I’m honored to be guest posting at Jana’s blog Zuckerbaeckerei once again this year as part of her blog’s advent calendar. My post will be available at her blog, in German, on December 10th.

After some deliberation about what to make for this post, I decided on Chartreuse Panna Cottas with a chocolate mousse. It is a dessert that has already graced our dinner table numerous times this year, and though it may sound deceivingly elaborate, it is actually quite simple to make.

Chartreuse has a unique flavor. It is a slightly spicy liqueur with herbal undertones, and upon tasting it, no obvious flavor combinations come to mind. It was my father who discovered, at the start of this year, how harmoniously its flavor melds with chocolate. When paired together, each flavor is no longer distinct —the warm roundness of the chocolate flavor blends with the savory element of the Chartreuse to form a base over which the liqueur’s herbal tinges dance. It’s an exotic-tasting combination.

I decided to incorporate the chocolate component of the flavor pairing in the form of a mousse. The mousse is airy and rich all at once, and offers a pleasant textural contrast to the creamy Panna Cotta. It has only two main ingredients and can be made in less than fifteen minutes.

However, I did run into some mishaps, while making it for the first time, that are worth warning you about. The melted chocolate will likely seize when the egg yolks are added to it. The mixture may then become stiff and cool, and will be hard to fold into the mousse. Though the little chunks of chocolate peppered throughout the mousse are not unpleasant, they can be avoided by simply keeping the chocolate-egg yolk mixture supple over low heat.

Thank you, Jana, for inviting me to participate in your advent calendar!

Panna Cotta
Makes eight servings
Adapted from David Lebovitz

4 cups (1liter) heavy cream (I substituted two of these cups with milk)
1/2 cup (100g) sugar
2 ½ tablespoons chartreuse
2 packets powdered gelatin* (about 4 1/2 teaspoons)
6 tablespoons (90ml) cold water

Heat the heavy cream and sugar in a saucepan or microwave. Once the sugar is dissolved, remove from heat and stir in the chartreuse. If you plan on unmolding the Panna Cottas, lightly oil the eight custard cups with a neutral-tasting oil.

Sprinkle the gelatin over the cold water in a medium-sized bowl and let stand 5 to 10 minutes.* Pour the very warm Panna Cotta mixture over the gelatin and stir until the gelatin is completely dissolved.

Divide the Panna Cotta mixture into the prepared cups, then chill them until firm—at least four hours or overnight.

Run a sharp knife around the edge of each Panna Cotta and unmold each onto a serving plate.

*To make Panna Cotta with sheet gelatin: Soften 25g (approximately six 3×5 sheets) in a liter of cold water for 5 to 10 minutes. Wring the sheets out and stir them into the warm Panna Cotta mixture in step # 4, until dissolved.

Chocolate Mousse
Makes 4 large pots or 6-10 smaller pots
Adapted from Frugal Feeding

200g dark chocolate
4 eggs, separated
2 tablespoons sugar

Melt the chocolate in a microwave or in a bowl over a pan of boiling water, then remove from heat. Beat the egg yolks into the chocolate one by one. The mixture may appear to seize, but keeping it warm should prevent it from becoming unmanageable.
Transfer the egg whites into a large mixing bowl and beat until they form soft peaks. Add the sugar and continue to beat until they begin to form harder, stiffer peaks – be careful not to overbeat. Gently fold the egg whites into the chocolate mixture in four parts. I find it easiest to mix in the first part until well incorporated, then gently fold in the last three parts.
When fully incorporated transfer the mixture into cups of your choice, and let chill at least two hours.
To serve the mousse as a layer over the Panna Cotta, carefully dollop a spoonful over the already set Panna Cottas and, using the back of a spoon, push the mousse towards the outer edges of the cup in circular motions while rotating the cup.

My mother jokingly refers to herself as “The Dishwasher.” With my love of baking and my younger sister’s newfound love of cooking, washing dishes is the only kitchen chore left over. But my mother likes her new position, likes that her two children have developed such an intimate relationship with food.

It seems that just two months ago, my sister, C-, would venture into the kitchen only when in search of a handful of nuts or a spoonful of peanut butter—quests that were strictly snack-driven. But now, mere weeks after watching her first episode of Master Chef, she’s become as able and agile as I could ever wish to be.

From Summer 2013

Already she’s perfected Sunday morning scrambled eggs. Her bruschetta is representative of her knack for seasoning. She’s even tackled beef wellington, surprising my entire family when the knife cut through the crisp pastry to reveal meat cooked to perfection—pink, and tender with juices.

Though C- is only thirteen and takes up half as much space as my father, she has just as much presence in the kitchen. Usually, she wants to be completely independent in her cooking, just as I did. Sometimes she lets me help her nonetheless (with minor things, and ever so rarely). She hands me a spatula to stir a pot of beef stew, a knife to dice carrots. And on the occasions my help is requested, I feel special.

From Summer 2013

Because her love of cooking was sparked in much the same manner as my love of baking, I can picture how the next few months of C-‘s  hobby will unfold.

She’ll experiment with recipes of increasing difficulty, mastering the basics in the process. She’ll brainstorm recipe ideas in the margins of her notebook at school. She might even daydream about culinary school, sighing happily at the thought of spending entire days in the kitchen. Perhaps she’ll start a food blog of her own.

From Summer 2013

I’ve perfected the bread-making part of this recipe, but my pesto never comes out quite right. It’s always a little too oily, a little too lumpy. It’s in need of a confident hand to whir it into cohesion. The next time I make it, I’ll request C-‘s help.

This bread is moist and tender, and slightly crisp around the edges. It’s savory, garlicky, but fresh because of the basil. And it disappeared in under twenty minutes at my dinner table.

