, and a second to gently slide the lump of dough off the spoon and onto the prepared baking sheet. Space about 2 or 3 inches apart. You will need two baking sheets.

Bake for 20 to 22 minutes, until the upper craiggy surface is starting to brown, and rotate trays at the 10-minute mark.

Remove from the oven, cool for a few minutes on the baking tray, then transfer to a wire rack to continue cooling.

These are very delectable warm, and are also very good when cool.

Store in an air-tight container and eat within 3 or 4 days. Can be frozen.

Bacon vodka-spiked cherry tomatoes.

So, you've made that bacon vodka and are now basking in well-deserved, self-congratulatory smugness.

Well done, you.

Share some of your fabulous self, and some of that fabulous bacon vodka, with your friends by making these boozy, sassy little cherry tomato appetizers.

The eternally sublime combination of bacon and tomato, facilitated by the kick of some hard-core spirits, makes these a unique and intriguing choice for a coctail party, or adds a little zing to liven up drinks on the deck. 

[ I don't know about you, but I need some food to keep from getting totally sloshed. And even then, well, let's just say I'm a cheap date.]

Vodka-spiked cherry tomatoes.
Modified from Gourmet magazine June, 2011, and found on Epicurious.

3 pints (about 60 small to medium) cherry tomatoes, mixed colors for best effect (oooh, pretty)
1/2 cup bacon vodka, or plain 
3 tablespoons champagne vinegar (or white wine)
1 tablespoon superfine granulated sugar (or regular, this just dissolves easier)
1 tablespoon finely grated fresh lemon zest from organic lemon (or a regular lemon, well-scrubbed)

To serve: 3 tablespoons coarse salt and 1 1/2 tablespoons coarse ground black pepper, mixed

First, peel the tomatoes.

I know, is there anything more tedious than peeling cherry tomatoes?

In the interest of full disclosure, you can make this without peeling the tomatoes, and it will still taste mighty fine. To take the short road, just cut each tomato in half or quarters, and proceed with the next step *.

But truly, this makes a world of difference, and if you have the time, and the internal fortitude, to face this task, you will not be disappointed.

Now, back to tomato peeling: Set up a small pot of water and get it boiling. Set up a bowl of water and ice cubes, big enough to hold all the tomatoes.

Cut a small 'X' in the bottom (blossom) end of each tomato. Using a slotted spoon, dunk a few tomatoes at a time in the boiling water for 3 to 10 seconds, until the skin starts to split and peel when the tomatoes are pulled out of the boiling water. Tr ansfer to the bowl of iced water to stop the tomatoes cooking any further.

When cool, the skins should slip off easily, or use the back side of a knife to gently scrape them off if they need a little more coersion.

*The next step: Place the tomatoes in a single layer in a shallow dish.

Mix together the vodka, vinegar, sugar, and lemon zest until the sugar is fully dissolved.

Pour over the tomatoes and toss gently to coat. Let marinate, covered and chilled, for from 30 minutes to 1 hour.

You can leave the tomatoes for longer than 1 hour with no significant harm (yes, I did test this), but the flavor does peak at 1 hour.

Strain off the marinade (this could be re-used for marinating chicken or a more flavorful fish like salmon) and serve the tomatoes with the mixed salt and pepper for dipping, and toothpicks for eating.  

Mango Chutney.

Mango Chutney is one of those things that I absolutely love but when I see it in the store I go into spasms over the price. Six dollars! Or more! A tiny jar! I cannot bring myself to do it. Just can't. So I was living a chutney-free existence until I happened to be flipping through a Women's Institute cookbook at my sister-in-law's house (Hi! How are the chickens doing?) and saw how easy it looked to make. Which is exactly what I did, and have had cabinets overflowing with mango chutney deliciousness ever since.

Alton has a recipe (macadamia nuts? really?), and there are plenty of others out there, but what I want is undiluted mango, so no cutting down with apples or raisins for me. I admit, when it's mango chutney time I hit Walmart and get the dollar mangoes. The organic ones are nice, but at $2.50 a pop, that adds up. Since mangoes are one of the low pesticide fruits anyway, I just make sure I wash them thoroughly and call it good.

