What reminds me of summer (almost as much as a hot pink bikini) are fresh market stalls bulging with home grown vegetables: screen doors slamming, the whir of an attic fan, friends and family hauling armfuls of fresh, sweet zucchini, squash and tomatoes from their own or neighboring gardens.
Cheeks and foreheads are pink from the sun and sweat glistens on the brows of those jubilant enough to have produced such crops. I envision my mother bicycling to the farm where she has cultivated a little plot of her own, rich with plump heirloom tomatoes, petit, egg-shaped globe carrots and other such niceties. She tends this garden as she would small children, pedaling to and from the little plot each morning and evening, often with my father in tow. She worries over the size of her zucchini, whether they have grown too large to be perfectly sweet and tender; she fusses at the opossums and offending deer. She cradles fresh plucked watermelon and cantaloupe in her arms, with the promise of making little chins and fingers sticky with juice once at home again.
My mother’s tenderness for all things grown continues to imprint itself onto her children. As a child, I idolized brussel and alfalfa sprouts. Eating an artichoke was both fascinating and delicious. I loved snapping peas and shucking corn. My most favorite thing in the world was split-pea soup. But, as I have learned with age, this adoration for my beloved legumes is rare.
An art I have been subject to learn, as a teacher of young children, is that of vegetable disguise. I incorporate artichoke, broccoli and carrot in quiche, blueberries in brownies and avocado in grilled cheese. However, as far as summer is concerned, I hone in on the zucchini. I dice, slice, peel and grate this silky green and marvelously versatile veggie, its creamy flesh lending perfectly to corn, lemon and thyme.
Two dishes that are just as grown-up in flavor as they are kid-friendly are zucchini-ricotta fritters served with lemon slices (or ketchup should your child prefer) and a moist zucchini cornbread prepared in a loaf pan. Both burst with flavor and if they don’t remind you of summer from here on out, I’ll send you a hot pink bikini!
http://www.foodandwine.com/recipes/zucchini-ricotta-fritters
http://www.bonappetit.com/recipes/2011/07/zucchini-cornbread
Monday, August 1, 2011
Sunday, July 31, 2011
Part II: An Irish Ramble
St. Patrick’s Day in Ireland was all that I had hoped it would be without all that I’d anticipated it being. I had envisioned Mardi Gras, pushing my way through sweaty, drunken crowds, the smell of stale beer flooding my nostrils.
I was pleasantly surprised to find that Dublin’s St. Patrick’s Day parade was family-oriented, beginning around noon and lasting only a few hours. The streets were patrolled by policemen, people walked politely in single-file queues down the sidewalks. Children sat on their parents’ shoulders and people sipped coffees or walked around as we did, nibbling on sandwiches from corner delis. Our sandwiches, the least expensive of all our meals while traveling, sufficed to be one the best: turkey paninis with a spicy mustard, tomatoes and a sweet pepper relish that resembled fruit chutney.
As soon as the parade ended, the crowds cleared. The streets were tended, though little cleaning needed to be done. I could not help but observe that Dublin was the cleanest city I had ever seen; the main street, O’Connell, being cleaned each morning, and with soap, none-the-less!
We warmed up, post parade, back in the hotel bar with hot whiskeys: whiskey, hot water, cloves, a bit of sugar and a slice of lemon. From there, we rebundled in coats and scarves and ventured towards Temple Bar to meet friends.
Temple Bar is an area of Dublin comprised of pubs and eateries, and attracts a younger, rowdier crowd. One of my dearest friends, Helen (who is obtaining her graduate degree at Trinity College), invited us to a classmate’s flat located on the second floor, directly above a popular pub. The streets were filled, young students, tourists, and some more adventurous families, in large green hats or other green paraphernalia. People sat on their balconies or in windows sipping beers and joining in with the crowds below.
We made merry with Helen’s Irish friends before settling in at a crowded basement bar and listening to a true Irish band complete with bagpipes and red ponytails.
One of our biggest adventures however, was our renting a small beetle of a car with Helen and her boyfriend, Spencer, and taking a spin in the Irish countryside. Popping in a purchased compact disc titled, “Irish Whiskey Tunes”, we ventured out along the narrow winding roads (but not before getting quite turned around in the autobahn-esque roundabouts located on the outskirts of the city). We escaped a near death, stalling out in the middle of a dip in one winding road, only to stumble across (thanks to Spencer’s suggestion) one right turn that led us to the base of Sugarloaf Mountain. What a right turn that turned out to be! It was a quintessential place to frolic. I expected to clasp hands with Julie Andrews and twirl in circles, my lungs full of those sweet lyrics, “the hills are alive.”
There was a small parking lot at the base and a man selling snacks from his van. Sheep roamed on adjacent patches of land and a stone farm house loomed in the distance. We began our ascent.
The wind was strong on the mountain. We stretched out our arms, the sun warm on our faces, and let the wind ripple across our jackets. Our feet padded across soft grass that turned into small rock collections that grew larger until we were practically rock climbing to the top of the mountain. Dogs raced ahead, their small feet taking boulders in bounds. We took our jackets off and tied them around our waists. Our cheeks turned pink.
The sea stretched before us from our perch on the utmost boulder. Behind us was the sprawling countryside of Wicklow County, its earth a patchwork of green. We shouted to hear one another and looked on at those around us, unpacking sacks full of water and peanut butter sandwiches; locals who knew that such a view deserved more than a mere ten minutes to marvel.
The moment our feet hit soft earth again, I could contain myself no longer. I threw my arms out and raced down the mountain, the wind taking my breath away. It was one of the most liberating, uninhibited moments of my small life. I felt like running forever, up and across each green hill, past the grazing sheep and towards the dipping sun. I passed a family, a mother and daughter and two couples, my face bright and smile stuck across my cheeks.