I suggest clicking on the link below to The Foodie Bride’s post for step-by-step photo instructions on how to shape the bread. Keep in mind that it’s rather tricky to transfer, so shaping the loaf on the sheet you intend to bake it on is safest.

From Summer 2013

Braided Pesto Bread

From Confections of a Foodie Bride Makes one loaf, or about 12 slices

For the pesto (Adapted from Encyclopedia of Pasta Sauce) Yields: 1 1/4 cup

2 cups lightly packed basil leaves
1 garlic clove J
uice of 1/2 a small lemon
3/4 cup grated parmesan cheese
Pinch of salt
1/3 cup olive oil (or more to reach desired consistency)

Add basil, garlic, and lemon juice  to the bowl of your food processor and run until smooth. Stream in the oil with the processor running until you reach desired consistency. Add the cheese and a pinch of salt, pulse 2 or 3 times to combine.

For the bread:

1 cup warm water
2 tsp yeast
2 1/2 cups flour, plus more for dusting work surface
1 Tbsp olive oil
1 tsp salt

For the loaf:

~1/2 cup pesto, purchased or homemade
2 Tbsp grated parmesan

Place warm water in the bowl of your stand mixer fitted with the dough hook and sprinkle yeast over top. Let sit 10 minutes – if the yeast doesn’t get frothy or swell, toss it and buy new yeast.

Add the flour, oil, and salt and turn the mixer to low. Knead the dough for 5 minutes until smooth and elastic – after about 2 minutes, the dough should completely clean the bottom and sides of the bowl. If it does not, add additional flour, one spoonful at a time until it does.

Form the dough into a smooth ball and transfer to a lightly greased bowl and let rise until doubled (about 1 hour on the countertop, quicker in a slightly warmed oven).

Preheat oven to 425. Lightly flour your work surface. Gently stretch and elongate your dough round. Roll into a rectangle ~18×12 inches. Spoon pesto over top, spreading evenly, leaving a clean 1/2-inch border around the edges. Roll the long side of the dough to you and pinch the seam closed.

Transfer to your parchment-lined or cornmeal-dusted baking sheet. Cut the dough in half down the length of the dough and pinch the top ends together. Working quickly, braid the two pieces, trying to keep the pieces twisted so the cut ends remain on top. When you get to the bottom, pinch the ends together and wrap into a wreath.

Transfer to your baking sheet and let rest for 30 minutes. Top with shredded parmesan and bake for 25 minutes, until golden brown. Let cool slightly and slice to serve.

From Summer 2013

When my father suggested writing a guest post after having watched “The Manchurian Candidate” with me,  I thought he was kidding. But a few days later, the first draft of his post lay in my inbox. In a discussion of the politics of fear, he wittily ties my raspberry lemon bars to an insult (“communist tart”) heard in the movie. 

When I was little, pink lemonade was believed to be a rare and exotic flavor. It was my favorite Jolly Rancher flavor, worth its double of green apple or watermelon. Precisely how pink lemonade differed from yellow lemonade seemed never to be a point of discussion. Perhaps we assumed the lemons were pink as pink grapefruit are pink.

A disconnected memory comes to my mind of some young girl acquaintance my own age then, somewhere in the eternity between 6 and 11, shouting her excitement that a particular stand at some fair we were attending had pink lemonade. All I can remember is a single scene:  her shoulder-length, straight, strawberry-blond hair, the late summer sun, the dirt below, and my complete acceptance that pink lemonade was in the pantheon of flavors, worth the shocking price typical of carnival fare.

From Summer 2013

None of us even tried to describe the flavor of pink. We were satisfied simply to be connoisseurs in the know. Many years later, a friend, by no means little, not a girl, having short, brown hair, jaded and worldly, during the mere epoch of college, responded to my interest in pink lemonade dismissively, claiming it to be common lemonade with pink dye, and told me I could simply add a spoonful of frozen Concord grape juice concentrate if I thought pinkness would make it better. I should have known better than to have asked a chemistry major, and a home brewer besides. The color was good, but it did not taste pink to me. It reminds me of recipes for Rote Gruesse requiring red fruits. It seems that is interpreted as red currents, raspberries, strawberries, and cherries, an apparent domination of the aesthetic by color, rather than by flavor.

We visited the grandparental town this summer during the middle of berry season. Strawberries were done, blackberries were still flowers, blueberries were abundant, and every fruit stall at the farmers’ market had raspberries. I was not the only one to notice the profusion of berries or to realize their transient nature:  a little boy, perhaps five, was there, straining on his mother’s arm as if it were a leash exclaiming “Berries! Berries! Berries!”

From Summer 2013

My daughter made a raspberry-lemon tart this summer that had both a remarkable color and wonderfully balanced raspberry and lemon flavors. Definitely blogsworthy, thought I, as the last piece disappeared into her little cousin’s mouth a few minutes after the tart was placed on the table.

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My daughter had an assignment on McCarthyism last spring. Though those events were long before I was born, my fascination with argumentation, intrigue, conspiracy theories, and ideologies all got pinged. I thought to try to continue her education at home. My rock and roll homeschool lessons were easy thanks to YouTube, but I realized for the more serious subject of the politics of fear, my homeschool would need a more substantial medium, such as Hollywood. The first two assignments were recent documentaries addressing, in part, aspects of the political exploitation of fear: Michael Moore’s “Fahrenheit 911” and “Bowling for Columbine.” Already in adulthood and having followed these stories closely in the news from great geographical and cultural distances (Berlin and San Francisco, respectively), I felt I could provide sufficient background, criticize, indicate missing arguments, keep some distance, and explain some of the controversies engendered.

