Buckle for Breakfast

I hope you can forgive me for we're wandering down the baking aisle again. It is Christmas after all. 

This time we're jumping back a few entries in the baker's bible from bundt cake to buckle. What is buckle, you ask? As best as I can tell, it's coffee cake annoited with a name that often raises eyebrows and elicits questions, and that's also far more fun to say. I've also read that it differs just slightly from everyday coffee cake because you sprinkle the berries over the top of the batter rather than folding them into it before you bake the cake. This way, as the cake bakes the berries sink into the batter and give the cake a "buckled" appearance - and its clever name.

You could easily serve buckle for dessert but because it is Jake's favorite breakfast, I'll be serving it as a surprise when he gets home tomorrow morning. (I somewhat doubt it will be much of a surprise though: he's already asked me to make it on Christmas dozens of times this month.)

There are three buckles in the book Jake's favorite recipe comes from but he will not let me make any others or tinker with the one he adores. And truthfuly, I don't blame him for begging me to leave the lemon blueberry buckle alone. It's perfect as it is, a tart little thing graced with pockets of blueberries and a fluffy, buttermilk-based crumb.

The success of this buckle, as I believe it, lies in the boost it gets from not one but three additions of lemon. There's lemon zest in the buttery crumb topping, and more zest in the cake batter. And then there's the lemon syrup that adorns this cake and makes it so darn irresistable. It's positively mouth-puckering and the perfect contrast to the sweet cake beneath.  

Lemon Blueberry Buckle 
This citrusy, blueberry-studded buckle comes from a handsome little cookbook called Rustic Fruit Desserts, which is a truly useful baking handbook filled with straightforward recipes and desserts that are beautiful in their simplicity. That doesn't mean recipes like this one aren't on the longer side. Stick with it and you'll be rewarded with a buckle you'll never want to replace. 

Crumb Topping
1/2 cup all-purpose flour
1/3 cup granulated sugar
1/8 teaspoon fine sea salt
Zest of 1 lemon
1/4 cup unsalted butter, at room temperature, cubed 

Cake 
1 1/2 cups plus 2 tablespoons all-purpose flour
1 teaspoon baking powder
1/4 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon fine sea salt
1/4 teaspoon freshly grated nutmeg
6 tablespoons unsalted butter, at room temperature
3/4 cup granulated sugar
Zest of 1 lemon
2 eggs
1/2 cup buttermilk
2 cups blueberries, fresh or frozen (I prefer frozen this time of year) 

Lemon Syrup 
1/3 cup granulated sugar

Juice of 2 lemons

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees and line a 9-inch square pan with parchment paper. (Alternatively, I've had success using a 9-inch round cake pan if you prefer a cake with curves).

To make the crumb topping, whisk together the flour, sugar, salt and lemon zest in a medium size bowl. Add the butter, using a fork or your fingers to cut in the butter until the size of peas. Place the bowl in the freezer while you mix the cake batter.

To make the cake, whisk together the flour, baking powder, baking soda, salt and nutmeg in a medium bowl. Set aside.

Using a handheld mixer or a stand mixer fitted with the paddle attachment, cream together the butter, sugar and lemon zest on medium-high speed until light and fluffy, or about 3 to 5 minutes. Add the eggs, one at a time, scraping down the sides of the bowl after each addition if necessary.

Mix in the flour mixture in three additions, alternating with the buttermilk, until both the flour mixture and buttermilk are evenly incorporated into the batter. Scrap down the sides of the bowl when necessary.

Gently fold 1 cup of the blueberries into the batter with a spatula. Spread the batter in to the prepared baking pan and distribute the remaining 1 cup of blueberries evenly over the top of the batter.

Remove the crumb topping from the freezer and sprinkle it over the berries, then place the pan in the oven and bake for 50 minutes, or until lightly golden and firm on top.

When the cake is nearly finished baking, make the lemon glaze by combining the sugar and lemon juice in a small saucepan. Whisk the mixture until blended, then cook over medium-low heat, stirring occasionally until syrupy, or about 8 to 10 minutes. The glaze will bubble while cooking, so you may need to remove the pan from the heat to check that it has reached a syrupy consistency. When the syrup is finished, turn off the heat.

Remove the cake from the oven and drizzle the warm glaze over the top of the cake using a spoon. Serve immediately, or cool to room temperature if desired. The buckle will keep at room temperature for 2 to 3 days, when covered.

-From Rustic Fruit Desserts By Cory Schreiber and Julie Richardson

Bringing Back Bundt Cake

For absolutely no reason, I have decided that the holidays were made for bundt cake. I can't imagine why the holidays make me crave it; I've replayed the memory reel of Christmases past through my head over and over, and I never catch a glimpse of my mother carrying a regal bundt cake to the table on a platter. There's French toast to be sure, and plentiful oranges yanked out from the toe of our stockings. And in later years, when my pancake-loving stepdad appears, there's always Swedish pancakes, the batter blitzed in a blender and poured onto a hot skillet to make thin little pancakes that we stuff with berries or douse with syrup. And for dessert, there's often cranberry-apple tart.

But there's never bundt at the breakfast table or on the dessert buffet either.

So now that I'm grown, I vow that it will have a place of prominence at my family's holiday table. It belongs there for reasons of both flavor and ease. Bundt cake at its best is dense and moist and, on account of its fluted edges, more elegant than a flat-top cake. It is exactly the sort of rustic elegant baked good I seek out this time of year and I just love that the pan takes the pressure of making a pretty presentation away; the pan's groves do that for you once you flip it to reveal its beguiling curves. Even better, it makes a perfect special occasion breakfast, preferably eaten in new Christmas pajamas, and a showy dessert to devour in party attire. (Likely, you'll find it can serve as both because bundt cakes are huge.)