Almost as wonderful was looking behind me to see the mother and daughter I passed, running back down the hill, their arms outstretched and hair flying behind them. Joy is contagious.
We drove to our hotel in Portmarnock later that night, the sky dark and full of thick, wet clouds. We could smell the sea, hear the lapping of waves, but could only see black. At the front desk, I looked to a postcard boasting long, wide stretches of beach. A feeling of such strong yearning to see what I could hear, smell and possibly feel filled my stomach.
We lugged our suitcases to the bedroom and headed back to the hotel restaurant. It was a restaurant to be rivaled, fulfilling all expectations for a last night in Ireland. The walls were made of a dark, glossy wood. Fires cackled beneath ornate mantels tucked away in nooks surrounded by plump chairs. Small, round tables nestled in darkened corners with small tea candles to light conversation. Older couples ate in satisfied silence, groups of men sipped whiskey and watched rugby matches on television. As the night wore on, the remains of an earlier wedding party filled the bar area.
My husband sipped a Guinness, and I a Smythwick. I concluded the trip with fish n’ chips and my husband, an order of surprisingly good fajitas and guacamole. To end, we split an Irish coffee and hot whiskey.
We slipped into our bed and slept soundly for four hours, before waking at four in the morning for a seven a.m. flight. We left the hotel in the dark just as we’d come, with my window open, listening for the waves and breathing in the salty air of an Irish coastline.
Slip into the end of any evening with a hot whiskey. My friend, Helen, true to her Irish roots, swears by a similar soothing hot toddy. So, do as the Irish and slip into some soft sheets after one of these.
Hot Whiskey
2 ½ oz. Irish Whiskey
1 slice, fresh lemon
2-4 cloves
1 tsp. sugar
Hot water
Pour whiskey into glass. Stick cloves in lemon slice and add to glass. Fill with hot water and add sugar. Stir to dissolve. Serve immediately.
I was pleasantly surprised to find that Dublin’s St. Patrick’s Day parade was family-oriented, beginning around noon and lasting only a few hours. The streets were patrolled by policemen, people walked politely in single-file queues down the sidewalks. Children sat on their parents’ shoulders and people sipped coffees or walked around as we did, nibbling on sandwiches from corner delis. Our sandwiches, the least expensive of all our meals while traveling, sufficed to be one the best: turkey paninis with a spicy mustard, tomatoes and a sweet pepper relish that resembled fruit chutney.
As soon as the parade ended, the crowds cleared. The streets were tended, though little cleaning needed to be done. I could not help but observe that Dublin was the cleanest city I had ever seen; the main street, O’Connell, being cleaned each morning, and with soap, none-the-less!
We warmed up, post parade, back in the hotel bar with hot whiskeys: whiskey, hot water, cloves, a bit of sugar and a slice of lemon. From there, we rebundled in coats and scarves and ventured towards Temple Bar to meet friends.
Temple Bar is an area of Dublin comprised of pubs and eateries, and attracts a younger, rowdier crowd. One of my dearest friends, Helen (who is obtaining her graduate degree at Trinity College), invited us to a classmate’s flat located on the second floor, directly above a popular pub. The streets were filled, young students, tourists, and some more adventurous families, in large green hats or other green paraphernalia. People sat on their balconies or in windows sipping beers and joining in with the crowds below.
We made merry with Helen’s Irish friends before settling in at a crowded basement bar and listening to a true Irish band complete with bagpipes and red ponytails.
One of our biggest adventures however, was our renting a small beetle of a car with Helen and her boyfriend, Spencer, and taking a spin in the Irish countryside. Popping in a purchased compact disc titled, “Irish Whiskey Tunes”, we ventured out along the narrow winding roads (but not before getting quite turned around in the autobahn-esque roundabouts located on the outskirts of the city). We escaped a near death, stalling out in the middle of a dip in one winding road, only to stumble across (thanks to Spencer’s suggestion) one right turn that led us to the base of Sugarloaf Mountain. What a right turn that turned out to be! It was a quintessential place to frolic. I expected to clasp hands with Julie Andrews and twirl in circles, my lungs full of those sweet lyrics, “the hills are alive.”
There was a small parking lot at the base and a man selling snacks from his van. Sheep roamed on adjacent patches of land and a stone farm house loomed in the distance. We began our ascent.
The wind was strong on the mountain. We stretched out our arms, the sun warm on our faces, and let the wind ripple across our jackets. Our feet padded across soft grass that turned into small rock collections that grew larger until we were practically rock climbing to the top of the mountain. Dogs raced ahead, their small feet taking boulders in bounds. We took our jackets off and tied them around our waists. Our cheeks turned pink.
The sea stretched before us from our perch on the utmost boulder. Behind us was the sprawling countryside of Wicklow County, its earth a patchwork of green. We shouted to hear one another and looked on at those around us, unpacking sacks full of water and peanut butter sandwiches; locals who knew that such a view deserved more than a mere ten minutes to marvel.
The moment our feet hit soft earth again, I could contain myself no longer. I threw my arms out and raced down the mountain, the wind taking my breath away. It was one of the most liberating, uninhibited moments of my small life. I felt like running forever, up and across each green hill, past the grazing sheep and towards the dipping sun. I passed a family, a mother and daughter and two couples, my face bright and smile stuck across my cheeks.
Almost as wonderful was looking behind me to see the mother and daughter I passed, running back down the hill, their arms outstretched and hair flying behind them. Joy is contagious.