From Summer 2013

The next assignment was intrigue using the 1962 version of “The Manchurian Candidate.” I first saw this film when it was re-released in 1988 at Cinema 21 in Portland (just down the block from where I lived). The absence of showings for so many years itself elicited a conspiracy theory that it was suppressed. I tried to find the Kindle version of the novel. Available not at amazon, but at amazon uk, yet not available to US Kindle users. Suspicious, I searched for information about the book. I found an article written by the author (“‘Manchurian Candidate’ in Dallas” 1963) in response to the accusation that the author was responsible for John F. Kennedy’s assassination. The article is very well written, and it presents some of the same themes as “Bowling for Columbine” does decades later. The politics of fear are powerful and enduring.

The DVD cover of “The Manchurian Candidate” highlights the actors Frank Sinatra, Laurence Harvey, and Janet Leigh. Note that the familiar Angela Lansbury, who has a far greater role than Janet Leigh, is not. At first, I was surprised, because I knew who Angela Lansbury was from her roles in “Bedknobs and Broomsticks,” and “Murder, She Wrote,” and I had no idea who Janet Leigh was (this indicates my age), but the cover is about selling, and beauty and glamour sell better than honesty. The magnificently intertwined intrigue skirts between realism and satire. The anti-communist senator rants, sounds as if he is drunk, and every time claims a different number of communists in the Department of Defense. Is it a simple thriller, a criticism of the gullible populace, a satire of campaign politics, or fear-mongering? Or all of them together?

From Summer 2013

Two scenes struck me in the film. One was when the evil mother (watch out for allusions to Greek tragedies) is puppeteering her ranting anti-communist senator-husband as he crashes a hearing by making wild allegations about the communist infestation. She is in the hearing room, watching a television showing the hearing live in order to judge when to signal his outburst. That was 1962. It immediately recalled an episode in the Iran-Contra hearings of 1987. I was working as a research assistant at a Veteran’s Administration Medical Center (without pay or benefits, but that is another story) when I had the worst ‘flu I had ever had. I took an entire week off to spend in bed in the throes of fever. The Iran-Contra hearings were broadcast live on radio, and with my delirium to help me interpret, I listened to many, many hours. At one point, the radio commentators discussed how some reporters would bring televisions into the hearing, because what they saw with their own eyes seemed to give a puzzlingly different impression of what was seen on television. In particular, it was noted that the credibility of Oliver North was far better on television than live (and radio). Of course, it is all about show. Thus, the next assignment was “Wag the Dog,” where the concept of show is elaborated fully in the context of scandal and re-election, and eerily preminiscent (I know this is not a real word, but it is apt) of the Lewinsky scandal.

From Summer 2013

Bear in mind my fascination with these themes and belief in their pedagogical value. I have a colleague who is an endless source of conspiracy theories about the Middle East, usually contradictory to themselves, his last, and his next. At first, I was so naive as to disregard all conspiracy theories, especially the self-contradictory variety, but after a few years, I realize that they are often more likely to be all true, and the more contradictions, the more veracity, just like people.

The other scene that triggered my mind in “The Manchurian Candidate” was when the evil mother refers to her son’s love interest, the sweet blond (strawberry blond?) daughter of the other senator, a political rival, as a “communist tart.” That, I thought, is a perfect name for the raspberry-lemon tart. It is not a pinko color sympathizer:  it is the real thing with true raspberry flavor.

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To be served on red china:

 Pink Lemonade Bars

from Smitten Kitchen
Makes one 9″ tart

For the base:
1/4 cup (50 grams) granulated sugar
1/4 teaspoon freshly grated lemon zest
1/8 teaspoon table salt
1/2 cup (4 ounces or 115 grams) unsalted butter, cut into chunks
1 cup (125 grams) flour

For the lemonade layer
1 cup (about 5 ounces or 140 grams) raspberries
2 large eggs
3/4 cup (150 grams) granulated sugar
1/4 cup freshly squeezed lemon juice; this should only require 2 lemons
1/3 cup (40 grams) all-purpose flour
Confectioners’ sugar, for dusting

Preheat your oven to 350°F (180°C) and line an 8x8x2-inch baking pan with parchment, letting it extend up two sides. Butter or coat the bottom and sides with a nonstick spray and set the pan aside.

Make the base: In a food processor, pulse together the sugar, zest and salt until combined. Add the butter and pulse until it is evenly dispersed in the dough. Add the flour and pulse the machine until it’s just combined and the mixture is crumbly. Press the dough into the prepared pan and about 1/2-inch up the sides. Don’t worry about making this perfect; mine was an uneven mess and nobody can tell. Bake for 15 minutes, until lightly browned at edges. Let cool on a rack while you prepare the filling (though no need for it to be completely cool when you fill it). Leave oven on.

Make the pink lemonade layer: Puree the raspberries in your food processor until they’re as liquefied as they’ll get. I don’t even bother cleaning mine between steps, but I’m also probably lazier than you. Run the puree through a fine-mesh sieve, trying to press out all the raspberry puree that you can, leaving the seeds behind. I ended up with 1/3 cup strained puree; don’t worry if you get a smidge less.

In a medium bowl, whisk together the eggs, sugar and lemon juice until smooth. Whisk in 3 tablespoons of raspberry puree. Stir in flour. Pour into cooling crust and return pan to the oven, baking the bars until they’re set (they’ll barely jiggle) and slightly golden at the edges, about 25 to 30 minutes. Cool completely before cutting into rectangles. (You can speed this up in the fridge.)

I intended to cut mine into 32 2×1-inch rectangles but actually cut them into 28 2×1-ish rectangles. I like lemony bars small but you could also cut them into 16 2×2-inch squares. Dust with powdered sugar before serving. Store in fridge for up to a week.

At the end of last year, I jumped at the opportunity to work at the summer camp my school was running. Though I had initially been set on teaching English, the empty slots in the younger classes meant that my friend and I would spend time with the 4-5 year olds.