In my opinion, a good bundt cake has a delicate crumb, a hint of warming spices and something of a surprise hidden inside. That surprise could be plump little raisins, chunks of apples strewn through the batter or even, I've learned, a ribbon of crunchy granola. Trust me, it works. 

This time of year though, my bet is on cranberries. I've adored them in bundts ever since this spiced cranberry bundt cake caught my eye last year. It seemed the perfect dessert to fork into on a night when the snow drifts rose higher than I'd seen in a decade, which is to say they reached my knees. I do live in the Northwest. And even though this particular bundt took more effort to make than usual (it required a few treks through the snow to gather the ingredients from local stores) I have to say, it tasted even better for all that extra work.

With no snow to slow my efforts, this year the cake come together easily, though a bit differently. Though I'm usually content to make good, easy recipes again and again, last night I found myself tweaking the original recipe to make it my own. Compare the two recipes and you'll see I changed quite a bit, making the cake a hint healthier with applesauce and whole wheat flour and changing the flavor base from almond to hazelnut by swapping in hazelnut meal for the almond flour. I replaced the dried berries with a few more fresh berries, simply because I prefer the juicy pop of the fresh ones to those wrinkly little bits in a batter. 

Then I crossed my fingers and hoped that I'd tinkered my way to creating the star of my holiday table. I like to think I did. 

Spiced Cranberry-Hazelnut Bundt Cake
I ate a wedge of this cake last night with a tiny scoop of vanilla ice cream, and it was lovely. I also imagine it would benefit from a dusting of powdered sugar or, if you're really looking to impress, a sweet citrusy glaze dripping down the sides. 

Makes approximately 8 to10 servings

1 cup white flour
1 cup white whole wheat flour
3/4 cup hazelnut flour (also called hazelnut meal, I get mine here)
1 1/2 teaspoons ground cinnamon 
1 1/2 teaspoons cloves
1 teaspoon baking powder
1/2 teaspoon baking soda 
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/2 teaspoon ground ginger
1/2 cup (1 stick) unsalted butter, room temperature
1 cup packed dark brown sugar
3/4 cup granulated sugar
1/2 cup applesauce
3 large eggs
1 1/2 teaspoons vanilla extract
1 cup plain, reduced fat (2%) Greek-style yogurt
1 1/2 cups fresh or frozen cranberries (do not thaw if you use frozen)

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees. Butter and flour a 12-cup bundt pan. Whisk the flours, cinnamon, cloves, baking powder, baking soda, salt and ginger together in a small bowl. 

Using an electric mixer, beat butter in a large bowl until smooth. Add both sugars and beat until fluffy, about two minutes. Add the applesauce and beat for one minute more. Add the eggs, one at a time, beating 30 seconds or so after each addition. Beat in vanilla extract, then the yogurt. Add the dry ingredients and beat until just blended.

Gently fold in the cranberries with a rubber spatula. Transfer batter to prepared bundt pan.

Bake cake until a tester stick or knife inserted near the center comes out clean, or about one hour. Cool the cake in the pan until the pan is cool enough to handle, then turn the cake out onto a rack and cool completely. 

Serve plain or with vanilla bean ice cream, powdered sugar or icing. 

-Adapted from Dorie Greenspan

Cold Spell

When it comes to soup, my tastes have always sided with the tomato camp. For years, I've been making tomato soup in all its incarnations from an incredibly basic soup made with crushed tomatoes, olive oil and a whisper of broth to more elaborate recipes like cioppino or a pesto-topped sausage-tomato soup. For a time (ok a year) in college, I was obsessed with tomato ravioli soup and meatball soup. If you ate with me, you uncovered my addiction quickly; I alternated between the two recipes every other night. 

But this week, something in me snapped: I fell out of love with my old favorites. Under ordinary circumstances, this would have been fine for I could just make salads and pastas and sandwiches to stand in for the soup until my cravings returned. But unfortunately, we're having a bone-chilling cold spell this week and all I have wanted to eat is a soup that will warm my noes and toes and fill my empty belly - so long as it wasn't tomato-based.

So out came the cookbooks, piles upon piles of them that I leafed through in search of The Perfect Recipe. I found none. Instead, I discovered my savior outside my cookbook shelf, during the pasta course at a newly reopened Italian restaurant in town. The kitchen's Agnolotti alla Piemontese was elegant and sustaining, with a clear, fortifying broth and little pasta pockets stuffed with beef, chicken, pork and escarole. It was perfection in a bowl and exactly the dish I'd been dreaming of.

I have spent most of my waking minutes since craving this soup, and after a quick online search, I found a version to try at home. The recipe requires few ingredients and the preparation is incredibly simple. Ever one to complicate things, I attempted to make my own ravioli (hence the picture of pasta, not soup, above) though I can't say their flavor bowled me over. They were hearty and filling and good but not good enough to share the recipe with you - yet. So I'm hoping you have a magical stuffed pasta recipe you can use for this soup. Or maybe you live near one of those quaint little markets where a nimble-fingered pasta maker spends every day stuffing squares of pasta for dishes just like this. 

Ravioli or Tortellini in Broth
To contrast the pure chicken broth, I like to use a pasta filled with a hearty ingredient or two, like sauteed chard and ground sausage. For a variation on this soup, try making it with beef broth to give it a bold, meaty flavor.

Serves 4

1 quart chicken stock, preferably homemade
Salt and freshly ground pepper to taste
1 pound prepared tortellini or ravioli
1 tablespoon extra virgin olive oil
2 tablespoons flat-leaf parsley, finely chopped, plus more for garnish if desired
1/2 cup freshly grated Parmesan, divided

Place the chicken stock in a small saucepan and bring to a boil. Reduce to 2 cups, then keep at a simmer while you prepare the pasta.