We drove to our hotel in Portmarnock later that night, the sky dark and full of thick, wet clouds. We could smell the sea, hear the lapping of waves, but could only see black. At the front desk, I looked to a postcard boasting long, wide stretches of beach. A feeling of such strong yearning to see what I could hear, smell and possibly feel filled my stomach.
We lugged our suitcases to the bedroom and headed back to the hotel restaurant. It was a restaurant to be rivaled, fulfilling all expectations for a last night in Ireland. The walls were made of a dark, glossy wood. Fires cackled beneath ornate mantels tucked away in nooks surrounded by plump chairs. Small, round tables nestled in darkened corners with small tea candles to light conversation. Older couples ate in satisfied silence, groups of men sipped whiskey and watched rugby matches on television. As the night wore on, the remains of an earlier wedding party filled the bar area.
My husband sipped a Guinness, and I a Smythwick. I concluded the trip with fish n’ chips and my husband, an order of surprisingly good fajitas and guacamole. To end, we split an Irish coffee and hot whiskey.
We slipped into our bed and slept soundly for four hours, before waking at four in the morning for a seven a.m. flight. We left the hotel in the dark just as we’d come, with my window open, listening for the waves and breathing in the salty air of an Irish coastline.
Slip into the end of any evening with a hot whiskey. My friend, Helen, true to her Irish roots, swears by a similar soothing hot toddy. So, do as the Irish and slip into some soft sheets after one of these.
Hot Whiskey
2 ½ oz. Irish Whiskey
1 slice, fresh lemon
2-4 cloves
1 tsp. sugar
Hot water
Pour whiskey into glass. Stick cloves in lemon slice and add to glass. Fill with hot water and add sugar. Stir to dissolve. Serve immediately.
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
Part 1: An Irish Ramble
I began my morning with a Madagascar vanilla macaroon from La Dureé in the Charles de Gaulle Aéroport. My husband watched me, his eyes laughing, as I savored the sweet crunch of macaroon between my teeth, and reveled in the “Frenchness” of the morning. Never mind the layover in Atlanta, and the six hour delay in travel plans, I was in France, if only in the airport. It made no difference to me. My ears were full of the French language, and I entered practically every store front and approached every available airline attendant to ask mindless questions in the language I’d studied for ten years and never had the chance to use. I looked, I assume, as a puppy learning to bark and run on wobbly legs must look, bobbing from one direction to the next, tail wagging and in love with each new movement.
If it weren’t for the fact that I was growing quite delirious with exhaustion, having slept an hour on the plane the night before, nerves on high alert and eyelids daring to close, I would not have willed our last flight of the day to fruition. However, the promise of a warm bed, blackout shades and a tall pint of Guinness appealed to my more immediate needs.
Having arrived, sans luggage, in the Dublin airport, we tumbled onto a Dart bus and meandered through narrow streets into the city and towards our hotel. We were let out two blocks from the hotel and left to find our way. No trouble there, however, as the Irish are the most friendly and desirable a group of people to encounter when in need of direction.
The hotel was situated on a quiet street off Parnell Square. And, instead of dropping onto the newly made bed and sleeping away the morning, we had a mission. As our luggage was not due to arrive until the following morning, at which time we would be touring the west coast of County Clare, we could not anticipate fresh clothing for the next forty-eight hours. We needed undergarments. Loading up on digestives (which I insisted on buying to feel oh-so-European) and water at the corner market, we hit the road.
Along the way, I was nearly accosted by an obnoxious, teenaged-boy with crazed eyes who laughed menacingly after pretending to run towards and corner me. Little did he know that my husband, always a few steps ahead, but with eyes in the back of his head (and who believes he was built to play rugby) spun around at my squeak of distress and would have pummeled him had I not restrained him with soothing kisses. Lucky for the boy, he continued on just as quickly as he’d come, towards his next victim.
Having escaped a brawl, we continued on, my mind racing with images of crazy Irishmen and my husband half-mumbling, half-snorting something about little leprechauns under his breath.
In perfect time, we stumbled across the Brazen Head, whose sign claimed it to be the oldest pub in Dublin. We sat down at the bar, already crowded at noon, and ordered two pints of Guinness. I could have melted into my seat upon first sip. The bar was small, intimate, accommodating thirty, forty people maximum, and though worn in feeling, exactly what we wanted, everything awash in dark mahogany, with vintage newspaper clippings and posters framed along the walls.
We continued our bar hop, now believing barley to be the fuel needed to get through the day and adjust to the time change, and made our way to an area known as Temple bar. After splitting fish n’chips and chatting up a few local bartenders, we met friends at the Jameson Distillery, where much to my dismay; I slept through much of the tour.
Finally, back at the hotel, we arranged for a six a.m. wake-up call in order to make our Moher Cliffs tour the next day. Unfortunately for us, sleep was not in our destiny this trip. I awoke to my husband’s voice, still husky with sleep, saying that the alarm had indeed gone off and it was time to get up. My eyes scanned the room for a clock. No such luck. I peeled the sheets away from me and walked into the bathroom, showered, dried my hair and put my makeup on. By the time I was done, my husband had returned from his coffee run. Settled once again in bed, he informed me that it was two in the morning and that he had dreamt the alarm. I didn’t bother undressing. I simply flopped back into bed.
The tour to the Cliffs of Moher was magical. Old, wizened Irishmen chatting against wooden gates flashed toothless, boyish grins and tipped hats to passing tourists (who scoured the narrow roads in giant green buses). Sheep roamed on sunny pastures that dipped into the sea. And, despite the fact that I was heading into my fifty-third hour in the same clothes, I felt refreshed, the cold, clean Irish wind licking my face and hair.