It was remarkable how many distinct personalities I encountered that first day. Some were interested only in play, trekking off to the hula-hoops and colorful scarves the minute they laid their eyes on them. Others immediately took to holding my hand and asking me questions. They wanted to know where I was from, why there weren’t any pink scarves, and what was my name, again? Most had personalities so defined that I could imagine them years older, at my age.

From Summer 2013

Though every child had a different level of involvement in the activities we played, even the more timid ones were delightfully uninhibited.

Unfortunately, I caught the flu the second day on the job.

I woke up in the middle of the night with a parched throat and a groggy certainty that come morning, I’d be too sick for work. I was bummed. I missed two days, too contagious to be around the children.

There is a line from The School of Essential Ingredients by Erica Bauermeister that has always evoked images of custard in my mind. Though the little girl is describing a white sauce—“its smell feeling of quiet at the end of an illness, when the world is starting to feel gentle and welcoming once again”—it strikes me as the perfect description of a crème caramel.

From Summer 2013

This crème caramel is pleasantly dense, and easily gives way to the gentle pressure of a prodding spoon. It is rich, comforting, delectably sweet. It was my sole post-flu craving. Imagine my disappointment when the kitchen sink revealed the last little dish soaking in water, crème caramel scraped away, evidently eaten straight from the cup.

Although I am not quite up to par with my grandmother’s crème caramel-making abilities, mine still elicited the tranquil, tender qualities that are so beautifully portrayed in Bauermeister’s words.

And as I finally returned to the summer camp and told the inquiring children about my flu, I began to search the drawers of my mind to place the quote that described just how relieved I felt to be back at work.

Creme Caramel
lightly adapted from The Yummy Morsel
makes 6 servings

2 cups milk
3 eggs
1 and 1/3 cup sugar
2 tsp vanilla bean paste, or seeds scrapped from one vanilla bean

I’ve been composing posts in my head since the beginning of February. The first was one to celebrate my blogoversary, now long past. Another was about my experience at the international music festival I finally placed into in March. The next related the stress the International Baccalaureate wreaks on its candidates, expressed my sadness at the closure of another school year, and come summer vacation, confided my tendency to fall swiftly in love with new cities. The topics seemed endless.

In my head, the words come naturally, the sentences flow. But now, as I’m finally attempting to write for my blog after months of writing in my mind, I’m struggling. The formality of sitting down with the intention of writing a post stamps out all ideas. And it certainly doesn’t help my writing rut when I haven’t baked anything worth sharing in months.

From Summer 2013

It was on a whim that I decided to bake again last month. I’d come home from school with a scratchy throat and all too exhausted from the stress of final exams.

I had a bungling return.

I dropped the measuring cup twice. I almost burnt the sugar while  studying, jolted back to reality only by its gurgling, then stubbed my toe on my way out. The unwashed after-dinner dishes in the sink and the thought of waiting for cold butter to warm almost deterred me. But as condensation formed on the butter wrapper, the kitchen called.

I can’t quite remember what I baked that day, but whatever it was that came out of the oven—though completely “un-blogsworthy”—helped me realize how much I had missed baking.

From Summer 2013

Now, I’m happily—finally—on vacation. While there are college applications to think about, summer work to be done, and assigned books to be read, I can spare time each week to bake, and with a little motivation, to blog regularly again.

This affogato is inspired by the Turkish coffee flavored with cardamom that is popular throughout the Middle East, but more directly by a little gelato shop we visited in D.C. I’m not fond of strong coffee, but I loved the affogato. The bitterness of the hot coffee is sharp at first, traveling in pinpricks up the sides of the tongue. But the cardamom ice cream is a juxtaposing cold and creamy, and leaves a coat of  sweetness in its wake—the perfect balance between bitter and sweet. Blended together, the cardamom and coffee become indistinguishable from one another. Together the two separate flavors form a fragrant, spiced, and exotic combination.

Fleur de Lait Cardamom Ice Cream

Adapted from The Perfect Scoop, by David Lebovitz
Makes about about 3 cups

2 cups whole milk
3/4 cup sugar
pinch of salt
3 tablespoons cornstarch
1 cup heavy cream
2 tablespoons cardamom pods

Put the milk,  sugar, salt, and cardamom pods in a heavy saucepan, and warm over low heat. Once steaming, remove from heat and let the mixture steep for an hour. Pour the mixture through a sieve and discard cardamom pods.

Whisk the cold heavy cream and cornstarch together in a measuring cup until the cornstarch is dissolved, then stir this into the milk. (To avoid lumps of cornstarch, I usually mix a little of the cream into the cornstarch to make a smooth paste, then gradually add the rest of the cream).

Heat the cardamom-milk mixture, stirring frequently, until it begins to bubble up. Remove from the heat and stir for two minutes, then pour into a large bowl. Stir frequently for 5 minutes more, to release the steam and cool it down, then refrigerate the mixture for several hours or overnight. Once chilled, freeze in your ice cream maker according to the manufacturers’ instructions.

Assembly

Place a scoop of cardamom ice cream into a shallow glass. Pour a shot of espresso (brewed to your taste) over the ice cream. Serve immediately.

From Summer 2013

In mid-November, I traveled to Nepal with school. I’d never expected to ever visit the country, but when my school announced it as the annual travel destination for the 11th grade, I signed up immediately.

It’s been more than a month since we’ve come back, but some mornings, I still wake up smelling Nepal.

