Chocolate is Good--Very, Very Good--But Sometimes You Need a Little Help

Poor Ruth Wakefield.

Now, I don’t remember ever turning down chocolate. But if I had invented the chocolate chip cookie, accidentally or otherwise (the baker’s chocolate Ruth always used in her cookies had run out, she had a chocolate bar around, which she broke into, as the late, great Gilda Radner might have said, “little teeny-tiny pieces,” they didn’t melt all the way but made—you guessed it—“chips”), here’s hoping I would have remembered why God invented consultants, lawyers, and other forms of aid and comfort.

Let’s go back in time to 1930 and listen in on a little conversation taking place at or near the Toll House Inn, which Ruth has recently bought.

“Oy! I am kvelling!” says Ruth, looking at her cookies and perhaps tasting several, in the interest of science.

Hi. It’s New England. Think “Yankee.”

 

“Not bad,” said Ruth Wakefield to a friend, as she cast an approving glance at her freshly-baked cookies.

“Ruth, that is just grand,” said the friend, whose name happened to be Andrew Nestle, and who had given her that particular chocolate bar, made by his very own company. “And you know what we’re going to do for you, Ruth? We’ll take that recipe and put it on our label. We’ll call them ‘Toll House Cookies.’ And guess what, Ruth? We’re going to give you a lifetime supply of chocolate!”

You say that makes you think of a transaction involving a bit of real estate known as “Manhattan”?

No, honey, that involved something called “wampum.” This here was chocolate. Remember, when we first met Ruth, she was running out of chocolate. Problem solved.¹ Let’s make cookies.

Cinnamon-Chocolate Chip Refrigerator Cookies (from the Williams-Sonoma Kitchen Library’s Cookies & Biscotti, Chuck Williams, Editor; Recipes, Kristine Kidd; makes about 4 dozen—well, 3½ dozen, once you deduct the samples)

¾ cup unsalted butter, at room temperature
½ cup granulated sugar
1½ teaspoons grated orange zest
1¼ teaspoons ground cinnamon (the fresher, the better. Grind your own, if you can. I also like Trader Joe's cinnamon.).
¼ teaspoon salt
2 egg yolks
1¾ cups all-purpose flour
1 cup miniature semisweet chocolate chips (Guittard chips are heavenly; if you can’t get the miniature ones, just chop the regular-sized ones into smaller pieces)
Cinnamon sugar (½ cup granulated sugar, combined with 1½ teaspoons ground cinnamon).

Combine the butter, granulated sugar, orange zest, cinnamon, and salt in a large bowl. Using an electric mixer set on high speed, beat until light and fluffy. Add the egg yolks and beat until light and fluffy. Reduce the speed to low, add the flour and chocolate chips and mix just until incorporated.

Turn the dough out onto a lightly floured work surface. Divide in half. Roll each piece between your palms and the work surface to form a log 1½ inches in diameter. Wrap the logs tightly in plastic wrap and refrigerate until firm, about 1 hour or as long as overnight.

Preheat an oven to 350° F. Lightly butter baking sheets. Unwrap the dough and cut each log into rounds ¼ inch thick—unless you are Diane Davis, in which case you will be rolling out the dough as one long ¼ inch thick sheet, and then cutting out little snowflakes and saving a half-dozen for “Love at First Bite.” (Hey, we don’t get a commission. We might settle for a lifetime supply of chocolate, though. [Valrhona 71%, thanks.]).

Where were we? Oh, right, we were about to transfer the dough to the prepared baking sheets, and space them 1½ inches apart. Consider it done.

Now bake them until the edges are brown, about 15 minutes. Transfer the cookies to wire racks and let cool for 5 minutes.

Put the cinnamon sugar in a bowl. Add several warm cookies and toss to coat with the sugar. Return the cookies to the racks to cool completely. Repeat with the remaining cookies. Store in an airtight container at room temperature for up to 5 days.

They should only last that long.

¹Maybe the problem really was solved. In 1936 Ruth came out with a cookbook that took off four years later, and ultimately went through 39 printings. And she probably did a whole lot of baking at the Toll House Inn. Wikipedia makes it sound as though trading the recipe for chocolate was Ruth’s idea. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ruth_Graves_Wakefield (Of course, we don’t know who wrote that entry.) Perhaps it was. Now, some might ask, “How many people have heard of ‘Toll House Cookies’? And how many have heard of Ruth Wakefield?”  