We wandered through old castles and monasteries, grabbed a pint at a local pub near the ocean and listened to our tour guide serenade us with traditional Irish songs and the repeated warning of, “Ireland: where the men are men and the sheep are scared.”
Sometime after lunch we arrived at the cliffs. A harpist played near their edge, her music mingling with the whipping wind and crashing of waves against the cliffs below. Hundreds of feet above water, we looked out and around, surrounded by green earth on two sides and the depths of sun-speckled sea on the other two. Following the lead of two other tourists, we scaled a small stone wall (feigning to see the “do not cross wall” sign not far from us) in order to take a photo against the cliffs. The landscape provided a perfect Christmas-card photo opportunity and happy with the effect we proceeded to scale back over the wall. My husband jumped; very handsomely (and skillfully) back over to safety. I had no such luck. The wedge of my boot tipped me backwards on the wall, propelling me into a full roll towards the edge of the cliff. Catching myself (by the grace of God) after only one backwards somersault, I peered back at the remaining four feet between myself and the cliff’s edge and clapped a hand to my chest. So much for the graceful ballerina I’d prided myself on being.
Having survived, what I may add as, an awfully romantic death, my new and nearly widowed husband, headed back to the bus where we dozed on and off from the day’s excitement, all the way home.
Almost as romantic as falling off the cliffs of Moher, was a seaside dinner for two at Ivan’s oyster bar and restaurant in the port town of Howth, Ireland. We settled in at a table by the window and dined on a steaming pot of mussels, with a warm buttery broth that we sopped up with sweet, brown bread. Fresh caught prawns followed, along with grilled Hake filet and a fisherman’s cioppino. After dinner, we walked along the sea wall, watching the sun dip into the dark sea, its’ last rays painting the clouds lavender.
Clark followed a small dog, similar to a spaniel, but clearly a mix, that looked as European as his owner, with old world golden curls. A seal in the water below followed us with large, dopey eyes. Sea gulls perched upon ships’ masts called to one another and no one in particular. Ireland’s “Eye” loomed ahead, a lone island, green with the soft grass, indigenous to Ireland, and a large basalt formation on its’ eastern side jutting up towards the sky. The air was full of both sweet and salt, the breeze cool against our woolen Blarney sweaters. I wanted to lie down, spread my arms and legs across the cool stones of the sea wall and watch the wisps of cloud that were gathering with the dusk. I wanted to feel that delicious smallness that you feel when encountered with the sea or a wide open prairie. I wanted to remember the sweetness of Irish mussels and fresh brown bread.
I love Ina Garten so will recommend any of her recipes. Here is one for mussels in white wine. Try with crumbly, nutty Irish brown bread and fall in love...
http://www.foodnetwork.com/recipes/ina-garten/mussels-in-white-wine-recipe/index.html
Found a recipe for brown bread from the usually dependable Gourmet archive, but will be tracking down Ivan's Oyster Bar's recipe, so stay tuned!
http://www.gourmet.com/recipes/2000s/2001/05/irish-brown-bread-with-smoked-salmon
If it weren’t for the fact that I was growing quite delirious with exhaustion, having slept an hour on the plane the night before, nerves on high alert and eyelids daring to close, I would not have willed our last flight of the day to fruition. However, the promise of a warm bed, blackout shades and a tall pint of Guinness appealed to my more immediate needs.
Having arrived, sans luggage, in the Dublin airport, we tumbled onto a Dart bus and meandered through narrow streets into the city and towards our hotel. We were let out two blocks from the hotel and left to find our way. No trouble there, however, as the Irish are the most friendly and desirable a group of people to encounter when in need of direction.
The hotel was situated on a quiet street off Parnell Square. And, instead of dropping onto the newly made bed and sleeping away the morning, we had a mission. As our luggage was not due to arrive until the following morning, at which time we would be touring the west coast of County Clare, we could not anticipate fresh clothing for the next forty-eight hours. We needed undergarments. Loading up on digestives (which I insisted on buying to feel oh-so-European) and water at the corner market, we hit the road.
Along the way, I was nearly accosted by an obnoxious, teenaged-boy with crazed eyes who laughed menacingly after pretending to run towards and corner me. Little did he know that my husband, always a few steps ahead, but with eyes in the back of his head (and who believes he was built to play rugby) spun around at my squeak of distress and would have pummeled him had I not restrained him with soothing kisses. Lucky for the boy, he continued on just as quickly as he’d come, towards his next victim.
Having escaped a brawl, we continued on, my mind racing with images of crazy Irishmen and my husband half-mumbling, half-snorting something about little leprechauns under his breath.
In perfect time, we stumbled across the Brazen Head, whose sign claimed it to be the oldest pub in Dublin. We sat down at the bar, already crowded at noon, and ordered two pints of Guinness. I could have melted into my seat upon first sip. The bar was small, intimate, accommodating thirty, forty people maximum, and though worn in feeling, exactly what we wanted, everything awash in dark mahogany, with vintage newspaper clippings and posters framed along the walls.
We continued our bar hop, now believing barley to be the fuel needed to get through the day and adjust to the time change, and made our way to an area known as Temple bar. After splitting fish n’chips and chatting up a few local bartenders, we met friends at the Jameson Distillery, where much to my dismay; I slept through much of the tour.
