Good Graces

It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas!

2012-12-03T20:03:00.003-06:00

Lazy Monday

2012-09-24T12:32:00.001-05:00

Jack had the day off of school today, so Mama took the day off of work.

Lazy days are the sweetest ones!

While our breakfast cooks...

Soft-boiled with soldiers...

A bowl of cracked wheat porridge with currants and flax...

Waste not, want not: dead soldiers with warmed sweet cream.

xoxo,

Mary Catherine

Coconut matcha pudding

2012-05-31T13:51:00.001-05:00

Confession: I'm kind of obsessed with chia seeds. And matcha. That's what happens when you work at a natural foods co-op for too long, I suppose. Here's a fix for your sweet tooth that's pretty legitimately good for you. Because I love you.

Coconut matcha pudding

3 cups coconut milk beverage (not the can, but the carton)

2/3 c chia seed

2 T agave syrup

2 t matcha powder

1 t vanilla extract

In a saucepan, heat the coconut milk until steaming. Whisk in the matcha, agave, and vanilla.

Pour into a large glass jar and add the chia seeds.

Shake well.

After about four hours, the chia seeds will have absorbed most of the liquid.

Serve cold.

Makes about six servings.

Foraged wild violets

2012-04-23T13:34:00.001-05:00

Pesto zucchini noodles with tiny tomatoes

2011-09-02T19:16:00.001-05:00

Welcome back! Here we are, day two of the Eat Local Challenge, and we've already run into a major road block.

PASTA.

Mine is boy who cannot live with a bowl of pasta. (Truth be told, neither can I.) And so to keep it local, we had to move a little outside of the boxed semolina.

I've been reading about zucchini pasta in books and on blogs for ages, but I've never attempted it for a few reasons.
One: I really don't like zucchini. (true fact, but keep reading. There's hope.)
Two: It seemed really complicated to make. Annoyingly complicated. Time-suckingly complicated.
Three: Why on earth would I trade delicious pasta for a lackluster & annoyingly nutritious alternative?

Why, to keep it local, of course!

Well. I was, as you might imagine, totally wrong about zucchini pasta. It takes only slightly more time than boiling water/noodles and you can feel absolutely righteous to have found a way to convince people like me that zucchini is, in fact, not a depressing waste of growing space. It's also a perfect way to use those mutant zucchinis that grow as big as your arm.

Here's what you need to do.

Zucchini Noodles

Wash and pare your zucchini. I suppose if you have a lot of spare time you can peel it too, but I rather like the green edges. Slice thinly lengthwise, and then stack the slices to cut lengthwise again. The thinner you get it, the more deceptively pasta-like it will be.

(A mandoline will be helpful if you're as much of a perfectionist as I am. I really wanted my pasta to LOOK like pasta.)

I used a zucchini as big as my forearm (I'm a petite lady, but not quite a dwarf) and it produced enough to feed two hungry people.

Bring a pot of water to a boil, and salt well. Drop your strands into the rapidly boiling water and stir. After a minute, quickly drain and rinse in cold water to stop them from cooking further.

I decided (based on the strengths of my own garden this year, and the ridiculous ninety degree weather) to whip up a simple cold pesto (with great handfuls of home grown basil, several tiny cloves of garlic, sunflower oil and local cheese, thank you!) and toss the noodles with the juiciest tiny tomatoes I could find.

It was Herby. Acidic. Refreshing. Green. and far more delicious than I could have anticipated.

Jack was skeptical at first, but easily won over by the slickly tender green noodles and brightly tart tomatoes.

And I hate to admit I was wrong, but I can really see myself going out of my way to surround myself with zucchinis in my future. I'm dreaming of creamy ricotta, chard, garlic and spices sandwiched between lasagna-like layers. Manicotti-like bundles of oozing cheeses and spicy sausages. Whispers of angel hair tossed with wine, shrimp and a handful of fresh herbs. Ok, Zucchini. You win this time.

Speaking of winning, every ingredient used today was sourced either directly from my garden or within fifty miles of my home. I hate to brag, but I'm feeling pretty confident about the challenge!

xoxo,
Mary Catherine

Milwaukee & Detroit, sitting in a tree...

2011-08-09T15:43:00.000-05:00

Good Gracious!

Here we are, already in the throes of August. Well. I've been busy, of course, but never too busy for a little cooking (and guest-blogging) with friends! Especially smart, funny friends like the lovely Amy (of Night Train fame) who's finishing up her first book! Applaud for Amy, please.

Make sure to hop a Night Train to Detroit to see what I had to say about Milwaukee and German potato salad and don't forget to congratulate dear Amy!

xoxo,

Mary Catherine

Quinoa and Kale salad!

2011-07-28T20:49:00.010-05:00

(Watching in amazement as I pour a cup of white wine into the skillet)
Jack: Mama, what are you doing?

Mama: I'm deglazing the pan.

Jack: Deglazing?

Mama: Mmhmm, it's what makes the sauce so delicious.

Jack: Oh. (pause) Can you deglaze that thing then? Please?
(Gestures disdainfully at the quinoa & kale salad.)
*
Not my best work, apparently.
Everyone has an off day, even mama.
xoxo,

Mary Catherine

Summer Vegetable Tart [Vegan]

2011-07-25T11:48:00.001-05:00

Happy Monday, dearies!

One of my favorite things about summer (now that my sweetheart readers have demonstrated their utter excellence I can go back to loving summer...from the popsicle perfection of my lovely air conditioned home) is all of the PARTIES. If your social calendar is anything like mine, every single weekend is jammed with barbecues, impromptu dinners, pool parties, backyard luaus and potlucks. The heat wilts my social anxiety just enough for functionality's sake and wherever I turn, there's an icy mint julep with my name on it. Ah, summer.

Today I'm going to tell you what you're going to bring the next time your favorite vegan friend has a potluck on her porch.

Here's a little secret about me and parties. I like to look like a lady. I like things that you can eat without looking ridiculous. I like food that doesn't require a plate. Consequently, I like tarts. They're self-contained, elegant, smart and a little uppity. People who don't make tarts will be impressed with you. People who do make tarts will want to hang out with you. It's really a win/win situation. But let's mix it up. Bring a vegetable tart to the party. Now you're popular and innovative! Marry me.

It's July and tomatoes are starting to taste how tomatoes are supposed to taste. A warm, ripe, perfect tomato is one of the simplest and deepest pleasures in the world. I do not understand people who don't like tomatoes. (Frankly, I don't really care to understand them.) In addition to perfect tomatoes, the farmer's market in my neighborhood has been offering up the tiniest zucchini and the sweetest onions. And you really can't take a step in any self-respecting garden (like mine) without tripping over a tangle of herbs.