It’s the kind of heavy scent that buries itself deep inside my memory, but feels so fresh and real that I’m found confusing my imagination for the doubt that it’s still clinging to my hair, like a memory that refuses to be washed out. It’s musky and a little sour. On the first days in Nepal, I mistook it for the redolence of an exotic spice, but now I’m near certain it’s the mingled smell of cow dung, rotting fruit, and sandy dust. It’s rather charming in it’s own way. I even find myself missing it every once in a while, wishing to be transported back to the day of our flight, when the entire trip was still before us.

Under normal circumstances, I would imagine that the week before the trip would have been hectic with excitement. I would have found it hard to concentrate in class. I would have packed a few days in advance. But in reality, the anticipation didn’t start until I had already lugged my duffel bag to school at midnight. I had been overworked and sleep deprived the entire week before, and hadn’t even thought to start packing until I realized in a panic that our flight would be taking off in less than a day.

From Drop Box

A fish stand in Bhaktapur

My math class had done much the same. Amidst overheard yawns of, “Have you started packing?”
“No, because sleep. I needed sleep,” from the seats across from me, I began feeling a little less guilty about paying Nepal so little excitement.

But once there, I realized how much there was to be excited about. I began scribbling down ideas and sentence fragments for the article I was to write in the school newspaper into the notebook I kept stashed between strawberry gum and pens in my backpack.

The entire country thrived with culture. On the first day, we visited Bhaktapur, where we trekked around town to bargain for the best prices. Bhaktapur is a little town in the east corner of the Kathmandu Valley, with winding dirt streets and motorcycles that move alarmingly fast, and with people who were eager to help us find our way around. Kathmandu was similar, and had the same down to earth air that is not common in large cities.

From Drop Box

Bhaktapur

In the coming days, we white water rafted, repelled down waterfalls, and hiked for hours, surrounded by mountain ranges that were a faded matcha green, and whose dustiness lent them a sense of etherealness. It was exhilarating, daring, sometimes a little frightening.
But in interviewing my friends, I realized that most of us will probably remember Nepal for the effect its people and culture had on us. The nature was breathtaking, oftentimes even imposing in its beauty, but the genuine warmth of the Nepalese had a stronger, deeper pull.

What struck me about Nepal is how happy its people seemed to be, and how happy I was in return. The simplicity of life there urged us to reconsider our values.

Back home, I sniffed the pocket notebook I’d taken with me on the trip in hopes of smelling again that scent that’s so hard to describe. But the pages smell like strawberry gum, disappointing and artificial.

These matcha cookies have nothing to do with my trip. In fact, I made them months before. But in editing the photos, I realized how similar their shade of green was to the mountains that had surrounded us for the better part of a week in Nepal.

They’re dainty little cookies, crumbly, and with a coarse crumb. Their sugar enrobing makes them satisfyingly sweet, but without taking away from their delicate green tea flavor.

From Drop Box

3/4 (2.25 oz.) cup confectioner’s sugar
1 1/2 tbsps matcha green tea powder
10 tbsps (5 oz.) unsalted butter, room temperature
1 3/4 cup (8.5 oz.) flour
3 large egg yolks
1 cup granulated sugar (to coat the dough)

Whisk the confectioner’s sugar and matcha powder together. Beat the butter and matcha sugar mixture together in a stand mixer (use paddle attachment) until the butter is smooth and fluffy. Add the flour and stir until just combined. Mix in the egg yolks until they are incorporated and the dough comes together. Gather the dough into a ball and flatten it into a thick disc.

Wrap the dough in plastic and refrigerate for at least 30 minutes or until it is firm.

Preheat the oven to 350°F. Use a rolling pin to roll the dough out to about 1/2-inch thickness. Use a small cookie cutter (about 2-inches) to cut shapes from the dough. Roll the cut shapes in granulated sugar and place on a parchment-lined baking sheet. Bake the cookies for 12-15 minutes (13 minutes for me) or until they begin to turn golden at the edges. Makes about 5 dozen 1-inch cookies (probably 3 dozen 2-inch cookies). Store in airtight container away from sunlight as the color will fade with exposure to sun.

From Drop Box

I used to hate spicy food as a child.

I couldn’t understand how anyone could enjoy having their palate assaulted, or how they could stand eating as the outlines of their lips become embossed with pinpricks of pain.

I couldn’t tolerate heat, no matter the amount.  It distracted from the flavor of the food, forcing me to focus instead on the burgeoning pain at the back of my throat.

My father, on the contrary, loved the heat. He kept a jar of home ground, bright red and brown flecked chili flakes over the kitchen cabinet, and sprinkled what may as well have been a whole teaspoonful over every meal. He seemed to be immune to the burn.

So unlike him, I could detect minuscule amounts of heat in my food.

I would often spend hours with burning lips and tearing eyes after eating something he promised could not possibly have any detectable traces of chili.

Spice and chili may have felt so unnaturally hot to me because I frequently managed to get some around my eyes and nose, but no matter the reason, I did my best to stay away from it.

As I grew older, I gradually became desensitized to the burn, and eventually, the heat stopped bothering me altogether.

Now I am even able appreciate it.

I wasn’t the least bit reluctant last Thanksgiving when my father suggested I add a pinch of hot chili flakes to the batch of caramel popcorn I was making.

The sweet, crisp kernels of popcorn are just sticky enough to hold together to form clusters that are drizzled over with smooth dark chocolate. And the occasional hot clump lends a sense of surprise that turns into anticipation as soon as the burn dies out.

I made three batches over Thanksgiving break, and now, two days later, none remains. I almost ran into a crisis when it came to photographing it because of the rate at which it was disappearing. It’s the most popular dessert I’ve made yet. 

From Food Photography

I’m honored to be guest posting at Jana’s blog Zuckerbaeckerei again this year!  This post will be up on her blog translated into German in December. 