Bring a large pot of salted water to boil. Add the tortellini or ravioli, and cook as directed. Drain and toss with the olive oil, parsley and half of the Parmesan cheese. Place an equal number of ravioli in each of four soup bowls.

Salt and pepper the chicken stock to taste. Ladle 1/2 cup broth over each bowl of pasta and top with a spoonful of the remaining Parmesan cheese and additional parsley, if desired. Serve immediately.

-Adapted from The New York Times

Shortbread For My Sister

 
The kitchen in my little sister's Los Angeles studio is a spare and sunny space with whitewashed cabinets and a hulking, full-sized fridge that eats up a third of the nook. The rest of her retro-leaning apartment is spacious (for a studio) but in the kitchen, you could hold your arms out to your sides and almost touch the walls. In that way, it's not unlike the studio kitchen I cooked in years ago. It wasn't a room but merely a section of appliances that hugged a stretch of wall and offered just a foot or so of counter space and an oven just larger than an Easy Bake toy.

There is a certain amount of charm to cooking in tiny, no frills kitchens like these. You learn to make do, to work with what you have and improvise where you can - turning say, an empty bottle of wine into an improptu rolling pin because you have no space to store the real thing. And you master that peculiar space-saving shuffle that occurs when you're chopping and mixing and tossing and sauteeing, elbows flying, with family or friends in a space made for one. 

What these sorts of kitchens aren't good for is baking. They offer little space to store standard baking ingredients, much less the muffin tins, silpat mats and mixing bowls you need to keep on hand to bake. So, while I lived in that tiny space, I shelved my baking obsession. And though my sister bakes at home, I imagine she hasn't picked up a measuring cup since she left.

All this is to say that I feel a certain responsibility to bake for my sister, to stuff as many bar cookies and blackberry muffins as I can into those clever flat rate postage boxes before shipping the sweets south to her studio door. But lately, I've began feeling guilty for sending the same old things time after time. After all, one can only eat so many homemade granola bars the next shipment leaves them running for the door.

This time around, I wanted to send something exciting and imaginative, something that would excite her tastebuds and get her curious about something new. So after toying with the idea of brittle and biscotti, I settled on shortbread.

This is the kind of cookie that wants to snuggle up next to a mug of tea, which is apt since my sister drinks more tea than anyone I know. It has a sandy texture that's all the better for the crunchy bits of nuts that pock the shortbread rounds. And though I've yet to confirm this fact, I think it ships well making it a perfect gift for any space-strapped studio dweller you know.

Pecan Shortbread Cookies

Don't be tempted to leave out the vanilla bean in this recipe. Yes, they are expensive but the vanilla bean is what gives these cookies a sweet, nuanced flavor that will have you reaching for another again and again.

3/4 cup pecans, toasted and coarsely chopped

1 1/4 sticks (10 tablespoons) unsalted butter, at room temperature

1/2 cup confectioners' sugar

1/2 vanilla bean, split lengthwise, seeds scraped and pod reserved

1/2 teaspoon pure vanilla extract

1/2 teaspoon kosher salt

1 1/2 cups all purpose flour

3 tablespoons demerara sugar

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees and line 2 large rimmed baking sheets with parchment paper. Set aside.

In the bowl of a standing mixer fitted with the paddle attachment, beat the butter with the confectioners' sugar, vanilla bean and seeds, vanilla extract and salt on medium speed until fluffy, about 3 minutes.

Add the flour in 3 batches beating at low speed until just incorporated. Discard the vanilla bean. Using a small spatula, stir in the pecans.

Transfer the dough to a lightly floured work surface and roll into a 1 1/2-inch-thick log. Wrap the log in plastic or parchment paper and refrigerate for one hour.

Spread the demarara sugar on a platter. Brush the log with the egg yolk and roll it in the sugar. Slice the log into 1/2-inch-thick rounds. Roll the rounds in the sugar again if needed so that they are coated all the way around. Transfer the sugared rounds to the prepared baking sheets, spacing them 1 inch apart.

Bake the shortbread cookies for about 15 minutes, until the edges are golden; rotate the baking sheets from top to bottom and front to back halfway through the baking time. Remove the cookies from the oven and transfer them to a wire rack. Let stand until cooled completely, about 30 minutes, before serving - or sending.

-Recipe from The Craft of Baking by Karen DeMasco

A Sigh of Relief

Like many newlyweds entertaining their inlaws for the holidays, I was feeling a bit anxious about hosting Thanksgiving dinner. And though my nerves could have related to the turkey and the trimmings (otherwise known as Things I've Never Made), my jitters had nothing to do with my lack of knowledge.

I was worried because we'd decided to swap pork for turkey, tortillas for rolls and ceviche, chips and salsa and rice for the traditional sides. I think you can see where we headed, south of the border to Mexico.

We came up with the idea to throw a Mexican Thanksgiving years ago, when Jake and I discovered that neither of us was particularly fond of Thanksgiving food. Sure, I like cranberry sauce and my Grandma's famous carrot pudding (which is a recipe for another time), and Jake can be talked into eating a dozen buttery rolls or so. But we both disliked the star of the spread, that dull old bird, and the parade of pies that typically follows the main course. So, we decided that when we were old and settled enough to play holiday host, we would start our own tradition surrounding Jake's favorite food group: Mexican food.

This year seemed like the right time to introduce our alternative Thanksgiving but as we inched closer and closer to the date, I decided we were doomed to dissapoint. I figured the traditionalists were already mourning the death of T-Day and scheming up ways to politely decline our invitation in the name of pumpkin pie. I was also sure that the people who did come would merely pick at the food we served - you know, doing that thing were you push the food around on the plate to make it look like you ate something - then quickly flee home to devour a perfectly roasted turkey and platters of stuffing like volutres.

I can now breath a sigh of relief; none of these things happened because my inlaws were adventerous and gracious guests, and because we served a main course that's hard not to like: pork mole.