All of those things in a flaky, rich, pastry shell? You'll be bringing the party. Be modest.

Summer Vegetable Tart [Vegan]

Preheat your oven to 400°

For the crust:

1 1/2 c flour

1/2 t salt

8 T vegan margarine cut into small pieces (I am crazy about Earth Balance brand Buttery Sticks)

ice water (approximately 4-5T)

Blend the flour and salt. With a pastry cutter or knives, cut the margarine in until it resembles coarse crumbs. Stir in enough water until the dough comes together in a nice clump. (You can totally use a food processor to do that. It takes about four seconds.) Gather it together, give it a knead or two and wrap it in plastic to chill for an hour.

For the vegetables:

3 large sweet onions

3-5 tomatoes

zucchini

garlic

olive oil

fresh herbs

To caramelize the onions: Slice them. Stop crying. Heat two tablespoons of oil in a nice, heavy saucepan over medium heat. Add the onions and stir to coat with oil. Now cook them for-ever. I'm kind of not kidding. Here's the thing. Caramelized onions are amazing. They are sweet, complex and delicious. They are worth the time it takes to make them. (Want to hear my rant about the importance of slow food? No? Oh, okay.) AND if you keep the heat relatively low, you can absolutely do other things while they cook. Stir them when you think about it, and add a tiny bit of oil if they start to stick. It probably will take about an hour total. Do it because you love someone. Or because you have something to prove. Or because you love delicious things. Either way. Do it.

Slice your tomatoes and zucchini. I like them sliced thin to keep things from getting soggy and to ensure even cooking.

Now let's prepare a little sauce. We're making a pistou, which is basically a pesto without cheese or nuts. In a mortar and pestle (or food processor) throw a few cloves of garlic, a handful of your favorite herbs (I used thyme, oregano, basil, and chives) and a generous amount of olive oil. Smash it all together until you have a beautiful emerald green paste. (I thinned mine with additional olive oil so as to brush it over the tart.) Taste it, and season with salt and pepper.

To assemble:

Take the pastry out and unwrap it. On a floured board, roll it out to slightly larger than your tart pan. Mine was a rectangle, but this quantity would work for a nine inch diameter circle as well. Fit it into the pan, and prick the bottom with a fork. Because you're going to pre-bake the crust, you should weight it. You can either waste your money on official "pie weights" at a cooking store like a dope, or be like me, and buy about two pounds of cheap beans. (Mine are navy beans.) Designate them "Pie Weights" and don't ever eat them (because you're going to bake them over and over.) Put a piece of parchment down on your pastry, and pour your pie weights on top. These will keep your crust flat and perfect.

Bake for twenty minutes. Let cool. (Save those pie weights for next time!)

Reduce the oven temperature to 375°

In your cooled, baked tart shell spread the caramelized onions.

Layer with thinly sliced tomatoes

and brush with pistou.

I wove the zucchini slices like a lattice over the tomatoes. You don't have to, but it sure does impress a crowd. I think it would be pretty to alternate tomato slices with thinly sliced zucchini rounds.

Bake for twenty minutes, until the zucchini is golden and the tomatoes are bubbling.

It's perfect served at room temperature to a bunch of people you really like.

What do you bring to a potluck?

xoxo,

Mary Catherine

Some days are better than others.

2011-07-17T21:47:00.004-05:00

Six months from now, I'll read this and scoff at my own dramatics, but good GRACIOUS, was it hot today. (Do you know how revoltingly, repulsively, ridiculously hot Milwaukee can get in the summer?)

I am not a sunny summery kind of person. I am a cardigan and knee socks kind of person. A crisp breeze on a bicycle kind of person. A cool, foggy, petrichor kind of person. This is who I am. I am ok with it. Milwaukee in July is apparently NOT ok with it. Rude.

It was too hot to do anything, except wilt miserably on the balcony with popsicles and ice water. We skipped the market, our nap, (uh-oh) and our weekly romp in the woods. We even skipped having a nice day, let me tell you. Mine is not a boychild who can skip a nap.

It was really too hot to be hungry, which is lucky because it was certainly too hot to even THINK about the stove.

So I cut up what we had on hand and put it on plates.

And called it dinner.

Five things we always have on hand. Bread (baguette), cheese (that Sartori parmesan I can't stop talking about), fruit (mission figs), green things (pea shoots), and onion things (shallots.) (Fun fact: I will eat a sliced raw onion the way you would eat a sliced cucumber. No. Big. Deal.)

Someday my kid might talk to his therapist about dinners like this. Fingers crossed it's because he can't find a girl (or guy) to live up to his incredible, inventive, and innovative mama. And not because he ate weird rabbit salads all summer long.

All week is going to be like this. Hot and heavy. (Isn't that supposed to be a good thing?) Sigh.

(Here's the part where I use subtle mind control to convince you all to gift your favorite blogger with a dang air conditioner.)

Not really.

(Really.)

Awkward silence.

(Is she kidding? She must be kidding.)

Happy Sunday, darlings. What did YOU have for dinner?

xoxo,

Mary Catherine

P.S. I also ate four squares of fake fudge in five minutes. Because I have poor impulse control. And because it is AMAZING.

A confession and a revelation.

2011-07-15T23:55:00.001-05:00

Do you follow me on twitter? Are we friends on facebook? If so, you were privy to a particularly distressing confession earlier today. (If not, get on that.) I'm talking about my treacherous, consuming, rampant, and undiscerning sweet tooth.

After a perfectly reasonable summer supper of bruschetta, olives and salad, I had the overwhelming urge to stir up a pan of penuche frosting. You know, to eat. With a spoon. (I would say I must have been raised by wolves, but hey, at least I had the spoon. To class it up a bit.) Unable to resist an impulse like that, I, of course, succumbed.

Do you know how to make penuche frosting? I suspect people don't make it much anymore, which is a shame. It is charmingly old fashioned, the simplest thing, and the most impressive. People assume you stirred for ages or used a candy thermometer. Nope. You don't even need a mixer.

Melt a stick of butter (you know that's 1/2 cup, right?) in a nice little saucepan. Stir in a cup of brown sugar. Boil it gently for a minute or two. Stir in 1/4 c milk. Bring back to a boil. Remove from heat. Let it sit around for a while until it isn't bubbling, and stir in enough powdered sugar to make it do what you'd like it to. (That's probably somewhere between 2-3 cups.)

Penuche can do most anything from a silky glaze to a thickly swirled blanket, to a crisply piped star. It is versatile. And forgiving. If you screw it up, stir in a little milk, reheat it, and beat it well (apologizing all the while for your carelessness.) Penuche will forgive you. And eventually do exactly what you want it to. More things in life ought to take their cues from penuche.