So did Ruth make a good deal, in the end? Discuss. Over cookies, of course.

©2011, 2013, 2014, 2015 Laynie Tzena.

Takin' It to the Streets, and For the Love of Purple

Yes, indeed! It's that time again.

http://www.sfstreetfoodfest.com/

Go early, so you can nosh before it gets mobbed, and also so you can save your appetite for Purple Heaven (c/o Amy X Neuberg):

http://www.facebook.com/?ref=home#!/event.php?eid=205120122862128

Sardines a la Monday, or Don’t Sweat the Small Fish

Once upon a time, I made the mistake of trying to persuade a fellow I was dating to rethink something. Girls, don’t try this at home. Or out. Or in the car.

Important news bulletin; please sit down: Men do not like being told what to do.

Well, no one does, right? But where a woman will tell you--and men, you can attest to this--just exactly what you did in 1992 that so troubled her, men do not do that. They simply go back to that planet they come from.

My friend David, rest in peace, once told me that when he was annoyed at someone and the person would call him to suggest a get-together, “I think, ‘No, I don’t want to have lunch with you. I want to kill you slowly.’ But what I say is, ‘Gosh, I’d love to, but I’m just real busy.’”

Men keep you guessing.

When I dated Prince Food Chain, I didn’t know what I know now. Because now I am old. I am 212 years old, but I am well-preserved because I ate so much herring in my formative years. (Which are still going on. Pass the herring, wouldya?)

The Prince made a point of saying that he didn’t eat small fish because they were eaten by large fish. (Or was it that he didn't eat large fish because they ate small fish? Once you get south of 100 years, memory fades--except for that guy in seventh grade.)

Now, one might think that every self-respecting fish probably had its eye on something smaller when it came to dinner. One might eat chicken, too. He didn't, and he wouldn't--I think it was the bones--though he said he didn't mind if I did. Luckily, bread and wine presented not a single problem. Holy communion, Batman! We were also soulmates when it came to dessert.

“Why are men so strange?” I sometimes ask my brother, as I tell him the latest.

“We feel the same way about you,” he replies.

Other news you can use: Borage flowers showed up at Heirloom Organics at the Ferry Plaza Farmers’ Market last week. They look like something from outer space (always a good sign, unless lights are flashing and you are being motioned toward a vehicle--in which case, it's your call). I took one taste and said, “I’m going to use this with fish.” Dave smiled. “Anchovies,” I said, “or maybe sardines.” He said, “I put it on pasta.” That sounds good, too. Hey, I’d eat this pesto off my boyfriend’s arm--as long as the boyfriend in question wasn’t Prince Food Chain. No, the Prince wouldn’t have liked this sandwich at all. So if you see him, don’t mention it.

Sardines a la Monday:

½ can sardines in spring water
2 slices sprouted rye bread

For the pesto:

Handful borage flowers (or use thyme)
1 stalk green garlic
1 stalk green shallot (or use a small shallot and some chives or the green part of a scallion)
Juice and zest of ½ lemon
2 anchovies
Drizzle really good extra virgin olive oil (I used LA)
Healthy sprinkle of fresh-ground black pepper

Pound the green garlic a bit, then chop with green shallot and borage flowers. Add the lemon juice and zest and the anchovies. Blend in the food processor. Drizzle in olive oil, add pepper, and taste.

Spread pesto on one slice of bread, place a couple of sardines on the other, combine, and enjoy. Tonight that sandwich had some great company: asparagus and fresh orange bergamot mint tea.

©2011, 2015 Laynie Tzena.

Tuxedo Under Raincoat, or Listen to Jim: Anthropology for Foodies

I was at the Farmers' Market the other day, eyeing some especially good-looking Lisbon lemons Twin Girls Farms had on offer.

"Do you have any Meyer lemons?" somebody asked.

"Sorry, no," came the reply.

And she passed right over those Lisbons.

Now, I think Meyer lemons are out of this world. Some people have Meyer lemon trees in their very own backyards. Lucky ducks. I have a fruit tree, too, with figs so beautiful they could make you cry, so full you know they will burst any minute. But those figs, like the tree that is their very own display rack, belong to my landlord, and I wouldn't dream of touching them.