Because the mangoes are the main expense, this means you can make more than a quart of chutney for less than $10. 

While mango chutney is the usual condiment for Indian foods. there are other uses too. Think about a roast chicken or turkey or even ham sandwich with sharp cheddar and a lovely respectable-sized slather of mango chutney on lovely whole-grain bread. Or use as a glaze on chicken or ham the next time you bake.

 

Mango Chutney modified from a Women's Institute (aka Calendar Girls) cookbook.

900 g onions (2 large)
2100 g mangoes (6 medium)
3 tablespoons pickling spices (you can get this in the bulk section in health food stores) 
2 cups vinegar (I used a mix of white and cider) 
1 large orange, zest and juice
1/4 cup each minced ginger and garlic
2 1/2 cups sugar (I used raw but white is fine)
ground pepper to taste

Peel and chop the mangoes. I try to select a mixture of ripe and green mangoes, and have both fine and thicker slices (about 2 mm to 3 mm) because the riper, thinner slices will disintegrate while cooking and the larger slices will remain intact.  If you like smoother mango chutney pick riper mangoes and chop finely. If you like coarser chutney, pick greener mangoes and chop thicker.

Put half of the chopped mango into a large pot. Finely chop the onions and put all into the pot with the half of the mangoes. Put the pickling spices into a muslin bag, tied firmly, and add to the pot with the vinegar. Bring to a simmer and cook on low for about 20 minutes, lid on, until the onions are soft. Stir occasionally to prevent sticking and burning.

Add the orange juice, zest and remaining sliced mango and simmer for another 5 minutes. At this point I fish out the bag of pickling spices. Add the ginger, garlic, sugar and pepper. Stir over low heat until the sugar is dissolved, and then simmer on low with the lid off until the chutney is thick, 45 to 60 minutes.

Follow your favorite directions for canning - I hot pack the chutney into sterilized jars and put into a 250 F oven for 20 minutes, but you may want to use a water bath.

Stores for up to a year in a cool, dark place.

Make it pioneer: add 1 tablespoon curry powder with the garlic and ginger.

Make it Jersey: add 1 teaspoon hot chile flakes with the garlic and ginger.

Make it rock & roll: add 10 whole cardamom pods to the pot along with the pickling spices. I leave them in when I can the chutney, but you can fish them out first if you want. Don't eat these, though.

Canned still-life: two jars of mango chutney with quince jelly, strawberry black raspberry jam, bergamot ruby red grapefruit marmalade, and Seville orange marmalade.

Citrus and raw kale salad.

I know, you're a brave soul to see 'raw kale' and have the fortitude to continue reading. But you will be rewarded with a fresh and tasty salad that is nourishing and healthy. 

And if your garden is anything like mine, you are looking for something to make a dent in the kale that has taken over and daily comes closer to turning into a small forest.

Kale is a power food, and is related to cabbage and broccoli. It has loads of vitamins (A, B6, C, K) plus fiber, iron, calcium and phytochemicals that protect cells and help eye health.  Eating more kale is a good thing to do.

I grow two varieties: Lacinato and Red Russian. Both are from Seed Saver's Exchange, a fabulous source of heirloom and rare seeds. Lacinato, also known as Dinosaur or Nero di Toscana kale, is an Italian heirloom that produces strappy, rumply, 12 to 18 inch long deep blue-green blades that taste mineral and deeply vegetal. Red Russian forms a beautiful purple-veined grey-green frilly leaf with a sweet and tender flavor. I had much better sprouting success with the Red Russian, so it dominates the garden this year.

I have played fast and loose with a salad from Dr. Terry Whals that was sold briefly at my local food co-op. She has an amazing story of overcoming multiple sclerosis through intensive nutrition. Kale plays a large part in her philosophy of recovery.

Citrus and raw kale salad.
Serves 4 to 6 as a side or starter. 