Penuche is lovely draped over a darkly decadent chocolate cake. It's perfect swirled onto simple golden cupcakes. If you're an utter heathen, it's apparently delightful, warm, out of the saucepan you whipped it up in.

Further, I had been guessing that if you stir in a little more xxx sugar than usual, sprinkled the surface with toasted walnuts, and let the penuche frosting set up in a buttered pan, you could cut it into squares and pretend you aren't just eating a bowl of frosting.

I guessed right.

Oh, sweet dignity!

(While this isn't the penuche fudge your grandmother made (did your grandmother make fudge? Mine just made a mean gin and tonic) it certainly is a good approximation. Besides, will any of your friends be able to tell the difference?)

xoxo,

Mary Catherine

Dear Summer, Slow down! Love, Good Graces

2011-07-15T15:55:00.003-05:00

July Fifteenth? When did that happen?

I hope, dear readers, that your summers are shaping up to be as splendid and maniacally busy as my own. I'm wrapping up a blissful two week vacation from my day job, and I'm sad to feel it slipping away. Sad yes, but already conspiring for my next respite. Also, it certainly isn't every day* that you get to watch your darling brother James marry the nicest lady you can imagine in the prettiest wedding in history, surrounded by the dearest, funniest family under the sun. And Jack Hazard in a tiny tuxedo? Gosh, my life!

In another swoony chapter of "Gosh, my life!" I'm so pleased to announce my participation as a featured blogger in Eat Local Milwaukee's annual "eat local challenge." The first two weeks of September, look for recipes, tips, reviews, and revelations as we restrict ourselves to Wisconsin's best. (If you've ever spent a September in Wisconsin, you'll know restrict is hardly the right word to describe our beautiful harvest.) Further, as you may or perhaps may NOT know, a certain good and graceful blogger's birthday falls neatly within that challenged span. Maybe this calls for a...Good Graces garden party!? I'm excited just thinking about it.

Well. While I work at containing my excitement, how about I leave you with a sandwich to impress someone special? (Ahem, like yourself.)

Here's how it works.

First. I mindlessly open my refrigerator and find delicious things like prosciutto, figs and fancy cheeses staring back at me.

(Do you want to know a secret? Real food, good food, interesting & adult food, isn't a splurge when you don't waste your money on processed garbage, snacks, soft drinks, fast food and packaging. Lunchables for a week (which are terrible for you, by the way) cost WAY MORE than a nice wedge of cheese, seasonal produce, and a loaf of good bread. It bothers me when people claim they can't afford to eat well, or that they don't have the time. You make the time, because it's important. I love you, I'm not yelling.)

Then. I wander out to my dreamy balcony garden to be confronted by a veritable forest of greens and herbs. (Today we're talking chard and oregano.)

Perfect.

That looks delicious and it isn't even a sandwich yet.

Sorry, vegetarians. You're not invited to this one. I still love you.

Fresh herbs make everything feel fancy.

Can I talk to you about this cheese? It's by Sartori, and it's their SarVecchio Parmesan. It is incredible. It's sharp and brightly salty, with those tiny crystallized bits that I crave the way regular people crave chocolate. It's nutty and sweet and pairs beautifully with every single thing under the sun. Jack Hazard was offered that awful powdered parmesan at a (nameless) restaurant recently, and you could feel the cool disdain dripping from his arched eyebrow as he politely declined. But don't take our word for it. Buy it.

Now.

I can wait.

***

I'm just going to eat this sandwich in the meantime.

Do you have any tips for eating local? Want to come to my birthday party? Are you back from buying that cheese yet? Tell me about it!

xoxo,

Mary Catherine

*Not every day, it's true, but it seems we do have more weddings to look forward to! Congratulations Pete & Yeng!

Happy Fourth of July!

2011-07-04T13:59:00.000-05:00

Love,

Good Graces

Cooking by Candlelight

2011-06-25T21:10:00.005-05:00

Hello dear friends!

Good Graces, Jack Hazard and I are going offline for the week in celebration of something very dear to my heart, Power Down Week.

The issue of excessive human consumption is a real problem, and one that isn't considered nearly enough. We live in an era where we expect everything to be fast, convenient and catered to our every whim. We want what we want, when we want it and only rarely do we stop to think about the logistics of our desires. It is unfair as citizens of a global community to consistently deny the natural world its natural rhythms. We are not the conquerors of this beautiful world we so briefly inhabit; we are mere visitors. Our time here on earth is fleeting and our impact ought to reflect that impermanence. Energy is a luxury, not a necessity. To appreciate it properly, Jack Hazard and I are going to do our best to live without it.

For one week, we're taking whatever steps we can to reduce our energy consumption. If it's hot, we'll find a breeze; it it's cold, we'll find a sweater. If it's dark, we'll find a candle, and if we're bored, shame on us! The natural world is bursting with possibility, it's up to us to find it.

I challenge you to think about your own habits. Are there things that you can do to lessen the impact you're leaving on the world around you? I encourage each and every one of you to consider your consumption. In what ways can you renounce the grip convenience has on your life? Go for a walk. Talk to your neighbors. (They're probably just as sordid and gripping as whatever you were going to watch on television anyway!) Skip that trip to Target. Do you really need more things? Give something away. Fix something that's broken. Learn a new skill. Plant something. Nurture someone. Enjoy each other. Build a community. These are the real things that matter.

Barbara Kingsolver said it best, "The honorable choice I see is to power-down; stop taking airplane jaunts, repair old things, get out the clothespins, grow food, walk. And face the truth, that I am party to something so enormously destructive I can hardly know its edges. The conquering of any addiction begins with these words: I am the guilty party."

I am the guilty party. This week, I am doing my part to try to change that.

Now my light is fading as this beautiful day shifts into night. I can hear the gentle rhythm of my sleeping boychild, children are laughing somewhere not so far away and the cool and perfect night positively hums with vitality. Who needs a radio with a symphony such as this? I'm ready to power-down this laptop and fire up my imagination. I hope you consider joining me on this adventure.

For a complete list of planned events and workshops, click through to Transition Milwaukee.

xoxo,

Mary Catherine

If you haven't already, now is a perfect time to discover the excellent blog, A Year of Inconvenience. Pam Mehnert, general manager of Outpost Natural Foods, vowed to live a year without relying on the easy convenience (and obscene sodium content) of packaged and prepared foods. She succeeded, and her success is well documented in photos and recipes. If you're at all interested in this topic, check out her site. It's a wonderful resource. I am constantly inspired by anyone living their values, Pam absolutely does.