Though I'm sure you've heard otherwise about making mole from scratch, our low maintance version is just a touch more difficult than making pot roast. In fact, it's a lot like making pot roast. You simply throw a hunk of meat on the stove to stew and bubble away in a spice and chile-spiked broth until the meat pulls apart with the twin tines of two forks. Then, you bake the meat a bit to crisp up its edges and boil the brick red sauce down until it is smooth and earthy tasting. This all gets tossed together and folded in tortillas, preferrably the homemade, barely blistered, still-warm-from-the-stove sort.

Before you read the recipe and point out the obvious, yes, our so-called mole lacks a key component, chocolate. That's not us trying to buck another tradition. It's just that the recipe we fell in love with didn't call for chocolate. This probably means that this dish is something else masquarading as a mole but we're ok with that. This so-called mole was the star of our new tradition this year and, in our eyes, so much better than turkey.

Pork Mole

I'm fortunate enough to work from home so I can keep an eye on the pork while it cooks in the afternoon. For those of you chained to your cubicles somewhere other than home, I imagine you could make this in a slow cooker. Or, save it for a rainy Sunday when the smell alone will keep you hovering in the kitchen in anticipation all afternoon.

Serves 6

1 medium white or red onion, chopped

2 cloves garlic, peeled

1 ripe tomato, chopped

1 28-ounce can crushed tomatos

1 cup chicken broth

2 tablespoons brown sugar

3 tablespoons distilled white vinegar

1 tablespoon chopped canned chipotle chiles in adobo sauce

1 dried ancho or pasilla chile, stemmed, seeded, deveined, torn in pieces

½ teaspoon ground coriander

¼ teaspoon ground cloves

¼ teaspoon ground cinnamon

1 boneless pork butt roast (about 3 pounds), trimmed of visible fat

Salt and freshly ground black pepper

Cilantro sprigs for garnish

Combine the onion, garlic, tomato, crushed tomatos, broth, brown sugar vinegar, chipotle, dried chile, coriander, cloves and cinnamon in a large, heavy-bottomed soup pot with a tight-fitting lid. Put the pork in the pot, half submerged in the liquid.

Place the pot over medium-high heat and bring to a boil. Reduce the heat to low, cover, and simmer gently until the meat is tender when pierced with a fork, 3 to 3 ½ hours. Stir the sauce and turn the meat occasionally while it is cooking.

Adjust the oven rack to the center position and preheat the oven to 350 degrees. Carefully transfer the meat in one piece to a roasting pan, leaving the sauce in the pan. Bake the meat until it is well browned, about 30 minutes.

Meanwhile, skim and discard the fat from the reserved sauce. Boil the sauce over high heat until it is reduced to 2½ cups, 10 to 20 minutes. Puree the sauce in a blender or food processor until it is smooth; return it to the pot and keep warm. The sauce should have a thick consistency. If it is thin and watery, continue to reduce it over medium-high heat. Season the sauce with salt and pepper to taste.

Remove the pork from the oven. Using 2 forks, tear the meat into large chunks. Place the pork in a serving bowl and ladle the sauce over it. Garnish with cilantro sprigs. Serve with warmed tortillas, beans, and Mexican rice.

Time for a change

I know, I have not been very good at sticking to my goal, that promise I made to cook well for one. And there's a good reason for that, one that I've just discovered. But first, in my defenense, I must tell you, I'm usually obsessed with sticking to my guns when it comes to my goals. I say this because I don't want you thinking I'm some promise-breaking, flaky, willy-nilly writer, the kind that drags readers along for the ride, tossing them words (or in my case, recipes) of hope here and there, but ultimately never delivering what they've promised to do. 

The evidence: back in high school, I made New Years resolutions in January, then followed those with a trio of daily goals to help me chart the right course (I know, the old me makes the new me naseaus). I've made goals to run two half marathons, and finished them both. And, I once gave up cheese for a month...ok, I only made it halfway on this goal but who can resist good cheese?

So you see, I've stuck with many things. But this pledge I made to cook more creative solo meals doesn't get me excited anymore. And if I'm really being honest, it never did. I started it because I thought a blog needed a gimmick or a niche when really I hate things that fit into tidy little categories. Rather, what I've really wanted to write about all along is good food.

Limiting myself to one niche meant I didn't tell you about the nubbly chocolate cookies I baked to mail to my East Coast cousin or the heavenly lemon buckle my husband would eat daily if I made it. I didn't get to share my discovery of how easy it is to make hard boiled eggs or why those eggs belong in a shockingly good egg-caper-parsley sauce that Jake and I spooned over fish.

But the final straw was this. Withought broadening this site, you wouldn't have heard a whisper about the pizza throwdown we hosted last week. The idea was simple: gather a group of our new friends, have them bring a ball of their best pizza dough and toppings that would wow, then crack open some bottles of wine and get to baking without setting the house on fire.

Four pies, six bottles of wine, many laughs and some dozen false fire alarms later, I put the pizzas to an informal vote in my mind and decided the one that stole the show was John and Louisa's prune pie. Yes prune pie. It sounds a bit old-ladyish but it tastes anything but. It is elegant and incredibly refined, helped along by caramelized onions, bits of bacons and a snowy white drizzle of creme fraiche.

So now you know. Prunes and pizza belong together. This is something you wouldn't have known if I'd skipped the pizza throwdown story and told you about the quinoa salad I had for lunch (yes, again). So, I imagine you'll agree that it's time to switch things up. What you're going to see from here on out is a lot more baking, a smattering of solo meals, and a whole lot of dishes that are meant to be shared.

Winning Prune Pie
We never held a formal vote but I believe this is the pie that trumped the rest - my apologies to the other competitors, whose pizzas were all very good. If you think friends or family will feel skittish about prunes, just take a page from the prune marketing board and renaim this dried plum pizza. It sounds much more inviting, doesn't it?