Finally, back at the hotel, we arranged for a six a.m. wake-up call in order to make our Moher Cliffs tour the next day. Unfortunately for us, sleep was not in our destiny this trip. I awoke to my husband’s voice, still husky with sleep, saying that the alarm had indeed gone off and it was time to get up. My eyes scanned the room for a clock. No such luck. I peeled the sheets away from me and walked into the bathroom, showered, dried my hair and put my makeup on. By the time I was done, my husband had returned from his coffee run. Settled once again in bed, he informed me that it was two in the morning and that he had dreamt the alarm. I didn’t bother undressing. I simply flopped back into bed.
The tour to the Cliffs of Moher was magical. Old, wizened Irishmen chatting against wooden gates flashed toothless, boyish grins and tipped hats to passing tourists (who scoured the narrow roads in giant green buses). Sheep roamed on sunny pastures that dipped into the sea. And, despite the fact that I was heading into my fifty-third hour in the same clothes, I felt refreshed, the cold, clean Irish wind licking my face and hair.
We wandered through old castles and monasteries, grabbed a pint at a local pub near the ocean and listened to our tour guide serenade us with traditional Irish songs and the repeated warning of, “Ireland: where the men are men and the sheep are scared.”
Sometime after lunch we arrived at the cliffs. A harpist played near their edge, her music mingling with the whipping wind and crashing of waves against the cliffs below. Hundreds of feet above water, we looked out and around, surrounded by green earth on two sides and the depths of sun-speckled sea on the other two. Following the lead of two other tourists, we scaled a small stone wall (feigning to see the “do not cross wall” sign not far from us) in order to take a photo against the cliffs. The landscape provided a perfect Christmas-card photo opportunity and happy with the effect we proceeded to scale back over the wall. My husband jumped; very handsomely (and skillfully) back over to safety. I had no such luck. The wedge of my boot tipped me backwards on the wall, propelling me into a full roll towards the edge of the cliff. Catching myself (by the grace of God) after only one backwards somersault, I peered back at the remaining four feet between myself and the cliff’s edge and clapped a hand to my chest. So much for the graceful ballerina I’d prided myself on being.
Having survived, what I may add as, an awfully romantic death, my new and nearly widowed husband, headed back to the bus where we dozed on and off from the day’s excitement, all the way home.
Almost as romantic as falling off the cliffs of Moher, was a seaside dinner for two at Ivan’s oyster bar and restaurant in the port town of Howth, Ireland. We settled in at a table by the window and dined on a steaming pot of mussels, with a warm buttery broth that we sopped up with sweet, brown bread. Fresh caught prawns followed, along with grilled Hake filet and a fisherman’s cioppino. After dinner, we walked along the sea wall, watching the sun dip into the dark sea, its’ last rays painting the clouds lavender.
Clark followed a small dog, similar to a spaniel, but clearly a mix, that looked as European as his owner, with old world golden curls. A seal in the water below followed us with large, dopey eyes. Sea gulls perched upon ships’ masts called to one another and no one in particular. Ireland’s “Eye” loomed ahead, a lone island, green with the soft grass, indigenous to Ireland, and a large basalt formation on its’ eastern side jutting up towards the sky. The air was full of both sweet and salt, the breeze cool against our woolen Blarney sweaters. I wanted to lie down, spread my arms and legs across the cool stones of the sea wall and watch the wisps of cloud that were gathering with the dusk. I wanted to feel that delicious smallness that you feel when encountered with the sea or a wide open prairie. I wanted to remember the sweetness of Irish mussels and fresh brown bread.
I love Ina Garten so will recommend any of her recipes. Here is one for mussels in white wine. Try with crumbly, nutty Irish brown bread and fall in love...
http://www.foodnetwork.com/recipes/ina-garten/mussels-in-white-wine-recipe/index.html
Found a recipe for brown bread from the usually dependable Gourmet archive, but will be tracking down Ivan's Oyster Bar's recipe, so stay tuned!
http://www.gourmet.com/recipes/2000s/2001/05/irish-brown-bread-with-smoked-salmon
Monday, July 19, 2010
Summer on the Barbie
Your cold drink sweats against your palm. The cicadas hum sweetly from the cool shade of the magnolias. An August sun shines through the trees, warming your skin in patches.
It's still summer. And, for those of us standing around with cold drinks sweating in our hands and dripping down our arms, the warm, chalky smell of charcoal beneath our noses is yet another welcome indication of the season.
A thick cut of halibut, juicy bone-in pork chops, a singing sirloin slapped beside tender, skewered shrimp; to choose from such a selection becomes the most important decision of the day.
But, for me this summer, my mouth waters and my stomach growls, for sizzling, crispy-skinned chicken, woodsy herb-laced chicken, buttermilk-tendered chicken; in other words, all things fowl.
Two recipes, I've determined to provide permanent residency for in my home. One, a grilled buttermilk chicken, marinates in a pool of tenderizing buttermilk, garlic, sea salt and rosemary for at least four hours. The result melts in your mouth with such a depth of flavor, you'll be shocked that only 5 ingredients were used.
Another, piri-piri chicken, marinates in a marriage of African and Portuguese flavors: cilantro, garlic, ginger, lemon and the African hot pepper, piri-piri (also known as peri-peri). This chicken is grilled whole, backbone removed, skin-side up. Crispy, juicy and tangy, you'll want to devour the entire chicken and drink the remaining marinade.
Guests will be saddened to leave after meals like these, but hopeful that another invitation will soon follow. And, while I hope you stay on the barbie throughout the year, do not neglect yourself or friends the privilege of enjoying the process, smell or cool drinks on warm evenings on the barbie.
http://www.marthastewart.com/recipe/grilled-buttermilk-chicken
http://www.bonappetit.com/recipes/2010/07/piri_piri_chicken
It's still summer. And, for those of us standing around with cold drinks sweating in our hands and dripping down our arms, the warm, chalky smell of charcoal beneath our noses is yet another welcome indication of the season.