1 large bunch of kale leaves (I used 8 Lacinato and 8 Red Russian), washed, rinsed and with tough stems removed.
1 head of roasted garlic, cloves squeezed out, or 2 to 8 cloves of minced raw garlic
1 orange
1 grapefruit
3 tablespoons toasted sesame oil
2 tablespoons champagne or white wine vinegar
1 tablespoons tamari or soy sauce

For garnish:
1/4 cup dried tart cherries
1/4 cup slivered almonds 

Stack two or three kale leaves on top of each other and roll up tightly the long way like a green and ruffly cigar. Slice into thin 1/4 inch strips, fluff, and place in a bowl. Continue until all kale is sliced.

Segment your orange and grapefruit, making sure to keep the juice that drips out. Here is a photographic guide to segmenting your citrus. Cut any citrus wedges into smaller, bite-sized pieces if you want, or leave whole for a more visually impressive presentation. Add to the bowl with the kale.

In a bowl, put 3 tablespoons of citrus juice left over from segmenting the citrus (squeeze the remaining trimmed bits if necessary), the roasted or chopped garlic, and the remaining liquid ingredients: the sesame oil, vinegar and tamari or soy sauce. Whisk until combined, add salt and pepper to taste, and pour over the kale and citrus and mix thoroughly.

Plate up individually and garnish with the dried cherries and almonds, or add them and mix into the salad along with the dressing.

Kale is so sturdy that, unlike with most dressed salads, this stores in the refrigerator just fine for a few days. You can easily make this ahead of time.

Chard and Butternut savory bread pudding

I only really tried chard a few months ago, and I don't really know why I waited so long. No, wait, I do. I thought it would be over-the-top spinach in a composty, woody, you know it must be good for you because it is moderately unpleasant way. How unfair to the chard! It is actually quite nice in a green, tender, tastes so good you can't believe it is actually healthy (ok, so maybe you can believe it is healthy but it still tastes good anyway) way. Coupled with the overabundance of butternut still lurking in the basement, this is definitely the hot couple of the moment around these parts.

In order not to be overwhelmed with healthy goodness, I made a chard and butternut savory bread pudding with cheddar cheese, and the whole thing was eggy and satisfying with enough veggies mixed in to feel virtuous. This could be a light meal on its own or with soup, or a side dish for a more substantial dinner.

The recipe is a scrap cut from a long recycled cooking magazine. Some internet sleuthing found it on Epicurious and attributed it to Molly Wizenberg's  November 2009 Bon Appetit column. She's on an apple crumble jag right now, which looks pretty darned tasty, and would make a lovely finish to a butternut and chard bread pudding dinner.

Butternut and chard cheddar bread pudding after Molly Wizenberg in Bon Appetit.

1 butternut squash, peeled, seeded and chopped into 2 cm cubes
3 tablespoons olive oil
1 1/2 teaspoons salt plus additional
4 large eggs
1 cup half and half
3 tablespoons geneva (or use 6 tablespoons dry white wine)
1 1/2 teaspoons mustard
 5 cups cubed bread (1 medium loaf)
1 cup chopped shallots (about 4)
1 bunch of chard, stems removed and chopped
6 ounces of sharp cheddar cheese, grated 

Preheat the oven to 400 F. Toss the squash with 1 to 2 tablespoons oil and put onto a rimmed baking sheet. Or, do what I did and spray the pan with oil, toss on the squash, and give them a good spray. Sprinkle with salt and bake until tender, turning every 10 minutes, for a total of 20 to 25 minutes.

Whisk the eggs, half and half, geneva or wine, mustard, and 1 1/2 teaspoons salt in a large bowl. Add the bread (yes, large bowl necessary) and mix until the bread is starting to soak in the eggs. Let sit for 30 minutes, or while the squash is baking.

Meanwhile (3 things on the go here ... whew) heat 1 tablespoon of oil in a large pot or pan and saute the shallots until tender, which should take about 5 minutes. Drop the kale on top, put on a lid, and cook for 2 to 3 minutes. The chard should be tender and wilted. Stir, and continue to cook for another 5 minutes, until the chard is soft but not mushy.