2 tablespoons butter
1 large Spanish onion
2 teaspoons fresh thyme leaves
2 bay leaves
Kosher salt
4 thick slices bacon, cut into 1/4-inch thick batons
1 ball pizza dough
Flour, for dusting surface
12 prunes, sliced in half lengthwise
3/4 cup crumbled blue cheese
Creme friache, to drizzle

1. Preheat the oven and pizza stone to 500 degrees.

2. Melt the butter in a large saute pan over high heat. Add the onions, thyme and bay leaf. Cook for 5 minutes, stiring often, until the onions begin to wilt. Reduce the heat to medium low and cook, stiring occasionally, until the onions have softened and turned a deep, golden brown, about 25 minutes. Season to taste with salt and pepper. Remove the bay leaves and transfer onions to a small bowl.

3. Place the bacon in the pan and set over high heat. Cook, stiring occasionally, until brown and crispy. Using a slotted spoon, transfer the bacon to a small bowl.

4. Place the pizza dough on a heavily floured surface and stretch and pull, using your hands or a rolling pin, into about a 14-inch round. Place on a lightly floured pizza peal or rimless baking sheet. Cover with the toppings, being careful not to press on the dough and weigh it down. Lay the caramalized onions down first, then the prunes and the bacon and finally the cheese, leaving a roughly 1/2-inch border.

5. Shake the pizza peel slightly to make sure the dough is not sticking. Carefully slide the pizza onto the baking stone in one quick, forward-and-back motion.

6. Cook until the crust has browned on the bottom and the top is bubbling and browning in spots, about 7 minutes.

7. Remove the pizza from the oven and drizzle with creme fraiche. Serve.

-Adapted from the New York Times

Sunshine On a Cloudy Day

Among the many things I've learned this week - including the shocking revalations that I love Los Angeles and this gluttinous sandwich - I discovered I would walk a mile for olive oil cake.

In fact, I walked multiple miles to try Mozza's rosemary olive oil loaf cake last week. And after a long bus ride and walk (and a pit stop my sister will tell you about if you're trustworthy), that little loaf of cake tasted pretty good. But if I'm being honest, it wasn't the cake of my dreams.

That title is reserved for the sunshine-y version I'd made weeks before and declared my new winer cure-all. That cake was delicate and wonderfully moist, with a lingering sweetness and all the warmth of the sunny California coast. Flecked with vanilla beans and brigthened by orange zest, the golden round disappeared quickly as both myself than my husband snitched slivers to get us through the rainy days.

Coming from a girl who previously regarded basic cakes as boring, updating one with olive oil was a revelation. Swapping olive oil for the neutral flavored cooking oil deepened the flavor of an otherwise typical cake and delivered a subtle fruitiness and a spongy texture that left me pining for more. I devoured that first small square of cake alongside a scoop of vanilla bean ice cream; then, not able to contain my craving for more, I stole a bite from my husband's plate and sighed in satisfaction.

I know, I'm cheating again because this isn't really a solo dining recipe. It could sort of fit the bill if you baked it in little loafs a la Mozza to squirrel away in the freezer and warm up whenever you need a pick me up. But I'd advise going big and inviting some friends over to celebrate it. It's just that kind of cake.

Vanilla-Olive Oil Cake
Do not omit the vanilla bean from this cake on account you think it's expensive. I bought my bean from the bulk section for 8 cents, and the recipe - from the wonderful Jess Thomson - wouldn't have been the same without it. If you want to portion this out into single servings, try dividing the batter between those adorable miniature loaf pans or even a muffin tin if that's what you have on hand.

Makes 1 8" cake

Vegetable or olive oil spray
1 cup low fat milk
1 (3-inch) piece vanilla bean, split lengthwise and seeded
1 3/4 cups all-purpose flour
2 teaspoons baking powder
1/4 teaspoon salt
2 large eggs
1 cup sugar
1/2 cup extra virgin olive oil (like Trader Joe's Spanish Olive Oil)
Zest from one orange

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees, and position a rack in the middle of the oven. Grease an 8” cake pan with the oil spray (or line it with parchment paper), and set aside.

In a small saucepan, bring the milk and the seeds from the vanilla bean to a bare simmer. Remove from heat and set aside to steep.

In a medium bowl, whisk the flour, baking powder, and salt together to blend. In a large bowl, whisk the eggs and sugar until well blended. Add the warm milk to the egg mixture in a slow, steady stream, whisking until combined. Fold in the flour mixture with a rubber spatula until just incorporated. Add the olive oil and the orange zest, and mix until just blended.

Pour the batter into the prepared pan and bake for 25 to 35 minutes, or until the cake is golden and just beginning to brown at the edges. Let cool 10 minutes in the pan, then transfer the cake to a cooling rack or platter (depending on if you plan to serve it warm or at room temperature.)
-

Adapted (just a wee bit) from Jess Thomson of Hogwash

Crazy for Kale

For as good as I am (or like to think I am) at multitasking, handling two or three tasks in the kitchen at once leaves me feeling frantic. I've never been someone who can simmer a sauce, roast a chicken, boil some pasta and toss a salad all at once; such efforts usually lead to a catastrophe that, while minor, certainly doesn't taste great on my plate.

In the very least I need a sous chef. But with one sous chef away at work and the other having flown south to LA for the winter and beyond, I'm left to tinker at the stove on my own. That position often leaves me making one pot meals like risottos and soups. But I've tired of those options of late and so, this week decided it was time for me to tackle the multi-component, multiple pan meal on my own. 

The thing that got me to take the leap was kale.