A thick cut of halibut, juicy bone-in pork chops, a singing sirloin slapped beside tender, skewered shrimp; to choose from such a selection becomes the most important decision of the day.
But, for me this summer, my mouth waters and my stomach growls, for sizzling, crispy-skinned chicken, woodsy herb-laced chicken, buttermilk-tendered chicken; in other words, all things fowl.
Two recipes, I've determined to provide permanent residency for in my home. One, a grilled buttermilk chicken, marinates in a pool of tenderizing buttermilk, garlic, sea salt and rosemary for at least four hours. The result melts in your mouth with such a depth of flavor, you'll be shocked that only 5 ingredients were used.
Another, piri-piri chicken, marinates in a marriage of African and Portuguese flavors: cilantro, garlic, ginger, lemon and the African hot pepper, piri-piri (also known as peri-peri). This chicken is grilled whole, backbone removed, skin-side up. Crispy, juicy and tangy, you'll want to devour the entire chicken and drink the remaining marinade.
Guests will be saddened to leave after meals like these, but hopeful that another invitation will soon follow. And, while I hope you stay on the barbie throughout the year, do not neglect yourself or friends the privilege of enjoying the process, smell or cool drinks on warm evenings on the barbie.
http://www.marthastewart.com/recipe/grilled-buttermilk-chicken
http://www.bonappetit.com/recipes/2010/07/piri_piri_chicken
Sunday, May 9, 2010
Beavers and Brussel Sprouts
When my husband and I found ourselves quite the only couple in town not attending a wedding, drifting the New Braunfels river or participating in the New Orleans Jazz Fest festivities, we agreed to extend date night into date weekend. And, being the foodies we are, we decided to knock out a few restaurant on our to-eat-list.
Friday night, we drifted into Beaver's, a bar and restaurant tucked away on the less traversed end of Washington Street headed towards downtown Houston. A review in the Houston chronicle had landed the restaurant on our to-eat-list simply by its photo of a large cornmeal-crusted oyster po-boy overflowing with crispy onions on a buttery potato bun.
As we drove into the small, graveled front parking lot, we were greeted by short wooden stumps leading to the restaurant entrance. But, inside was hip; with a few rounded booths and multiple two-seater tables. Beaver's seemed perfect for couples seeking a romantic but relaxed evening out despite the waitress' shirts reading "Beavers, just south of Hooters". The menu was exciting for the two of us, often nostalgic for our Southeastern fare, offering cheesy grits, braised collards and sweet potato mash. Their entrees included the oyster po-boy that had initially lured us from the pages of the Houston Chronicle, a shredded chicken sandwich with tangy slaw, barbecue sauce, crispy onions and a fried egg, brisket tacos braised with orange, sesame and golden raisins and country rabbit en mole verde over black bean tamales. They also had a selection of brisket, ribs and sausage from the smoker, fried pickles and even a tofu BBQ burger for the meat-averse. Needless to say, we stumbled out of the restaurant, our bellies full of their locally brewed beer on draught and Southern-Texas cuisine. And, I've since thought to go back for a tee-shirt.
Saturday evening we felt as if we'd traveled across the Atlantic and into the Mediterranean, perched on the outside patio of Dolce Vita, an Italian cafe and enoteca, or wine shop. The patio is surrounded by a tall wrought iron fence hidden in creeping foliage that shields us from the road just ten feet beyond; and, we are shielded from both sun and rain by a white canopy overhead. The menu is light, delicious and from what I can tell, authentic. They offer small plates of shaved brussel sprouts with pecorino, fingerling potatoes "arrabbiata", calamari, pancetta or a cheese selection served with honey. Their thin crust pizzas are divine. We ordered the Siciliana with tomatoes, capers and olives and the Melanzane with eggplant, tomatoes and parmigiano. I had heard that their wine list is excellent but, as I am unfamiliar with Italian wines (usually preferring South American blends) I let the waiter choose for us. I recommend, encourage or simply assure you that this decision, at least here at Dolce Vita, is a wise one.
We left Dolce Vita happy, satiated and not too full. What a wonderfully interesting feeling for the both of us on a night out; tummies content though not protruding. No waddling to the car, despite splitting an appetizer, two pizzas and two desserts. European portion size is truly a marvel for the American to behold.
However, if dessert is what you crave, I would suggest going all out, skipping dessert at Dolce Vita and heading over to Little Bigs sliders and shakes for a home-spun milkshake. After all, the moment you drift out from under the white canopied patio of Dolce Vita, you are back on American soil, Texas soil at that; and, we all know that everything is bigger in Texas, including our appetites!
Friday night, we drifted into Beaver's, a bar and restaurant tucked away on the less traversed end of Washington Street headed towards downtown Houston. A review in the Houston chronicle had landed the restaurant on our to-eat-list simply by its photo of a large cornmeal-crusted oyster po-boy overflowing with crispy onions on a buttery potato bun.
As we drove into the small, graveled front parking lot, we were greeted by short wooden stumps leading to the restaurant entrance. But, inside was hip; with a few rounded booths and multiple two-seater tables. Beaver's seemed perfect for couples seeking a romantic but relaxed evening out despite the waitress' shirts reading "Beavers, just south of Hooters". The menu was exciting for the two of us, often nostalgic for our Southeastern fare, offering cheesy grits, braised collards and sweet potato mash. Their entrees included the oyster po-boy that had initially lured us from the pages of the Houston Chronicle, a shredded chicken sandwich with tangy slaw, barbecue sauce, crispy onions and a fried egg, brisket tacos braised with orange, sesame and golden raisins and country rabbit en mole verde over black bean tamales. They also had a selection of brisket, ribs and sausage from the smoker, fried pickles and even a tofu BBQ burger for the meat-averse. Needless to say, we stumbled out of the restaurant, our bellies full of their locally brewed beer on draught and Southern-Texas cuisine. And, I've since thought to go back for a tee-shirt.