Miso: A Memory

2011-06-22T23:04:00.001-05:00

I distinctly remember the first time I tasted miso soup. I was about nine, and had ordered it in a restaurant, being an adventurous child and wanting very much to impress my sharp and brilliant parents with my own discerning and cultured palate. (Aren't nine year olds darling?) When it came to the table, fragrant and steaming, I paused for a moment to consider the tendrils of ethereal sea vegetable, the solid squares of tofu, the scallions bobbing lazily about the surface, and the gentle earthy pungence of fermentation. It was 1992 in Milwaukee, and while my parents were indeed adventurous home cooks, this was a new experience for me. Tentatively, bravely, I took a sip and was overwhelmed by the sheer complexity of flavor. It was slightly sweet, a little salty, rich and deeply satisfying. The seaweed was silky with a briny bite and the mild and substantial tofu was a perfect counterpoint. Above all else, it was the miso I loved, and have come to crave as an adult.

   I realized something recently, a sad little truth about my own diet. (Admittedly, an exceptionally balanced, broad and nutritious diet and thus, not to be chastised too severely.) I had made a pot of miso soup for myself and Jack Hazard, and as I watched him taste the broth, his eyes went wide with amazement. He blew energetically on each spoonful, and risked burning his tongue in order to taste it again. And again. I took a sip myself and was surprisingly let down. While the soup was delicious and satisfying, I can still vividly recall nine year old Mary Kate's first impressions of miso soup. She loved it in all its sharp complexity. It was a flavor that took a moment to savor, to understand. It was something completely new and unexpected. And now I could plainly see in my own child's face the excitement I recalled from my own first miso memory. While the years and the staggering prevalence of sodium in our American diet have unquestionably dulled the senses and robbed me of that singular experience, I still return again and again to miso to soothe a bad day and feed a most hungry soul.

   Milwaukee has been drowning in rain, fog and cool damp air for what feels like weeks now. (It's almost July, for heaven's sake!) Rather than complain about the weather, (outside of the safety of parentheses) I find myself cooking to complement it.

   This is a soup to win a child's heart. (Or an adult's.) It won't ever win a fancy food award, but it just might help you meet that deadline, finish that article, or fold that mountain of laundry. It's simple, bracing and comforting.

While this is just barely a recipe, I humbly offer my own simple version of:

miso soup

1/4 c dried wakame (a dried seaweed)

6 cups dashi* (or water)

1-2 carrots, sliced

several stalks of kale, chopped

1/2 pound tofu, cubed

1-2 scallions, chopped fine

1/4 c miso paste (there are a number of varieties, I tend to prefer barley or white miso)

Heat the dashi (or water) and add carrots. Simmer gently until almost tender. Add the kale and simmer for five minutes. Stir in the wakame, and cubed tofu. After a minute, remove from the heat. In a small bowl, whisk 1/2 cup of the hot broth into the miso paste. Return the dissolved miso to the pan. Stir. Sprinkle with scallions and serve.

Serves a hungry trio, or a quintet of birdlike eaters.

(I really like the structural contrast of dense carrot, pillowy tofu, billowy wakame and hearty kale floating in the rich broth. You can omit any or all of those, and substitute as you like. Miso is a most forgiving medium, and one that complements a number of different flavors and textures. If you ever have fresh enoki mushrooms on hand, by all means, try those. They're incredible.)

*Dashi is a particular stock that traditional miso is made with. Because I am above all things a perfectionist, I like to make the effort to experience traditional food as close to its origins as possible. For me, this means having a pot of dashi prepared with which to make my miso soup.

This is how simple it is:

1/2 cup bonito flakes (a fermented dried fish)

1 strip kombu (a dried kelp)

6 cups water

Soak the kombu in the water for 30 minutes. Bring to a boil. Stir in the bonito flakes, and simmer gently for ten minutes. Remove from heat and let stand ten minutes. Strain through a fine mesh colander or cheesecloth, pressing the solids gently. You can either use immediately, or refrigerate up to a week.

For all my darling vegetarians, you can absolutely prepare dashi without the bonito; the kombu alone produces a bright and briny broth reminiscent of the ocean.

I dearly hope miso can be as much of a revelation for some of you (and yours) as it has been for me (and mine).

xoxo,

Mary Catherine

A Writer in the Kitchen

2011-06-20T23:43:00.002-05:00

Hello dears!

Today I want to talk to you about something dearer to my heart than most anything, maybe even food. And that's reading. About food. As long as I can remember, I've been crazy for the kind of writers who have a knack for telling you what they ate in a way that also quietly, casually tells you so much more.

(MFK Fisher is really unparalleled in this. If you haven't read her (and I sadly suspect most of the population hasn't) you should pick her up. Befriend her. She won't ever let you down.)

My love affair with books about food began with two books by Laurie Colwin: Home Cooking and More Home Cooking. Colwin was primarily a novelist, and one my own brilliant mother admired quite a lot. Her books were always laying around while I was growing up; (Frankly, I'm surprised my parents never lost myself or my brothers in the deluge of books that was our home.) and it was only a matter of time before I took an interest. I was eleven or twelve and constantly experimenting in my mother's warm and cozy kitchen. (Wherein experimenting means melting utensils foolishly, shattering mercury thermometers, burning pans of fudge, and clumsily--desperately--trying to crack egg after egg with one hand. My dear old ma might well be the patron saint of patience. And now I can separate an egg with my eyes closed.)

Colwin described herself as "a writer in the kitchen" which is (more or less) what twelve year old Mary Catherine (Mary Kate, thank you) fancied herself as well. The essays that make up these two books are warm and accessible, full of funny bits and great advice. You find yourself immediately charmed by her life, her quirks, her family and her stories. I read about lime pickle YEARS before I would ever actually taste it, but I just knew I'd love it. That's the thing about a kindred spirit in the kitchen, you can trust them. And I've always trusted her. (Laurie was right. Lime pickle? It is divine.)

One of my favorite chapters (from More Home Cooking) was called "Desserts That Quiver," which is odd as I've always LOATHED gelatin desserts and thought them far beneath my exquisite taste. (I was a weird kid. With a great vocabulary.) In this chapter, we meet a dessert called "Honeycomb Mould." If I hadn't already been sold on the strangely vague title and the english spelling, the description of this strange pudding that SEPARATES on its own into three layers would've won my heart. Oh, but let's back up a moment. The other thing about Colwin that kills me? She's just like me. Only her Laurie Colwin is Jane Grigson! (Who in her own right, has become my Jane Grigson as well.) Darlings. Anyway, Honeycomb Mould is a dessert dear old Jane wrote up in the delightfully british Good Things. (Don't worry, I'll attach a bibliography.) It's described as such: "It will have a cap of clear lemon jelly, then a thin band of opaque cream jelly shading off into a honeycombed spongy base that makes a slight crinkling noise as its eaten." That passage has always fascinated me. Does it really crinkle ? WHY?