Caramel Cayenne Popcorn
With minor adaptations from Baked Explorations

1 cup unpopped kernels or 24 cups popped corn
1 cup (2 sticks) unsalted butter, cut into chunks
2 cups firmly packed dark brown sugar
½ cup light corn syrup
2 tablespoons unsulfured molasses
½ teaspoon salt
¾ teaspoon baking soda
1½ teaspoons pure vanilla extract
¼ teaspoon chili powder (more or less depending on level of heat of the chili powder)
12 ounces good-quality dark chocolate (60 to 72%), melted

If you are starting with kernels, pop them using any method you prefer and let them cool. Preheat the oven to 250 degrees F. Place the popped popcorn in a large roasting pan. Line a sheet pan with parchment paper.

In a medium saucepan over low heat, start to melt the butter. Add the brown sugar, corn syrup, and molasses, and stir gently with a heatproof spatula. Continue to cook over medium heat, stirring only occasionally, until the mixture starts to boil. Clip a candy thermometer to the side of the pan and bring the syrup to the soft-ball stage, approximately 240 degrees F. Remove the pan from the heat and stir in the salt, the baking soda, and vanilla. Pour the caramel over the popcorn in large streams, then sprinkle with chili powder. Use your spatula to fold the popcorn until it is completely coated with caramel.

Place the roasting pan in the oven and bake for 15 minutes. Use a spatula to lift, flip, and coat the popcorn in the warm caramel, then continue baking for another 20 minutes. Cool the caramel popcorn in the pan for 5 minutes and transfer it to the lined sheet pan. Cool for approximately 15 minutes and drizzle the dark chocolate in crisscross patterns over the top. Let the chocolate set before breaking the popcorn into serving-size pieces. Store in an airtight container for up to 1 week.

This summer, right after school ended, we went off on vacation, and spent the second leg of our trip in New York City.  It was my first time visiting. We only stayed three nights, but by the end of our last day I realized that I’d completely fallen in love with the city.

After the quiet serenity of the small town where we had stayed in Holland, New York was something else entirely.

The lawns in Holland had been neatly trimmed, the sidewalks were a uniform shade of light gray, no trash littered the ground. There was hardly any traffic.  At dusk, dark shadows cast linings on the clouds, all at once transforming the town into a watercolored landscape, and I remembered the watercolor my sister had bought earlier in the day. It captured the city exactly as I remember it now– neat, visually pretty, but lacking a certain vibrant quality.

In New York that vibrancy was on every street –New York wasn’t aiming for perfection, and I welcomed it. I loved the patches of flattened gray gum spotting the sidewalk, the constant noise of nearby construction sites, and how the smells of dirt and grime mingled with those wafting out of bakeries and hanging over fruit stands. It was chaotic at times, but almost pleasantly so.

During those three days, I decided that New York was my favorite place.

From Summer 2012

But a (relatively) short plane flight later, we were in Oregon, all I could think about was how much I’d missed it in the past year. How much prettier it was than in my memories. How much I really loved the Northwest.

I decided then that New York was for visiting, and I know the memories I collected there will surely hold me off until my next visit. Iconic yellow taxi cabs, buildings with character, onion bagels with thick slathers of cream cheese, and the Momofuku desserts, which, sadly, I was not very impressed by.

It may be because I’d made their cereal milk ice cream at home before, and it is tough to trump homemade ice cream. I decided to make my own Momofuku inspired ice cream (in that it’s a rather uncommon ice cream flavor – for the first time, I couldn’t find a single blog post with these sandwiches after scouring the Internet!) and made a recipe for s’mores ice cream sandwiches.

The ice cream between the graham crackers is actual marshmallow ice cream. It is made by dissolving marshmallows in hot custard, and has a texture surprisingly similar to real marshmallows. Chunks of toasted marshmallow give it a deep flavor, and if the sandwiches are dipped into chocolate, they are the equivalent of a frozen s’more.

From Summer 2012

Graham Crackers
From Smitten Kitchen
Makes 10 4 x 4.5-inch graham crackers or 48 2-inch squares

2 1/2 cups plus 2 tablespoons (375 grams) unbleached all-purpose flour (a swap of 1/2 cup with whole wheat flour or 1 cup whole wheat pastry flour works well here, too)
1 cup (176 grams) dark brown sugar, lightly packed
1 teaspoon (6 grams) baking soda
3/4 teaspoon kosher or coarse sea salt (4 grams)
7 tablespoons (3 1/2 ounces or 100 grams) unsalted butter, cut into 1-inch cubes and frozen
1/3 cup (114 grams) mild-flavored honey, such as clover
5 tablespoons (77 grams) milk, full-fat is best
2 tablespoons (27 grams) pure vanilla extract

Topping (optional)

3 tablespoons (43 grams) granulated sugar
1 teaspoon (5 grams) ground cinnamon

Make the dough

Combine the flour, brown sugar, baking soda, and salt in the bowl of a food processor fitted with the steel blade or in the bowl of an electric mixer fitted with the paddle attachment. Pulse or mix on low to incorporate. Add the butter and pulse on and off on and off, or mix on low, until the mixture is the consistency of a coarse meal.

[Alternately, if you don’t have a food processor or electric mixer, you can cut the ingredients together with a pastry blender. Just make sure they’re very well incorporated.]

In a small bowl, whisk together the honey, milk, and vanilla extract. Add to the flour mixture and pulse on and off a few times or mix on low until the dough barely comes together. It will be very soft and sticky. Lay out a large piece of plastic wrap and dust it lightly with flour, then turn the dough out onto it and pat it into a rectangle about 1-inch thick. Wrap it, then chill it until firm, about 2 hours or overnight. Meanwhile, prepare the topping, if using, by combining the sugar and cinnamon in a small bowl and setting aside.