Saturday evening we felt as if we'd traveled across the Atlantic and into the Mediterranean, perched on the outside patio of Dolce Vita, an Italian cafe and enoteca, or wine shop. The patio is surrounded by a tall wrought iron fence hidden in creeping foliage that shields us from the road just ten feet beyond; and, we are shielded from both sun and rain by a white canopy overhead. The menu is light, delicious and from what I can tell, authentic. They offer small plates of shaved brussel sprouts with pecorino, fingerling potatoes "arrabbiata", calamari, pancetta or a cheese selection served with honey. Their thin crust pizzas are divine. We ordered the Siciliana with tomatoes, capers and olives and the Melanzane with eggplant, tomatoes and parmigiano. I had heard that their wine list is excellent but, as I am unfamiliar with Italian wines (usually preferring South American blends) I let the waiter choose for us. I recommend, encourage or simply assure you that this decision, at least here at Dolce Vita, is a wise one.
We left Dolce Vita happy, satiated and not too full. What a wonderfully interesting feeling for the both of us on a night out; tummies content though not protruding. No waddling to the car, despite splitting an appetizer, two pizzas and two desserts. European portion size is truly a marvel for the American to behold.
However, if dessert is what you crave, I would suggest going all out, skipping dessert at Dolce Vita and heading over to Little Bigs sliders and shakes for a home-spun milkshake. After all, the moment you drift out from under the white canopied patio of Dolce Vita, you are back on American soil, Texas soil at that; and, we all know that everything is bigger in Texas, including our appetites!
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Top o' the Crumb to You!
I don't know what it is about spring, but somewhere between the cool morning air and being woken by cheerful, chirping birds, my stomach rumbles for something special. I suppose it's being woken in such delicious terms that rouses me in much the same way my birthday or Valentine's morning would, my belly anticipating the sweets to come.
On my birthday, it would be sour cream pound cake with cream cheese icing. And, the best part about this is, I can eat it for breakfast! I don't believe anyone else willingly springs from their bed, before the sun, some thirty-odd minutes past six just to eat their birthday breakfast.
But, on these spring mornings (that are six months shy of my birthday) I wake up craving something substantial, something that surpasses oatmeal, eggs and toast. I crave scones, crumb cakes and streusel-topped muffins. I crave homemade granola bars dotted with dried apricots and walnuts, french toast with blueberries and coconut milk.
Below are recipes for spring mornings worth celebrating!
**Remiss, alas, is a recipe for the ultimate muffin, for which I would gladly travel five hundred miles back for, to a bed and breakfast in Sonoma Valley, California owned by the Girl & the Fig restaurant. The size of a large grapefruit, streusel-topped and dotted with plump blueberries, I believe I could eat this muffin each morning of my life and never cease to celebrate. For this recipe or one similar, I am on a quest. But, until then......
This New York-style crumb cake will just have to do.
(Moist and crumbly, this cake is supposed to serve 12, but between my husband, myself and two of my favorite co-workers, the cake was gone in 2 mornings!)
topping:
1 c. packed dark brown sugar
1/2 c. sugar
1 1/2 T ground cinnamon
1/2 tsp. salt
1 c. unsalted butter, melted
2 1/2 c. all purpose flour
Mix top 4 ingredients. Add melted butter and stir to blend. Add flour and toss with fork until moist clumps form.
cake:
2 1/2 c. flour
1 tsp. baking soda
3/4 tsp. baking powder
1/2 tsp. salt
3/4 c. unsalted butter, room temperature
1 1/2 c. sugar
2 large eggs
1 1/3 c. sour cream
1 tsp. vanilla extract
Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Butter 13x9x2-inch glass baking dish. Sift top 4 ingredients in medium bowl. Using electric mixer, beat butter in large bowl until smooth. Add sugar and beat until light and fluffy. Add eggs one at a time, beating until well blended. Add sour cream and vanilla and beat until just blended. Add flour mixture in 3 additions. Transfer cake batter to baking dish; spread evenly. Squeeze small handfuls of topping together to form clumps and drop evenly over batter, covering completely.
Bake about 1 hr until topping is golden brown and slightly crispy and inserted tester comes out clean. Cool at least 30 mins. and enjoy!!
Apricot-Walnut Scones
(serves 6) These are my husband's favorite. They are lighter than some, literally melting in your mouth, but have that perfect crumble that I adore in a scone.
2 c. flour
1/3 c. sugar
1 T baking powder
1/2 c. chopped walnuts
1/2 c. chopped dried apricots
1 1/3 c. heavy whipping cream
Preheat oven to 400 degrees. Whisk first 3 ingredients in large bowl. Stir in walnuts & apricots. Add cream; stir with fork to blend. Transfer dough to floured surface, knead until smooth and form into 1-inch-thick round. Cut into 6 wedges. Transfer to baking sheet. Bake until golden brown, about 18 mins. Serve warm or room temperature.
Try and eat just one! It's hard!
Panettone French Toast
with coconut milk and blueberries
1/2 vanilla bean
2/3 c. coconut milk
2 eggs, lightly beaten
2 T sugar
1/4 tsp. ground cardamon
4 T butter
8 slices panettone or other sweet bread
powdered sugar
blueberries
mango
Split vanilla bean in half, lengthwise and scrape out seeds. Put coconut milk, eggs, sugar, vanilla seeds, and cardamon in bowl and beat well.Pour mixture into shallow dish.