Well, I've read about it for years. From two different, and equally revered sources. It seemed so strange and interesting, a triple layer dessert, that separates perfectly on its own? With only a handful of ingredients? And lemon? Perfect. Life keeps handing me those!

Jane Grigson's Honeycomb Mould

3 large eggs
2 lemons, zested and juiced
1/2 oz gelatin
1/2 cup sugar
6 T heavy cream
2 cups whole milk

Separate your yolks and whites. (I'll graciously look away if you have to use two hands.) Set the whites aside. In the top of a double boiler, (or a large heatproof bowl) add the yolks, gelatin, zest, sugar and cream. Stir well to combine and set aside. In a separate saucepan, gently heat the milk to just under boiling. Remove from the heat, and slowly/carefully whisk into the yolk mixture. You don't want to add it all at once, and risk a bowlful of scrambled eggs! Set the bowl or double boiler (fancy you!) over an inch or two of simmering water and stir until the custard begins to thicken. Because I like math and my health, I chose to use a thermometer and cook it until it reached 175 degrees. Safety! Dear old Jane would probably laugh at me, and give a lecture on the benefits of farm fresh eggs and the paranoia of the modern age. (I give the same lecture. Often.) Either way, once it coats the back of a spoon, you're ready. Remove from the heat, and stir in the lemon juice. At this point, Jane strains her custard removing the zest. Laurie doesn't. I did, but in the future I probably wouldn't. I imagine the zest adds a lovely texture to the creamy coolness of the pudding. You should tell me what you end up doing!

Now. Beat those egg whites. Rather than pay a therapist, I like to use a whisk. Maybe you're filthy rich with a bankrolled analyst. (Lucky you.) Break out your mixer.

Either way, stiff peaks.

Fold the hot custard into the beaten egg whites carefully. Jane swears you need to use a metal spoon. Laurie used a rubber spatula. (I deferred to Jane with metal.) Let the mixture stand for five minutes.

Now. You can either make individual puddings or a 1 qt. mold. Lots of people collect those beautiful old pudding molds, (I don't) and this would be a perfect dessert to showcase a real beauty. I used a smallish copper mold of exceptional loveliness, and a trio of delicate tea cups with pretty saucers. What can I say, I like pretty things. You can use just about anything you like, a simple bowl would work just as well as an extravagantly designed mold.

Spoon the mixture (it will be like a heavy meringue) into your desired molds and cover. I used parchment and twine. Refrigerate for a minimum of five hours or overnight.

To un-mold, run a sharp knife around the perimeter of the pudding and dip the mold into warm water for ten seconds. Place your serving plate over the mold, cross your fingers and flip. Give it a good tap, until you hear it slide out with a plop. The anxiety of the flip is half the fun.

(Please, use good sense as this dessert does contain raw egg white. I know my farmer's name and the day he collected those three pretty brown eggs, so I have no reservations bringing this to my table.)

If you're at all intrigued by this post, or the promise of writing about food, check out the following books. I recommend them all glowingly and widely, and welcome any suggestions you might have to add to my list. If there's one thing I love in this world, it's a good book about good food.

Required reading for "A writer in the kitchen"

How to Cook a Wolf; Consider the Oyster, Gastronomical Me- MFK Fisher

Home Cooking; More Home Cooking-Laurie Colwin

English Food; Good Things-Jane Grigson

The Kitchen Diaries-Nigel Slater

Blood, Bones and Butter-Gabrielle Hamilton

French Provincial Cooking-Elizabeth David

Comfort Me With Apples; Tender at the Bone-Ruth Reichl

Between Meals-A.J. Liebling

Nobody Knows the Truffles I've Seen-George Lang

My Life in France-Julia Child

Stealing Buddha's Dinner- Bich Minh Nguyen

and for the kiddos:

Fanny at Chez Panisse-Alice Waters

xoxo,

Mary Catherine

Pineapple Upside Down Cake! For breakfast?

2011-05-28T11:55:00.001-05:00

After last night's kitchen DISASTER (No exaggeration: it looked like a war zone!) and subsequent cartons of takeout; Jack Hazard and I were in dire need of a little treat this morning.

So we made one!

No apologies!

(Recipe/how-to will be posted later, mama's running late for work!)

xoxo,

Mary Catherine

What's in your refrigerator?

2011-05-26T21:36:00.005-05:00

I love cooking with friends for a number of reasons. The camaraderie of it, the communion, not having to do the dishes solo, and perhaps most important of all, because I love seeing the workings of another's kitchen. I want to know what spices you can't live without, what brand of butter you choose (mine is Plugrá), how you store your grains and how many mustards you can cram in your refrigerator door. I want to see how you stack your pots and pans, whether or not you use your broiler, what your favorite wooden spoon looks like and what herbs are growing on your windowsill. OR I want to marvel at the impossibly chic spareness of that lone bottle of champagne, canisters of film and long-forgotten, velvety blue takeout. I LOVE knowing what's in your refrigerator.

If you're the same, read on!

From Joe Yonan's marvelous mulled wine syrup, to my favorite daikon kimchi, to my spiced slow-roasted tomatoes, to a jar of peppery piquant ajvar, I take pride in my condiments, relying on them to make the simplest meals taste as special as they aren't. This is the refrigerator of a boy scout at heart, prepared for anything.

Homebrewed kombucha with umeboshi? Yes please. Pickled onions on everything? of course. The very last jar of five pounds of my first sauerkraut? Delicious. And Vegenaise! I'm no vegan, but I don't think I could live without the stuff anymore.

Those three little jars? The last of last season's preserves. This is the first year where I made it through the long Wisconsin winter solely on the wealth of my own spiced peach, orange marmalade and plum preserves. (The apricot and concord grape were long gone by February.) There is a deep satisfaction in those three sweet jars.

Eggs, guys. They can save even the worst dinner disasters.

While I can certainly marvel at the Audrey Hepburn-esque elegance of a lemon and a lonely bottle of champagne, I cannot fathom for a MINUTE living a life of such restraint. After all, who needs elegance when you've got tamarind paste and tamari?

xoxo,

Mary Catherine

p.s.

Send me pictures of your refrigerators! Pretty please?

Want to know a secret?

2011-05-24T22:55:00.002-05:00

Your child will eat what you offer them.

[Seriously!]

If you saddle every shared meal with the concession of boxed macaroni and cheese, you're prophesying your own demise. You don't need a safety net; it's supper, not skydiving!

You don't have to apologize for your good taste or dumb it down; share it!

The habits he's learning now are the ones he'll carry throughout his life. For his sake, choose good ones.
Like:

rosemary lamb with yogurt sauce

roasted herbed potatoes

Mixed greens with homemade ricotta and pear

Sliced fruit

Maybe a simple...