Because once upon a time I had a (fill in adjective here) neighbor who was growing something I have blocked out of memory. (I was growing black peppermint and perpendicular carrots* at the time, since you asked, and rosemary that is now approximately the size of those items so popular during the month of December.)

I mentioned to my neighbor, in passing, that I had tasted a strawberry or whatever it was and he should feel free to have some mint and rosemary and perhaps a perpendicular carrot, too, and next thing you know Mr. Wonderful had written in red, on a piece of wood that he had thoughtfully nailed to the garden wall, a note informing me that he had taken something of mine from the garden in restitution, and then I believe he shared with me and whomever else happened to be reading the garden wall at the time some actions he was considering.

Fortunately, our paths never crossed after that because a) he was on another floor; and b) I avoided him like the plague. And then one day he moved to another state and I could go into the backyard again.**

Praise the Lord.

At any rate: I was tempted to ask the nice lady shopping at the Farmers' Market if she had ever heard of oranges or mandarins (which we in New Jersey always called "tangerines," but I digress). Because I wanted to tell her what I realized sometime last year: a lemon--say, one of those fine Lisbon lemons that was languishing right in front of her very eyes) + an orange or an orange relative = (pretty much) 1 Meyer lemon.

I kept my mouth shut.

Reminded me of the times I've been at Whole Foods and they've had one of their fabulous half- or whole salmon sales. We're talking beautiful fish here. And someone comes up to the counter and asks for the $49/lb. salmon filet. And I ask what they're planning to do with the fish.

They are putting a sauce on it.

This is a bit like putting a raincoat on a tuxedo and not removing it for the entire evening. (The raincoat. If you are in the habit of taking off your tuxedo in the middle of the festivities, I cannot help you.)

But as my mother likes to say, "As long as they're happy."

While I am at the fish counter I do (gently) lobby for people to split the half- or whole salmon with me, though. That's a lotta salmon.

And now, back to Pesach.

Maroo-Cashew Charoset:

¼ cup Maroo raisins (or pour boiling water over Thompson raisins and plump for about 10 minutes)
2-3 dates (at least one Medjool and one Deglet, which is a bit dryer)
3 kumquats
2 tablespoons raw cashews
1 blood orange
1 lemon
1 slice ginger root, peeled and minced; or a pinch of ground ginger
Sesame seeds (unless you’re off kitniyot*** this week)

Preheat oven to 250 degrees. Plump raisins, if not Maroo. Place cashews on cookie sheet and toast (or dry roast them in a cast iron skillet), then chop. Chop dates into small pieces. Slice kumquats in half and remove seeds, chop without removing rind, and add to dates and raisins. Cut blood orange and lemon in half. (Reserve the unused half of each.) Juice the half-blood orange and half-lemon, then remove the zest from them. Add the toasted cashews and zest to the fruit mixture, along with the fresh or ground ginger. Now add the blood orange and lemon juice, toss, and taste. If needed, juice the remaining blood orange and lemon and add to the charoset. Toast sesame seeds, place atop charoset, and serve.

*There is nothing like growing your own carrots to give you enormous respect for the well-formed versions found at the Farmers' Markets and the store.

**I've had lots of neighbors in the 20-plus years I've lived here. Many have become friends. Some have been memorable: a couple that seemed to be practicing modern dance--until the police came; the woman who audibly enjoyed her boyfriend. But Mr. Wonderful does stand out. Rumor has it he is now in the South. I imagine him living in Flannery O'Connor's old neighborhood.

***What’s “kitniyot”? Among other things, sesame seeds. Honey, you could always look it up, you know.

Wait. What do you mean "Listen to Jim"?

I asked my friend Jim at the Farmers' Market if he thought it was funny when people would tell him their orders each time, week after week, given that they usually ordered the same exact thing.

He said, "You really want to know what I think?"

"Yeah," I said.

Somebody else might have looked around to see if anybody else could hear him. Not Jim. He just smiled and said, "People are weird about food."

©2011, 2012, 2013, 2014, 2015 Laynie Tzena.

Do Your Own Dance

So it's Pesach ("Passover," in English), and that means letting go of the usual food. For those of us who start our days with hot cereal, half the time (steel cut oats, for me; look for my favorite version at "It's All About Ed and Mollie" on this very blog), it's quite a ride. It really is something to see how you feel when your favorite foods are suddenly gone. It can throw you a bit, but it's also very freeing.