When the squash is done, turn the oven to 350 F, Butter a 9 by 9 by 3 (or 10 by 10 by 3) baking dish. Spread half of the eggy bread across the bottom - it may not fully cover the entire bottom but just distribute as evenly as possible. Spoon half of the chard over the bread. Spoon half of the squash over the bread and chard. Sprinkle with half of the cheese. Repeat for another layer, in the same order; bread, chard, squash, cheese. If there is any eggy left in the bowl pour over the top.

Cover the dish with foil and bake for 20 minutes. Remove the foil and bake for another 20 minutes, until the custard is set and the bread feels springy.

Broil the top for 2 to 3 minutes until the cheese is brown, if you like, and let cool a little before serving.

 

Make it pioneer: substitute the chard for a package of baby spinach. No need to cook for the extra 5 minutes.

Make it Jersey: fry up a hot Italian sausage or two, slice thinly and layer in after the squash.

Make it rock & roll: use a mixture of cheeses including Gruyere and Parmesan.

Orange Soup = happy.

I've felt colder during these last few damp days in the 40's than I ever did during the crisp 20-below temperatures we've had over the winter. It must be some cruel trick of the mind, because we are so close to tomato-growing, flip-flop wearing weather I can practically see it, just around the bend, yet spring never felt so far away as it does on this particularly soggy day.

The perfect cure for damp is some form of orange food, being both cheerful and nutritious. Except Cheetos. But then, Cheetos don't really count as food. With the basement still overflowing from a glut of butternut harvested at the end of the summer (I lost count at 46), and some very lovely carrots lurking at the bottom of the fridge, I had a good start, and with the orange trifecta formed by adding tikka curry powder, I knew it would be a big ol' pot full of happy.

 

Tikka curried butternut carrot soup.

There's no real recipe, just some suggestions for combining. Take seven auspicious-looking carrots and give them a good scrub, then chop into 2-cm sized pieces and add to a pot that has a good glug of olive oil warming in it. Add a healthy pinch of salt, and while the carrots are cooking over medium heat, peel and chop one small butternut into 2-cm sized cubes. I do mean petite squash, mine yielded about 4 cups. Use part of one if you have a monster. Or just make it more butternutty. Now cut up some nice slabs of onion that you happened to have in the fridge because you roasted your chicken on top of them over the weekend, and then add that quart of homemade lamb stock from the week before, bung on the lid, and let it simmer on low for about 45 minutes until everything is tender. Break out the stick blender and go to town. Finish off with 2 tablespoons of tikka curry powder mixed in well, and watch the psychological snow berms melt away, making room for that first crocus of spring.

Melissa Clark's kick-@ss granola

Dear Ms. Clark,

I really enjoyed your cookbook, In the kitchen with a good appetite.  I particularly liked that it was an actual book, on nice rag paper, and not some gastroporn extravaganza with shiny shiny pages. Something about the texture of those shiny shiny pages makes my skin crawl, sometimes. I also liked that you shared so many personal anecdotes with us, about your life adventures, your cooking adventures, and misadventures of all sorts, and each was linked to a recipe that lives in that moment. I feel like I know you, a little. Like we could be friends, if we happened to run into each other and struck up a conversation.

It's only fair, then, that I tell you something with complete honesty: Your recipes, they rock, but your titles, while extremely accurate and descriptive, don't truly convey the magnificence of these dishes. Take 'Olive Oil Granola with Dried Apricots and Pistachios'. It is indeed granola made with olive oil. Yes you did add pistachios and apricots. What this title fails to express is just how sublime this granola is - savory and sweet-salty and yummy granola crack goodness.

My knitting ladies will tell you, we're all about the super supportive tough love around here. So I am going to rebrand this Kick-@ss Granola, for you.

yours sincerely,
Jammy Chicken

PS. Looking forward to the next cookbook. 

Melissa Clark's Kick-@ss Granola (with a few Jammy Chicken tweaks).