Rhubarb Crisp

(Do you have neighbors as sweet as mine? The kind who drop off BAGS of rhubarb for your enjoyment? Bless their little hearts.)

1 c unbleached flour

1 c rolled oats

3/4 c brown sugar

1/2 c melted butter

Blend well, and press 1/3 into the bottom of a buttered 8x8 in pan (or individual dishes.) Top with:

3-4 cups sliced rhubarb

In a saucepan, bring to a simmer:

1 c cane sugar

1 c water

1 t vanilla extract

2 T corn starch

Pour over prepared rhubarb. Top with remaining sugar/butter/oat mixture. Bake for 45 minutes at 350.° Enjoy!

xoxo,

Mary Catherine

What's for dinner?

2011-05-22T00:37:00.004-05:00

I don't know about you, but I have a really hard time following a recipe. Maybe it's my background in improv theatre, maybe my narcissistic disdain for authority, perhaps my unwavering faith in my own good taste, but whatever the reason--it's rare for me to produce something exactly as I've read it. Don't get me wrong; I spend long delightful hours every week reading cookbooks, and letting the innovative pairings, photographs and descriptions inspire my own tastes. I love food. I love reading about, thinking about it, and most of all, eating it. I think about what I'm going to eat for dinner, all day long.
The nicest thing about working full time with food is that you get to think full time about food. Every morning, I see the same friendly vendors' faces. Like Pete, the local honey man, who's known me since I was sixteen. (He's one of about three people who can still get away with calling me Mary Kate.) Or Tim, the bread guy, who's got a boy just a little older than my own. I know why this cheese won the national title, or why you shouldn't bother with this wine or that one. It may not keep me in diamonds, but my work certainly does keep me in touch with what I'm eating. And so. Here's my 'What's for dinner?' secret. I stand in the produce section for a moment. I think about recipes I've read, or ingredients I particularly crave. Then I buy whatever strikes my fancy. That's all there is to it. We start with the vegetables. And dinner? It just sort of invents itself.

Today, May 21, 2011, was a special day because it was one of approximately three days of the year when morels are readily available. I'm sure it's partially because they're so elusive/extravagant, but gosh, do I ever love morels. Throw in a bunch of chard, a leek, a jar of cream and a bottle of wine? Surely something magical will be the result.

All day long I thought about what I was going to do with those dear little mushrooms. Last year I made wild little tarts. The year before? Pasta. This year, I did the following.

Graham crepes with creamed chard and sautéed morels

(Crepes scare people. People are silly.)

For the crepes:

Take a cup of flour. Any flour you want. I used half stone ground graham flour and half whole wheat pastry flour. Because that's what I like/have. Beat two eggs into half a cup of cream (or milk), and add a half a cup of water. Mix in the flour, and whisk the dickens out of it. Season as desired, and then stir in two tablespoons melted butter. Let that sit for a minute while you prepare your pan.

Now, if you're me, you have a well-seasoned and loved crepe pan in your arsenal, eager to be thrown into the fire. If you are not me, apologize profusely to your misunderstood omelet pan/small skillet and commence calling it your crepe pan. Brush it well with butter, and heat to a steady medium/high heat.

Pour enough batter into the pan to just coat the bottom, swirling the pan to evenly distribute the batter. Let it cook a minute or so, or until the edges are beginning to curl and brown. Carefully, with a spatula or fork, flip the crepe completely over and allow the second side a minute. Repeat until the batter is gone. (makes 6-8 crepes)

Seriously. It's just pancakes.

To fill my crepes, I turned to an old standby of mine, creamed chard. Apparently, this is an exceptionally unfashionable food, the stuff of nursing homes and cafeterias. Well, sign me up. Creamed chard is both nutritious and delicious, well-loved by mamas and boychildren alike.

to make:

a bunch of chard

a bit of butter

garlic

nutmeg

pepper

1/2 c heavy cream

Melt the butter, and sauté a clove or two of garlic. Add the chard, and cook until wilted. Stir in the cream, nutmeg and pepper to taste. (I realize nutmeg sounds a little bit crazy. Do me a favor, try it once? I'm totally right.) Cook over low heat until thickened.

(Creamed chard is great over pasta, or as a side dish, or as cold leftovers in the middle of the night. It's the kind of comfort food I wish I remembered from my childhood. Simple, nourishing and thoroughly uncomplicated.)

Now for the morels.

As you may or may not know, morels are not cheap. These aren't white button mushrooms we're dealing with, or even shiitakes. These are something else. Something special. I probably had an eighth of a pound, and it was the best money I've spent in weeks.

Try this:

1 T butter

1 leek

6-8 fresh morels (I do like dried ones, but they aren't really interchangeable)

a splash of a drinkable white wine

heavy cream

salt/pepper

Chop the whites of your leek and gently cook in butter until soft. Pour in enough wine to just cover, and simmer while you clean and coarsely chop the morels. (The larger you leave them, the better the texture.) Add the mushrooms. Cook briefly, until they begin to release their liquid into the sauce. Add the cream, and simmer slowly until thickened. Season as desired.

To assemble, fill the warm crepes with a generous portion of chard, and roll gently. Spoon the morel cream sauce over the crepes. (You can add cheese if you wish, either a grating of something sharp on top, or perhaps a soft, pungent sliver or two inside. I really don't think it needs it, but I've been wrong before.)

Adults will love this. And you by extension.

So will these guys.

xoxo,

Mary Catherine

Happy Mother's Day!

2011-05-08T09:58:00.000-05:00

Can you believe this is my fourth Mother's Day? I can't. Luckily, I have pictures!

11 May 2008

This tiny dream was just shy of five months old, yet sleeping through the night. Heaven.

10 May 2009

Mum-mums, his mama, and a red velvet dinosaur were all it took to please him.

9 May 2010

The least terrible two year old, everything delighted this little adventurer.

8 May 2011

3 years; 3 feet, 3 inches of joyful little boy.

I love you, Jack Hazard. You make it all worth it.

xoxo,

Mama

p.s. I'm not cooking today. <3

Handcrafted Chèvre

2011-04-25T23:14:00.003-05:00

(Don't things just sound lovelier in French?)

Regardless, today we're making goat cheese!

A year or so ago, I took a workshop through the lovely Outpost Natural Foods on basic cheese making techniques. It was taught by the wildly entertaining and knowledgeable Linda Conroy and I enjoyed it immensely. We cultured butter, made fresh mozarella, and even paneer. It was fascinating, but somehow the skills I learned got sidelined in the everyday rush of bread to bake, and laundry to wash, and boychild to raise and bikes to ride and books to read and kites to fly and accordions to play and etc. I had every intention of making my own cheese, but even the best intentions surely never wash their own dishes.