More good news. There is something called charoset that was apparently invented not just to symbolize the bricks and mortar from way back when we were in the construction business, but also to help people today get through this particular week.

Here's a version of charoset I came up with in my kitchen. Try this once, and then do your own dance. Maybe you'll use apricots instead of the persimmons, almonds or pistachios instead of the hazelnuts. Whatever you do, make it delicious, and make it yours.

Cinnamon Orange Persimmon Charoset:

2 dried whole persimmons
2 Medjool or 4 Derrie dates
1 navel orange*
¼ cup walnuts
¼ cup hazelnuts
1 lime
½ teaspoon Vietnamese cinnamon**
Cocoa powder

Preheat oven to 400 degrees. Place walnuts and hazelnuts on cookie sheet and toast (or dry roast them in a cast iron skillet), then chop them. Chop persimmons and dates. Slice orange in half; remove white pith and membrane, so you have sections.

Now cut those orange sections into little, tiny pieces, squeezing them a little as you go, so they dissolve a bit. Place oranges in bowl with persimmons and dates. Using a microplane or a zester (or you could always use a grater; just keep those Band-Aids handy), remove outer peel (called zest) from orange and lime, and add to the oranges, persimmons, and dates. Add the chopped nuts, Vietnamese cinnamon, and a pinch of cocoa powder. Juice the lime, add to the charoset, toss and serve.

*If the navel orange is dry, just add a bit of fresh orange juice or red wine to the charoset at the end. You could also use a Murcott or even a Minneola.

**If you don't have Vietnamese cinnamon, use either really fresh cinnamon or heat the one that's been sitting in the cupboard in a dry skillet for a few minutes to add more flavor.

©2011, 2012, 2013, 2014, 2015 Laynie Tzena.

Save That Daylight, or Better Than Fine

Welcome back! (I know, that's your line.)

So: My new illustrated story, "Mirror, Mirror on the Floor, or The Evolution of the Feminine," which I spent the last two months creating for the BJE show (bjesf.org, ask me about it sometime) is now up at the Jewish Library. And no, you don't have to be Jewish to go and see it. You do have to be in San Francisco, though. But hey, it's everybody's favorite city, right?

What? Food, you say? Oh, honey, do I have recipes for you. Let's start with "Hickory Dickory Chicory," from here:

http://cookwithlaynie.blogspot.com/2010/06/identical-cousins-or-that-reminds-me-in.html

You know, I have really been missing that salad and trying to think of what to use until cherries come back into season.

Yeah, sure, dried cherries, but no. They just weren't right for this.

I kept asking people, "So what do you think would be a good substitute for fresh cherries in a salad?" and they kept looking at me funny.

Then one day I thought, "Turkish apricots!"

Now, I often think of Turkish apricots. But this time it was because of their luscious texture, which seemed closer to a fresh cherry than a dried cherry would be (families are like that) and a sweetness that's not over-the-top and might provide a nice balance to the slight bitterness of the radicchio.

And the verdict? They were just fine. In fact, better than fine.

So here, for our dining pleasure, is the tail-end-of-winter version.

Hickory Dickory Save-That-Daylight Chicory:

For the salad:

1 head radicchio di Chioggia (the roundish red one)
Healthy handful (say 1/4 lb. or so) dried Turkish apricots

For the dressing:

1 tablespoon plus 1 teaspoon canola oil
1 tablespoon plus 1 teaspoon toasted walnut oil
1 tablespoon port vinegar (I love O vinegar for this)
Smidgen of Dijon mustard
Healthy pinch of freshly-ground black pepper
Tiny pinch of salt

Cut off the very bottom of the radicchio, and pull the leaves off the base. Rinse and pat dry, then pile the leaves one on top of the other and slice into strips. Slice strips in half and set aside.

Chop the apricots into half-inch pieces, then gently pull those pieces open so the fleshy part of the apricot soaks up the vinaigrette. Be sure to eat a couple of pieces as you go, in the interest of science.

Whisk the oils, vinegar, mustard, and pepper together, and taste the dressing. Add salt as needed. Now add the radicchio and toss; add the apricots, toss again, and serve.

And yes, I think extra daylight is a fine idea. I am past the days of thinking, "Maybe I won't switch," which is a great approach until you realize the rest of the world will view you not as brave and independent, but simply late.

©2011, 2013, 2014 Laynie Tzena.