Roll out the crackers 

Divide the dough in half and return one half to the refrigerator. Sift an even layer of flour onto the work surface and roll the dough into a long rectangle about 1/8 inch thick. (Thin cookies are more practical for ice cream sandwiches, but be careful, as they burn easily.) The dough will be sticky, so flour as necessary. Trim the edges of the rectangle to 4 inches wide. Working with the shorter side of the rectangle parallel to the work surface, cut the strip every 4 1/2 inches to make 4 crackers. Or, cut into any shape you want your ice cream sandwiches to be. I cut squares.

Place the crackers on one or two parchment-lined baking sheets and sprinkle with the topping. Chill until firm, about 30 to 45 minutes in the fridge or 15 to 20 minutes in the freezer. Repeat with the second batch of dough. Finally, gather any scraps together into a ball, chill until firm, and re-roll.

Adjust the oven rack to the upper and lower positions and preheat the oven to 350°F.

Decorate the crackers

Mark a vertical line down the middle of each cracker, being careful not to cut through the dough (this is for the traditional cracker shape). Using a toothpick or skewer,  prick the dough to form two dotted rows about 1/2 inch for each side of the dividing line.

Bake for 15 to 25 minutes, until browned and slightly firm to the touch, rotating the sheets halfway through to ensure even baking.

From Summer 2012

Marshmallow Ice Cream
A Bittersweet Baker Original, very loosely adapted from David Lebozitz’s vanilla ice cream

9 oz of marshmallows
1 1/2 cups (250ml) whole milk
A pinch of salt
2/3 cup (150g) sugar
1 vanilla bean, split lengthwise
1 1/2 cups (500ml) heavy cream
4 large egg yolks
1/2 teaspoon pure vanilla extract

Toast the marshmallows under the broiler on parchment paper over a baking sheet or with a torch until golden brown. If toasting under the broiler, make sure to flip the marshmallows to toast both sides. This can get very messy, and works best if you wet your fingers slightly to prevent sticking.

Heat the milk, salt, and sugar in a medium saucepan, just until the liquid begins to steam.

In another bowl, stir the egg yolks together. Gradually pour some hot milk into the yolks, constantly whisking to keep the eggs from scrambling. Once the yolks are warmed, scrape the yolks and milk back into the saucepan and cook over low heat. Stir constantly and scrape the bottom with a spatula until the mixture thickens into a custard that coats the back of the spatula.

Strain the custard into the heavy cream and add the tasted marshmallows immediately. If chunks still remain after the mixture has cooled, you can blend it in a food processor or with a stick blender. I blended it, but added toasted marshmallow chunks as I was layering the ice cream. Add the vanilla extract and refrigerate until thoroughly chilled, preferably overnight.

Churn in ice cream maker according to the manufacturer’s instructions. Once it is churned, layer it into a square pan lined with plastic wrap, so that the ice cream will be easy to cut into squares.

From Summer 2012

The underside of the marshmallows, toasted

To Assemble the Sandwiches

Dip one side of each graham cracker into melted chocolate, and allow to cool. Once the chocolate has hardened, cut the ice cream into the same shape as the cookies. Return to freezer as necessary if ice cream begins to melt. Once ready to assemble, allow the ice cream to soften just barely (so that it will stick to the cookies once it freezes again), and sandwich between two cookies.

From 20120828-214524

I took a little break from blogging these past few months, and before I knew it, I wasn’t baking nearly as much as I used to either. What had been a daily occurrence was reduced to a weekly activity, until having decorated cupcakes under the cake dome or ice cream in the freezer was almost unusual.

My lack of blogging saddened me, but no matter how strictly I berated myself or how generously free time came to me once on vacation, I didn’t have it in me to write.

Fortunately, blogging has become too great a part of me to disappear completely. Even though I don’t bake as much, every time I gather ingredients or set cookies out on a plate, I find myself reaching for my camera. My hands automatically style the food, and I look for the softest, most diffuse light in the room without thinking. Blogging is a habit my subconscious won’t let go of, and it’s a habit my conscious knows it shouldn’t abandon.

Months had gone by without new blog posts, but I didn’t feel pressured to write any, because I was under the impression that I had time. I cringed upon realizing that this would be only the third post of the year.

Time passed in much the same fashion while on vacation at my grandparents’ house.

It passed so quickly, in fact, that reality just didn’t feel credible. It gave the illusion that everything had a slightly inauthentic quality to it, as if it didn’t really exist. It was as if I’d entered another dimension, or was walking around in a video game simulator. Everything looked the same, and I could sense perfectly well–my fingertips still felt rigged with their network of nerves and were as sensitive as ever, I could see the lilies in the backyard glowing clearly with the intensity that only overcast days bring, and the strawberries from the farmer’s market were so sweet I savored their taste long after they’d disappeared –but all this I sensed with a certain degree of detachment.

From 20120702-194416

I found myself pressing a little harder than usual into the pillow at night in hopes of breaking through the illusory video game simulator that time had set up in its haste to keep ticking.

It must be evident that I’ve become fascinated by the concept of time. I often feel that it moves of its own accord. It’s like a broken cassette tape whose stop button doesn’t work, whose rewind button fast-forwards instead. It may be uniform as a whole, but the sections that it is made up of seem to flow in a dimension that isn’t linear at all.

Years, months, and seasons are stable – they’re linear and logical, while still marked by passing time. Apples are crispest in the fall, oranges are best in winter, and blackberries are at their plumpest in late August depending on the heat. But the weather rarely changes to suit the new season on exactly the 21^st of each month.  Buds sometimes bloom a little later, and strawberries appear in early summer instead of late spring.

We were lucky to catch the last of the Pacific Northwest strawberry season while at my grandparents’ this year, as we usually miss it by a couple months.

The strawberries were so sweet and laden with juice, that during the two weeks they were at their prime, I fell so in love with them that they replaced blackberries as my favorite fruit.