So this afternoon, I had a wild idea. I was standing in front of the cheese case, mulling over my choices, and lamenting the extravagant price of my truly excellent taste in cheeses. Putting back the Purple Haze with a sigh of resignation, I had an epiphany. A capitol 'E' epiphany. An EPIPHANY even. Why don't I just MAKE the fancy cheeses of my dreams?

Duh.

So here's what I did.

I picked up a quart of goat milk. (Whole milk, of course.)

I grabbed a good sized lemon. (I'd recommend buying two just in case.)

a clove of garlic.

a pinch of basil, a sprig of thyme.

(I already have salt and pepper; I'm not a heathen.)

After picking up the boychild from school and kissing him twice for luck, I slowly, slowly brought the milk to 180°. Twenty minutes or so. If a skin forms, don't fret; you're going to curdle this milk, after all. (While I don't like to be an equipment freak, I really do consider a candy thermometer to be an invaluable tool in the kitchen.) While the milk heats, juice and strain your lemon. Mine yielded 1/4 cup, which was perfect. Mince that garlic as fine as you like. (Or skip it. But don't tell me if you do, you wicked heretic.)

When your milk is hot, remove it from the heat. Stir in the lemon juice, and be prepared to watch it curdle. If after a minute, it hasn't curdled, add a bit more lemon juice.

Now, you're going to prepare a cozy little spot for your curds and whey. I lined my favorite colander with three doubled layers of cheesecloth (Cheesecloth is an airy woven cloth which is used extensively in cheese making.) and set it over a large stockpot, to catch the runoff.

Carefully, pour the curdled milk into the prepared cheesecloth hammock. Knot the four corners of the cloth together, and slip a long handled spoon into the folds. Now, balance the spoon on the rim of the pot and wait. That's it. No kidding.

An hour and a half later, I checked and it was exactly the consistency I prefer. Creamy, dense, and not too dry. Feel free to drain it as long as you like, and keep in mind that if you accidentally over-drain, you can always stir a little of the drained liquid back into the curds.

Peel back the cheesecloth to reveal a tender globe of the freshest, tangiest, creamiest goat cheese you'll ever try. I flattened it on a wooden board, and folded in the garlic, a touch of salt, and a few tablespoons of herbs. A twist or two of black pepper later, and my chèvre was ready for her close-up. Have you ever seen anything so lovely?

(Sidenote: I buy all my groceries at my local, organic cooperative where I've been a member/employee for the last eleven years. It's important to me to support local business, family business, good business. I encourage you all to discover your own local favorites because the things you make can only be as good as the things you make them out of!)

xoxo,

Mary Catherine

Happy birthday Jack Hazard!

2010-12-14T13:04:00.001-06:00

The morning my little boy turned three, I said to him, "I'll eat you up!" He turned to me gravely and said, putting his hand in mine, "but Mama, then you wouldn't have a Jack anymore."

My logical, clever, sweet little boy is unbelievably, incredibly, three years old.

So I made him a birthday cake almost as darling as he is.

It started (as all the best things do) at a rummage sale, in a rainstorm, two years ago. Jack was an antsy eighteen months and cranky with his dawdling mama. Who had seen something magical. Packed in its box, still wrapped in plastic, was a merry-go-round cake topper. To make the sort of cake I'd have dreamed about as a child. (who am I kidding...I still dream about cakes like this.) Best two dollars I ever spent.

Because I have a hard time doing anything average, I decided on a two tier, four layer cake. Jack had requested chocolate, and friend Sarah (and our impeccable hosting etiquette) dictated the necessity of a vegan option. I adapted my trusty chocolate sour cream cake with only very minor difficulties. Sandwiched with my homemade marmalade and infused with Grand Marnier, it was a dense, rich celebration of a cake.

Next, because I've never really been one for chocolate, I decided on a classic white cake for the bottom layer, gussied up with a splash of bitter almond and spread with the apricot preserves we put up this summer.

Because Mamas have something to celebrate too.

While the birthday boy slept, I assembled the layers with dowels and cake plates, spread a base of vegan buttercream, and draped it in vegan fondant.

Jack came to see what was happening just as the merry-go-round was being placed. That face. Makes it all worth it.

(Recipes to follow.)

xoxo,

Mary Catherine

Haut Tamales!

2010-12-05T18:50:00.002-06:00

Not everyone is as lucky as I am. Truly. For not everyone lives just around the corner from Milwaukee's dearest Mexican restaurant, Corazon. While I cannot promise apartments and houses in as lucky a proximity as mine, I can entice my talented neighbors and friends to come over and cook with me.

(You're welcome.)

Today we're making tamales, something I'd never attempted or seen in action.

We're in my mama's glorious kitchen, and we're joined by our friends Juanita the magnificent (and the know-how behind our work today); Joel the illustrious (and the artistic genius behind this beautiful kitchen); Wendy the darling (co-owner of Cafe Corazon); and Stella the sweetheart (Wendy's lovely and helpful daughter.)

Jack's napping because he is an angel. Jonas and Paw-Paw are occupied with matchbox cars and puzzles.

Let's get to work!

Juanita arrives first, and with Juanita come the ingredients: a slow cooker full of locally raised pork (thanks to Wilson Farm), six pounds of masa (which El-Rey prepared for us), approximately half a pound of dried ancho chiles, a head of garlic and corn husks for wrapping.

(Juanita started the night before with about nine pounds of pork, seasoned it lightly with salt and added a little water. After ten hours on low, the meat was tender and ready to be shredded. With your fingers or a fork, separate the roast into juicy shreds, reserving the liquid.)

We began by soaking the husks in warm water, to make them pliable and easy to handle.

Setting that aside, we turned our attention to the dried chiles. We removed the stems and seeds, and put them in a pot with water to cover. After about fifteen minutes over medium heat, they'd rehydrated. You can (as people have done for centuries) scrape the peppers with a spoon to remove the pulp from the skin, OR you can do as my smart and efficient mama suggested, and puree the whole chili with a little water in your trusty blender. We did that, leaving us with a thick puree of chili. We saved the remaining cooking liquid to steam our eventual tamales. The secret hippie in me really loved the idea of repurposing the liquid from the pork and the water from the chiles. Because I love things like that. (Here's my second whole-hearted endorsement of composting, a practice I picked up from my sweet mama.)

Then the head of garlic was peeled and minced. I gave my little speech of the health virtues of garlic (I swear, it will demolish a cold) and it was agreed by all that people who don't adore garlic aren't to be trusted.

Next up: the masa. While El-Rey had mixed it with water for us, we needed to enhance the flavor. We added several tablespoons of our chili paste, about half of the minced garlic, and a little bit of both the pork broth and the chili liquid. Joel kneaded it all together, and Juanita seasoned it lightly with salt.