3 cups gluten-free old fashioned rolled oats (use regular if you like)
1 cup raw hazlenuts (bashed into halves and smaller pieces)
1 cup raw macadamia nuts (bashed as for hazelnuts) 
1 1/2 cup chipped coconut (also called coconut chips, not sweetened shredded coconut)
3/4 cup maple syrup
1/2 cup extra virgin olive oil
1/3 cup packed dark brown sugar
1 teaspoon sea salt
1/2 teaspoon cardamom seeds, ground
1 cup chopped dried apricot*

*If you like super-fruity granola feel free to add up to another 1 cup.

Preheat the oven to 300 F. 

Mix everything except the apricots together and spread out evenly on a large rimmed baking sheet (jelly roll pan, 11 x 17 inches).

Bake for 45 minutes total in-oven time, and every 10 minutes pull the sheet out of the oven and stir the granola around. I used a spatula to scrape into the corners.

When done, remove from the oven and put into a large bowl. You may want to give it the briefest hit of cooking spray to make sure the now hot and caramelized granola will not stick. Stir a few times as it cools for smaller individual granola pieces, or let it cool without stirring for larger clusters of granola conglomerate.

When completely cold, stir in the chopped apricots. Try not to eat it all at one time. If you have willpower, and there is any left, store in an air-tight container.

Top tip:  give your knife a quick spray of cooking oil when you chop the apricots and they will not stick.

 

Make it pioneer: Swap the cardamom for cinnamon, replace hazelnuts and macadamias with pecan pieces, and switch the apricots for dried tart cherries.

Make it Jersey: Swap the cardamom for ginger, replace the hazelnuts and macadamias with almond slivers, and switch the apricots for dried cranberries or craisins.

Make it rock & roll: In addition to the cardamom add an equal amount of ginger, replace the hazelnuts with more macadamia nuts, and replace the apricots with chopped dried pineapple and/or mango and/or papaya.

Glazed carrots with preserved lemon.

This wraps up our preserved lemon leitmotif, for now. But there are still jars lurking in the cabinet, and plenty of ideas. How about paper-baked salmon with preserved lemon and zucchini? Or a cold bulgar salad with preserved lemon and edamame? Or a moroccan-inspired lamb stew with preserved lemon and couscous? Oh yes, we will return to the preserved lemon, but not immediately. I need to make me some muffins next. But first, carrots.

This quick side dish showcases the bright and tangy flavor of the preserved lemon with a minimum of fuss. The recipe is based on Carotts Confites in Quiches, Kugels, and Couscous by Joan Nathan, but tweaked to use only one pan. Less dishwashing rocks. Also, carrots are great because they are orange, and orange food is just more fun, somehow.

 

Glazed Carrots with preserved lemon 

1 pound of carrots
peel of 1 preserved lemon, sliced thinly
5 tablespoons of honey, divided into 2 T and 3 T
1/2 cup water or vegetable stock
2 tablespoons olive oil

Wash and peel the carrots and slice thinly. I like to go fancy and cut the carrots into 2 inch logs, then slice each log in half the long way and then slice each half into thin planks about 3 mm wide. Something about cutting a carrot into little rectangles is perversely satisfying to me. Rounds are perfectly fine, if you find this odd or just can't be bothered.

Take a large frying pan with a lid and add the water or stock, the lemon peel, 2 tablespoons of the honey, and the carrots, stirring until they are combined.

Bring to a boil, then put the lid on, turn the heat down to medium, and simmer until the carrots are starting to become tender. This will take about 5 minutes. Once, in the middle, take the lid off and give the carrots another stir.

Remove the lid, turn the heat up to medium-high, and continue to cook until most of the liquid has evaporated. There should be only 1 to 2 tablespoons left in the bottom of the pan. This will take another 1 to 2 minutes.

When the liquid is almost gone, add 2 tablespoons of oil and the remaining 3 tablespoons of honey. Continue to cook for another 2 or 3 minutes, stirring, until the oil and honey and pan liquid form a glossy coat and glaze the carrots.

Serve warm or at room temperature.

 

Make it pioneer: swap out the oil and honey for an equal amount of brown sugar +  butter.

Make it Jersey: add some red pepper flakes with the honey.

Make it rock & roll: garnish with chopped pistachio nuts.