I've been eating kale's close cousin, chard, nearly daily, serving it sauteed on the side of my failed lamb experiment and, yes, with an egg. But I haven't picked up kale since my mom grew a patch for me in her garden back when I was an anemic high school-age runner desperately in need of some iron-rich meals.

Mention of a flash-cooked kale in Bon Appetit last month got kale back on my grocery list. The prep for the dish couldn't have been easier. I just needed to wash and roughly chop the kale, throw it in a hot pan with a bit of olive oil and a pat of butter, and let each piece wilt slightly before adding a squeeze of lemon juice and a pinch of salt on top. 

This may sound like another one pan recipe but the story is not quite over because the things I wanted to eat with that kale required more steps, more pans and a carefully timed dance about the kitchen as I multitasked my way from the stove to the table.

I wanted fresh linguine, cooked in a big pot of salted water until it was al dente. There needed to be little nubs of spicy Italian sausage, browned in a swirl of olive oil, slippery red onions for color, but also texture, and then the kale, crunchy-soft and lemony strewn through the noodles.

Somehow the vision of this impromptu dish propelled me to time everything just right, or as close to right as I've come yet. In my harried state, I forgot to toss the onions in with the pasta. No matter, they made a fine garnish and I can always give the dish another chance.

Pasta with Kale
You know, better than I, how much pasta and meat you like to eat for dinner. So tinker with the amounts here until you nail just the right portion to satisfy you if you like. Do not however trim back the amount of kale you use. It is the star of the dish and if your pasta looks more green than brown, trust me, you won't mind a bit. 

1/4 red onion, diced 
3 tablespoons olive oil, divided
1/4 pound spicy Italian sausage (pork or chicken)
1/4 pound fresh linguine
1/3 bunch of lacinato kale, washed, ribs removed and cut crosswise into 1/2-inch slices
1/2 lemon
Parmesan cheese, for garnish if desired

In a saute pan, cook the onion in 1 tablespoon olive oil until its bite fades and the pieces soften, about 5 minutes. Set aside in a small bowl.

Meanwhile, bring a pan of salted water to boil. Then add another tablespoon of olive oil to the saute pan. Once it is warm, begin cooking the sausage over medium heat.

When the sausage is nearly done, slide the pasta in the pot of boiling water and cook for 2 to 3 minutes, until the noodles are al dente.

Meanwhile, slip a pat of butter and the remaining tablespoon of olive oil in a heavy saute pan. Once the butter has melted, place the kale in the pan. Toss the kale with tongs so every piece touches the hot surface of the pan. Continue cooking and tossing the pieces for a minute or so more, until they are just wilted, then turn off the heat and dress them with a squeeze of lemon juice.

Drain the pasta, leaving a bit of the cooking water in the pan (approximately a few tablespoons or so). Toss the sausage, onions and 1/2 the kale in with the pasta. Plate the dish, and garnish with the remaining kale and parmesan cheese, if desired. 

A Mouthful of Marmalade

As you may have noticed, I'm running a bit late this week. I've been running here for dinner, here and here for meetings, and sneaking moments at the computer between meals and moments in the kitchen between assignments. And as my husband so aptly put it yesterday, we've generally been running around like two chickens with our heads cut off all week.

And yet I still found time to caramelize onions for an orange-honey-thyme-onion marmalade; the mere memory of it was enough to make me put down what I was doing and pause for a good, long while over the stove.

I don't think orange-honey-thyme-onion marmalade is this dish's exact name (nor should it be - it's a mouthful). But it does describe the exact mix of ingredients that come together to create the garnet-hued spread I first tried in the kitchen at Trellis. The chef uses this recipe as a way to preserve the many pounds of onions he harvests from his farm each year; for me, the girl without an onion patch to call her own, making this marmalade is just another excuse to go to my favorite grocer, unwind at the stove and then eat really, really well. 

This marmalade begins with slow cooking the onions, carefully as you don't want them to burn. Then you add a heap of sugar and, many minutes later, the wine, orange juice, honey and thyme that turn that pile of onions into a handsome spread.

You have to let it stew for awhile, and darn it if you don't take a taste now and then, just to see how the whole thing's progressing. Eventually, you'll pinch a piece from the pot and intuitively know that your work is done. Then you'll sample a larger bite, a spoonful maybe, just to make sure it's ready, and the flavors will jump out at you one after another - first the assertive orange, then the subtle thyme, the sweet, lingering honey and the softened wine, all clinging to a spoonful of silken onions as they slip across your tongue.

I wouldn't blame you if you ate that whole tangle of onions that way, spoonful after spoonful. But then you'd miss out on the meal I made: onion and pear topped flatbread. I didn't care to write down a recipe for it, as it's more a method than an exact science. First, I snatched off a bit of dough from the ball my husband made and formed it into a misshapen rectangle with rustic little rounded edges that I folded back over themselves to form just a hint of a crust. The marmalade, that went in the middle, topped with paper-thin slices of Asian pear. Then, I popped the whole thing in the oven and waited for it to crisp up. Granted, I should have been a bit more patient with my little pizette as it was disappointingly soggy in the middle. But with a mouthful of marmalade accompanying each bite, I barely noticed at all. 

Orange-Honey-Thyme-Onion Marmalade

If you are someone who wants a quick, 30-minute meal tonight, turn on Rachael Ray. This marmalade will take you a bit longer than that to prepare but then you'll have enough for a little pizette and a tiny jar of leftovers to accompany a cheese and cracker plate one night and garnish an arugula salad the next. 

1 pint orange juice

2 1/2 red onions, peeled and sliced into small slivers

1/4 cup olive oil

1/3 cup sugar

1/2 cup red wine

3 springs of thyme

Zest from 1 orange

1/2 cup honey 

In a small saucepan over medium heat, reduce the orange juice until you have 1/4 cup remaining.

Meanwhile, sweat the onions in the olive oil until they are translucent. Stir in the sugar and continue to cook the onions as they slightly caramalize. 