To the meat we added the rest of the garlic, some more of our ancho chili paste, salt to taste and a splash of its cooking liquid.

It's tamale time!

The dining room table was laid with a waterproof cloth, and our collective hands were scrubbed. We moved our bowls of masa and meat to the table, and we took our places.

Juanita demonstrated our goal, and we all watched closely.

On the softened corn husk, we spread about two tablespoons of the masa, starting at the midpoint, and working out and down. Some of us preferred our fingers, and some used the back of a spoon. The goal was an even layer of masa on half of the husk.

On the top of that, right down the center, we spooned about a tablespoon of pork. We folded the left side in, and then the right, finally folding the tamale in half, sealing the filling inside of the husk.

When we ran out of the meat, rather than waste the prepared masa, we mixed up some beans with garlic, chilis and salt. It would be so easy to make these vegetarian (vegan even!) and I plan on experimenting with different flavor combinations. I have faith in the eventual success of a tomatillo/chicken coupling.

When we'd assembled all of the tamales, we prepared our pots and pans for steaming. We combined our remaining liquids and added water as necessary. We packed our tamales into the steamer baskets, with the seams down.

Depending on the size of the steamer, (we used about four different steamers) they cooked in different times. A medium sized bamboo steamer took about forty minutes, but you'll want to check them. The goal is a husk that peels easily away from the finished tamale.

Don't they look great? So delicious. I loved the pork, but the bean tamales were amazing too. We made about nine dozen, which is an awful lot, so you'll perhaps want to scale that down. Or maybe not. You can do like we did, and make all your neighbors come over with their beautiful children and helping hands.

Tamales were fun. I hope you try them someday. And I hope you have a Juanita, Joel, Wendy, Susie and Stella to help you along the way! (And a Jonas, Paw-Paw and Jack Hazard playing sweetly in the background.) Thanks friends!

xoxo,

Mary Catherine

Crème Renversée

2010-11-04T09:55:00.001-05:00

Or Flan, if you prefer.

I have never been to Spain, and I've never been able to roll my R's. These are facts.

However. I have been to France, and once in Paris, as a jeune fille avec mes amis, I ordered this. It was a dingy little place with prices to suit my penniless pockets, but I was (as ever) an optimistic creature. It arrived in a little tin cup, ready for the flipping.

Is the suspense just killing you?

It was a truly dismal effort. Heavy with gelatin, cheap orange flavor, and thickly slathered with something resembling filthy motor oil, it was all but inedible. A less forgiving soul might give up altogether on her fantasies of flipped custard, but I am stubborn to a fault.

I can say with great authority that my Crème Renversée is MUCH better than any I've had in Paris.
(I welcome any challenges to the contrary that are accompanied with vacation time and plane fare.)

(For eight individual ramekins)

4 cups whole milk
1 vanilla bean, split with seeds removed
1 teaspoon lemon zest
5 eggs
2 egg yolks
1 cup sugar
3/4 cup sugar

For the caramel coating, melt the 3/4 c of sugar over low heat in your heaviest cast iron skillet. Try not to stir it. Usually a good shake with the wrist will be enough to evenly distribute it in the pan. Watch it carefully; it takes almost no time to go from melted to burned. Remove from the heat when it's just golden, it will continue to darken for a few seconds still.

Working quickly, spread the caramelized sugar in the bottom of your dishes and set aside.

Preheat your oven to 300 degrees.

Bring the milk, vanilla and zest to a boil and immediately reduce heat to very low. After ten minutes, turn off the heat and leave it. The milk should steep with the vanilla and lemon for a half an hour. Allow to cool.

Combine the eggs, yolks, and remaining sugar in a bowl and whisk until foamy. Strain the cooled milk into the bowl through the finest sieve you have. (I'll use cheesecloth plus strainer if I really love you.)

Whisk until blended.

Divide the mixture among your caramel coated cups. Arrange them (not touching! Catholic School Dance!) in a large baking dish, or roaster. Place it on the oven rack, and carefully pour boiling water into the pan. You want about an inch of water surrounding your little islands of delight. Congratulations! You've just made a bain-marie. Don't you feel fancy?

Bake for an hour and a half. You can shake them gently to test for doneness. The center should hold. Things will not fall apart, no anarchy is loosed. Sorry, Yeats. Alternately, you can just insert a thin knife into the center of a custard. It should come out clean.

Remove the bath from the oven, and the custards from the bath.

They must cool completely. When it's time to serve, dip the bottoms of the dishes briefly into boiling water to liquify, run a knife around the edge and flip!

(It's fun to do it in front of guests, they'll be impressed and the gentle anxiety is good for your heart.)

vous n'avez pas à vous dire merci.

xoxo,

Mary Catherine

Madeleines

2010-10-23T17:21:00.001-05:00

Infused with dreamy history and a bit of mystery, the madeleine stands as a paragon of both literary and culinary artistry. I've always shied away from recipes for this iconic French sweet, assuming it to be too chic to turn out at home.

I couldn't have been more wrong.

We begin (as I prefer) with an obscure and irreplaceable pan.

You cannot make a madeleine without a madeleine pan. Facts are facts.

(They're easy to find though, and worth the wait.)

Lavender Madeleines

(This will make 12.)

5 Tablespoons of the finest unsalted butter you can find

2 Tablespoon organic lavender flowers

1 teaspoon lemon zest

1/2 cup granulated sugar

2 large eggs, room temperature

2 tablespoons honey

1/2 teaspoon vanilla

3/4 cup pastry flour

1/2 teaspoon baking powder

pinch of salt

Melt the butter over low heat and stir in the lavender. Let the flowers steep fifteen minutes. Strain well and set the butter aside.

With your fingertips (and pent-up aggression) vigorously work the lemon zest into the sugar. (I like this step, although it might be slightly less than necessary.)

Beat the eggs with the zest and sugar until thick, lemony yellow and light. Add the honey and vanilla, beating for another minute or so.

Now, gently fold the sifted dry ingredients into the eggs and sugar. (Starting now, we're handling this batter as a delicate emotional flower whose fragile ego and final texture require a gentle touch.)

Last, fold the liquid lavender butter into the batter and stop stirring as soon as it's combined. Press a piece of plastic wrap to the surface of the batter and put it in the refrigerator. It needs a nap, or preferably a good night's rest. (I make the batter at night and bake it in the morning.)

When you're ready to bake, preheat your oven to a toasty 400.° Butter your tins (I cannot stress the BUTTER here enough) and flour. Tap out the excess, and divide the batter equally. Give them 12 minutes to start, and don't exceed 14.

Cool briefly in the pans, and tap them out onto a rack to cool completely.

Don't you feel elegant?

Children love them. So do adults. So did Proust. You'll be in good company with these sweets.

xoxo,

Mary Catherine