Heat half the butter in large skillet. Dip two pieces bread into egg mixture and saute until golden on both sides. Repeat with remaining bread and serve with powdered sugar, blueberries, cream and sliced mango.
Envision the chirping birds are exotic toucans, pop in some island music and enjoy!
On my birthday, it would be sour cream pound cake with cream cheese icing. And, the best part about this is, I can eat it for breakfast! I don't believe anyone else willingly springs from their bed, before the sun, some thirty-odd minutes past six just to eat their birthday breakfast.
But, on these spring mornings (that are six months shy of my birthday) I wake up craving something substantial, something that surpasses oatmeal, eggs and toast. I crave scones, crumb cakes and streusel-topped muffins. I crave homemade granola bars dotted with dried apricots and walnuts, french toast with blueberries and coconut milk.
Below are recipes for spring mornings worth celebrating!
**Remiss, alas, is a recipe for the ultimate muffin, for which I would gladly travel five hundred miles back for, to a bed and breakfast in Sonoma Valley, California owned by the Girl & the Fig restaurant. The size of a large grapefruit, streusel-topped and dotted with plump blueberries, I believe I could eat this muffin each morning of my life and never cease to celebrate. For this recipe or one similar, I am on a quest. But, until then......
This New York-style crumb cake will just have to do.
(Moist and crumbly, this cake is supposed to serve 12, but between my husband, myself and two of my favorite co-workers, the cake was gone in 2 mornings!)
topping:
1 c. packed dark brown sugar
1/2 c. sugar
1 1/2 T ground cinnamon
1/2 tsp. salt
1 c. unsalted butter, melted
2 1/2 c. all purpose flour
Mix top 4 ingredients. Add melted butter and stir to blend. Add flour and toss with fork until moist clumps form.
cake:
2 1/2 c. flour
1 tsp. baking soda
3/4 tsp. baking powder
1/2 tsp. salt
3/4 c. unsalted butter, room temperature
1 1/2 c. sugar
2 large eggs
1 1/3 c. sour cream
1 tsp. vanilla extract
Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Butter 13x9x2-inch glass baking dish. Sift top 4 ingredients in medium bowl. Using electric mixer, beat butter in large bowl until smooth. Add sugar and beat until light and fluffy. Add eggs one at a time, beating until well blended. Add sour cream and vanilla and beat until just blended. Add flour mixture in 3 additions. Transfer cake batter to baking dish; spread evenly. Squeeze small handfuls of topping together to form clumps and drop evenly over batter, covering completely.
Bake about 1 hr until topping is golden brown and slightly crispy and inserted tester comes out clean. Cool at least 30 mins. and enjoy!!
Apricot-Walnut Scones
(serves 6) These are my husband's favorite. They are lighter than some, literally melting in your mouth, but have that perfect crumble that I adore in a scone.
2 c. flour
1/3 c. sugar
1 T baking powder
1/2 c. chopped walnuts
1/2 c. chopped dried apricots
1 1/3 c. heavy whipping cream
Preheat oven to 400 degrees. Whisk first 3 ingredients in large bowl. Stir in walnuts & apricots. Add cream; stir with fork to blend. Transfer dough to floured surface, knead until smooth and form into 1-inch-thick round. Cut into 6 wedges. Transfer to baking sheet. Bake until golden brown, about 18 mins. Serve warm or room temperature.
Try and eat just one! It's hard!
Panettone French Toast
with coconut milk and blueberries
1/2 vanilla bean
2/3 c. coconut milk
2 eggs, lightly beaten
2 T sugar
1/4 tsp. ground cardamon
4 T butter
8 slices panettone or other sweet bread
powdered sugar
blueberries
mango
Split vanilla bean in half, lengthwise and scrape out seeds. Put coconut milk, eggs, sugar, vanilla seeds, and cardamon in bowl and beat well.Pour mixture into shallow dish.
Heat half the butter in large skillet. Dip two pieces bread into egg mixture and saute until golden on both sides. Repeat with remaining bread and serve with powdered sugar, blueberries, cream and sliced mango.
Envision the chirping birds are exotic toucans, pop in some island music and enjoy!
Monday, February 15, 2010
In Gourmet Fashion
For many of us, the month of March will mark a sorrowful four-month anniversary. We will pass through grocery lines gazing wistfully, remembering times of old and that former flutter in our hearts upon seeing a new glossy cover of Gourmet magazine. Plump, purple berries, juicy, sweet and all a drizzle over a cloud of white ice cream against a crisp, pale blue background. Crispy- skinned plump turkeys, greasy steak-frites glistening with sea salt.
Loyal fans, behold! Land Ho!
Conde Nast has made back issues available for purchase as well as framed covers dating back to the 1930's available in different sizes with matted options. They also offer tri-fold cookie note cards complete with recipes and photographs gathered from Gourmet photo shoots. Just visit www.condenaststore.com. And, hopefully over the next few months, your trips through the grocery lines will feel increasingly less empty as your walls evolve into wonderfully cluttered collages of scrumptious Gourmet memories!
Loyal fans, behold! Land Ho!
Conde Nast has made back issues available for purchase as well as framed covers dating back to the 1930's available in different sizes with matted options. They also offer tri-fold cookie note cards complete with recipes and photographs gathered from Gourmet photo shoots. Just visit www.condenaststore.com. And, hopefully over the next few months, your trips through the grocery lines will feel increasingly less empty as your walls evolve into wonderfully cluttered collages of scrumptious Gourmet memories!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