Add the red wine, orange zest and leaves from the thyme sprigs, and simmer slowly until the liquid is reduced by about half. 

Add the reduced orange juice and honey and simmer for 5 additional minutes. Remove the pan from the heat and cool. Store the onions in a lidded container in the fridge.

-Adapted from Chef Brian Scheehser of Trellis Restaurant

My Moroccan Mistake

I had meant to bring you something really special today, something exotic, something Moroccan, maybe, because up until now I've felt a bit like a cheat. Despite my self-imposed mission to start cooking better solo meals, I've played it safe; with all the salads, soups and scratch-baked treats I've been sharing, I haven't really branched outside my comfort zone. 

Yes, I've gone beyond the tried in true, substituting a composed salad for my traditional green salad or a tomato bread soup that, quite frankly, didn't differ much from my favorite fall fallback. But a salad is a salad and soup is a soup, and those muffins I told you about are a version of the same breakfast I've been eating for most of my adult life.

So this week, I really wanted to uphold my end of the deal. I took a midday work break, settled in with some books and started scouring them for a recipe that would teach me how to braise meat. Why braising? Visions of slow-cooked, fork-tender lamb shank, shredded and spooned over polenta had somehow wiggled its way into my head and I just couldn't let that image go.

Unfortunately, my exhaustive search yielded exactly one dull braised lamb recipe. But I did find a recipe for a Moroccan lamb so I combined the method from the first recipe and the spices from the later, and let that braising liquid bubble away for hours. 

When I opened that pot, the meat was indeed falling off the bone and the scent of cinnamon, cumin and coriander that perfumed the air set my mouth watering. The meat itself was a bit dull, so I reduced the braising liquid down, blended it together and poured it back over the now shredded lamb meat. The flavor was greatly improved but now - and forgive me for being graphic - it was the color of something you'd find in a diaper. Since it was just me, I ate that lamb and liked it, but I cannot encourage you to take so much time to make something so unappealing to the eye.

Fortunately, there was a savior in this whole, long braising experiment: the side of polenta. I have been making polenta off and on ever since I found a recipe for polenta corn cakes from a local inn. Before that, I had not known how easy polenta was to make - or how fun. As soon as you pour the corn grits into the pan, they start burbling and burping and letting off gusts of steam such that you'd think they were having a party in a pan as you stir them together. I promise, these silly little noises will stretch a smile across your face.

So too will the finished polenta. I recommend you make it now and then again and again for it is forever versatile. You might refrigerate it in shallow little pans and fry up slices in the morning to serve with a slippery poached egg on top. Or, you could spoon a large heap of just-cooked polenta onto your plate, and fan out some pale pink pork tenderloin around it. You can push the indulgence meter into the red by stirring in hunks of crumbly cheese, or leave the polenta plain to ground a dish like Steamed Eggs in a Nest of Greens (yes, there I go with that recipe, again).

Maybe you'll even find something exotic to pair it with - just not my Moroccan lamb shanks.

Polenta for One

The truly great thing about a recipe this simple is you can update it at will. You can chop up fresh herbs and toss them in the pot at the last minute, or add a crumbly cheese and watch it melt and make the polenta impossibly rich with a few turns of a mixing spoon. To make enough for leftovers, you can double or triple the recipe (don't worry, the math's easy) and chill the remaining polenta in a shallow pan. Then, all that's left to do is fry up the firm pieces for your next meal. 

1 cup low-fat milk (or water if you prefer)
A pinch of salt
1/3 cup stone-ground yellow cornmeal

Bring the milk (or water) and salt to boil in a heavy saucepan over medium-high heat. 

Once the milk is warm, add the cornmeal in a thin stream, whisking constantly as you pour it into the saucepan. Turn the heat to low and continue stirring with the whisk or a wooden spoon (constantly or it will get lumpy) until the mixture has thickened and starts to pull away from the sides of the pan, or about 10 minutes.

Stir in cheese, herbs - whatever you want really - and serve immediately.

-Adapted from The New Basics Cookbook

Soups On

When the first dark, drippy day of fall arrives and other people slip on their rain jackets and mourn the end of summer, I can be found peaking out my window with a smile spreading across my face for that day that announces the season for sweaters and scarfs, curbside puddles, falling leaves and weekends spent turning the dog-eared pages of my well-loved books.

And, best of all, it's also the season for soup.

From October through March (or sometimes April or May - this is Portland after all) soup is my constant mealtime companion and midday belly warmer. Though I love the rain, the chill that accompanies it creeps into my bones such that I can often be found writing at my computer in faux fur-lined slippers and a down jacket with a blanket draped across my lap. It's a ridiculous get up but that cocoon keeps me warm until it's time to eat soup.

I'm not very creative when it comes to winter soups, preferring instead to tweak my go-to tomato soup recipe just so, and just often enough that I don't get bored with it. Ever. And yes, despite the fact that I've already explained that I abhor tomatoes, I find no fault with the taste and texture of tomatoes when I eat them crushed, from a can.

That's where my recipe always starts, with a can of crushed tomatoes and a splash of chicken broth. In the "old" days, back when I was a penny-pinching studio dweller, I added little nuggets of herbed sausage and a handful of spinach to the soup. It was sort of like a meatball soup, but not quite. And though my husband loved this version (minus the spinach) I sought something more refined.

Over time, I've added bits of salty proscuitto to the pot, then topped my bowl with peppery arugula and a drizzle of aged balsamic vinegar. I've sprinkled it liberally with feta cheese (with poor results) and aged Parmesan (the perfect garnish), and often mixed in frozen shrimp or fresh fish to create a makeshift cioppino.