From Drop Box

I hesitated while preparing to puree the hulled strawberries to make ice cream. It seemed almost a waste to use fruit that was so perfect on its own to make ice cream, but David Lebovitz’s recipes have never once been a disappointment, and this time wasn’t any different.

The recipe is one for unadulterated strawberry ice cream. It needs no embellishment. It tastes best made when strawberry season is at its peak, so that the light freshness of the fruit counters the rich custard into which it is churned. I realize that strawberry season has already come to an end, but you can substitute frozen strawberries for the fresh ones if you’d rather not wait another year.

Strawberry Ice Cream

Adapted from The Perfect Scoop by David Lebovitz

2 cups heavy cream
1 cup whole milk
3/4 cup granulated sugar
Table salt
4 large egg yolks
1 lb. fresh (or frozen) strawberries, hulled, pureed, strained, and mixed with ¼ cup sugar
¼ of finely chopped strawberries to mix in (optional)

In a medium saucepan, mix 1 cup of the cream with the milk, sugar, and a pinch of salt. Warm the cream mixture over medium-high heat, stirring occasionally, until the sugar dissolves and tiny bubbles begin to form around the edge of the pan, 3 to 4 minutes.

Prepare an ice bath by filling a large bowl with several inches of ice water. Set a smaller metal bowl (one that holds at least 1-1/2 quarts) in the ice water. Pour the remaining cup of cream into the inner bowl. Set a fine strainer on top. Whisk the egg yolks in a medium bowl.

In a steady stream, pour half of the warm cream mixture into the egg yolks, whisking constantly to prevent the eggs from curdling.

Pour the egg mixture back into the saucepan and cook over medium heat, stirring constantly and scraping the bottom with a heatproof rubber spatula until the custard thickens slightly (it should be thick enough to coat the spatula and hold a line drawn through it with a finger), 4 to 8 minutes. Don’t let the sauce overheat or boil, or it will curdle. Immediately strain the custard into the cold cream in the ice bath.

Cool the custard to below 70°F by stirring it over the ice bath. Stir the strawberry puree into the cooled custard, and mix in the strawberry bits.

Refrigerate the custard until completely chilled, at least 4 hours. Freeze the custard in your ice cream maker according to the manufacturer’s instructions.

A couple months ago, my mother convinced me to watch Dancer in the Dark. I was hesitant at first – she’d told me it was a sad movie, and I was in no mood to cry. But I acquiesced.

It turns out that Dancer in the Dark is one of the most beautiful movies I’ve ever watched.

Such simple, unadorned editing makes the film remarkably realistic. There’s no background music save for when Selma (the main character) daydreams, no Hollywood style filming or cuts to different angles. It’s as if I’m filming Selma myself, camera set to video mode and presence kept secret. And because of that sense of intimacy, the film is all the more powerful.

Selma’s dream sequences reveal the way she perceives her world and its people –with too much faith and so much more credit than they deserve that she never quite seems connected to the same blunt reality the filming captures. Her earnestness and unfailing honesty instill a sense of resigned desperation, of repressed outrage at how ruthlessly she is wronged.

Simplicity left me stunned. It made my emotions painfully stark, painfully raw. Sometimes, it is most effective.

It’s much the same with words. In some cases, brevity is more striking – it draws people in.

From Food Photography

I discovered blackout poetry a few months back, but was too captivated by reading it to try my own hand at creating it until a couple of weeks ago. My friend had been carrying around on old book that the library had discarded, getting ready to transform it into an art journal by painting and cutting the pages until the book becomes something else entirely.

In a moment of inspiration, I got her permission and decided to create some art of my own.

Finding words to link together proved harder than I expected. The meaning on the page itself restricted my thinking – I kept getting caught up in the ideas already present. I learned soon after that skimming the page for interesting words and finding a separate meaning from there works best.

From Food Photography

Once done, it almost seemed as if the words had surfaced from the page, leaving behind them the shadow of their original meaning.

Blackout poetry is such a simple way of expressing an idea, of finding unrelated meaning in a text by ridding it of everything but the words needed to form an idea.

The raspberry trifle I’ve made twice this week (experimenting with different berries each time) conveys the same sense of simplicity. It tastes of berries and sugar, of cream and oranges. It is the result of my time wanting nothing but the bare minimum.

From Food Photography

Raspberry Trifle
Family recipe

2 egg yolks
2 egg whites
1/3 cup sugar
250 grams mascarpone cheese (can substitute Greek yogurt for a lighter version)
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
About 18  Savoiardi lady fingers
1/2 cup orange juice
18 oz fresh or frozen raspberries

Set aside a medium sized serving dish (8×8 works well).
Pour the orange juice into a shallow bowl.

In a small bowl, whisk together the egg yolks and the sugar until combined.

In a separate, larger bowl, beat the mascarpone with a spoon until it is smooth and no lumps remain. Fold the egg mixture and the mascarpone together.

In a medium bowl, beat the egg whites until they form soft peaks. Be careful not to overbeat it, as it can become dry and lumpy very quickly.

Gently fold the egg whites into the mascarpone mixture, and set aside.

To assemble the trifle, dip 9 lady fingers into the orange juice, for about one second per side. The cookies should become soft but should not be soggy. Place the cookies side by side in the dish, breaking the cookies (if necessary) to cover the entire base. Sprinkle a couple handfuls of raspberries over the cookies to form the second layer, and then spoon over half of the mascarpone mixture, using a spatula to spread it evenly. Repeat with the remaining cookies, berries, and mascarpone.

Cover with plastic wrap and chill in the refrigerator for a couple of hours or overnight.

To serve, garnish the top with more raspberries, or sprinkle with grated chocolate.