The version I'm certain will appear many times this year is my riff on Donna Hay's tomato basil-bread soup. All the recipe required was that I simmer the soup base for a time, then turn off the heat and add big chunks of soft, spongy bread and a handful of basil leaves. I know, soggy bread might not sound appetizing but the heft those little bread bits give the soup changes the experience of eating it entirely. Go ahead, give it a try. 

Italian Tomato and Basil Bread Soup
The original recipe called for stewing very ripe tomatoes down into a chunky sauce. Since good, local tomatoes are hard to find in Portland during the late fall and winter, I streamlined the recipe by using a can of crushed tomatoes instead. Crushed tomatoes usually come in 28-ounce cans; this recipe makes a bit too much soup for me to slurp up in one meal so I often reserve the leftover soup for "second rounds", adding more broth and fresh bread if I want to bulk it up the next day. 

1 teaspoon olive oil
1 clove garlic, smashed but left whole
1 can crushed tomatoes (unsalted if you can find them)
1/4 cup low-sodium chicken broth 
1 1-inch thick slice artisan bread, crust removed and torn into chunks
1 handful basil leaves, torn into tiny pieces
Salt and fresh cracked black pepper, to taste

Warm the olive oil in a small saucepan over medium heat. Add the garlic clove and saute for a minute. Pour in the crushed tomatoes and the low sodium chicken broth, and stir the soup base together. 

Place a lid on the pot and simmer for approximately 10 minutes or until the soup is warmed through. 

Remove the garlic clove and simmer to taste with salt and pepper. Turn the heat off and add the bread and basil to the pot. Allow the soup to stand for 5 minutes, covered, then ladle into bowls and serve unadorned or garnished as desired.

-Adapted from Modern Classics by Donna Hay

An Obsession

I feel a bit like I've failed you this week. I should be reporting with tales of triumphant one person meals, maybe a rustic risotto, a heady French onion soup or a flaky fillet of white fish, perfectly prepared and prettily presented in a parchment paper packet.

But I've made none of these things this week because every time I go to open a cookbook or plan dinner, I decide I'd rather be baking. So I do. This week has been a flurry of flour and sugar and butter, all spun together in the bowl of my mixer to make lemon blueberry buckle, from-scratch granola bars pocked with half-moons of dried apricot and blackberry muffins that carry my summertime favorite into fall.

It's the muffins I want to talk to you about today. Anyone who knows me well, knows I am among the muffin obsessed. It started when I worked at a wholesome little bakery as the bleary-eyed countergirl (my shift started before six...on a weekend). Thoughts of their oatmeal berry muffins roused me from bed before sunrise, and eating one, or two, got me through many a shift. Years later, those muffins filled my freezer at college; I stocked up on a few dozen every time I went home, then rationed them throughout the term like a squirrel trying to make a nut stash last through the winter.

There were, of course, Muffin Mondays at the local bakery with two dear friends and muffin making mornings shared with my trio of roommates, who were only too happy to let me bake away. Even now, muffins are the baked good I gravitate toward because, like cookies and cupcakes, they are perfectly proportioned for one.

So every weekend of late, I've made a batch of muffins to freeze and then defrost and eat throughout the week. For awhile, I was trying different recipes on for size, to see which one suited me in the same way another woman might try this style or that one before deciding that her look was sporty chic. And eventually, I met a muffin that finally halted my search for the perfect one.

Appropriately, it called for the harbinger of spring, those skinny red stalks of rhubarb that fill the stands at the first farmer's markets of the year. When rhubarb season ended, however, I found that the recipe was equally impressive made with most any fruit. My preference of late has been the local blackberries my husband Jake and I froze on trays in our freezer, then tucked away in baggies for a rainy day.

I like to split these moist, sugar-dusted muffins in half and top the stump with a bit of jam, then save the best part - the muffin top - for last. Don't ask me why the top is the best part. I can't pinpoint why I like it best, but I know the muffin-obsessed among us will agree. 

Blackberry Applesauce Muffins
In my opinion, the best muffins have a lingering sweetness, which is best achieved with a dusting of sugar or crumbly topping of some sort. So while these muffins might taste fine plain, I can't say I've tried them that way. Instead, I always dust them with a bit of brown sugar and cinnamon before I pop them in the oven. 

2 cups whole wheat flour
1 cup all purpose flour
2 teaspoons baking powder
2 teaspoons ground cinnamon
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon salt
2 eggs
1 1/4 cups packed brown sugar
1 cup applesauce
3/4 cup canola oil
1 1/2 cup frozen blackberries (or fresh rhubarb cut into 1/4-inch pieces or a frozen fruit of your choice)
Cinnamon and brown sugar topping, if desired (I use about 1/2 cup of brown sugar and a teaspoon of cinnamon)

Preheat the oven to 400 degrees.

In a large mixing bowl, stir together both flours, the baking powder, cinnamon, baking soda and salt. Make a well in the center and set the bowl aside.

In a medium mixing bowl, beat the eggs with a small whisk. Whisk in the brown sugar, applesauce and oil. 

Pour the wet ingredients into the well you made in the dry ingredients, and stir until the batter is combined. Fold in the blackberries.

Grease a standard size muffin tin or place liners in each of 12 muffin cups. Fill each cup to the brim (to encourage a massive top) and sprinkle the batter with the cinnamon-sugar mixture if desired.

Bake for 18 to 20 or until the tops are golden and a toothpick comes out clean when you pierce a muffin in the middle. (If the tops start to look too brown but the insides still need oven time, cover the tops with a large piece of tinfoil).

Serve warm, preferably with berry jam, or cool and freeze to eat later.

Going Green

Since it is officially October, the season of falling leaves, rain storms and minimal sun, I think I can safely reflect on my summer goals. And more specifically, the goal I failed at reaching. 

You see, this summer I had planned to learn to love tomatoes. I didn't.

Now, I've always liked tomatoes in cooked, pureed form; I enjoy rustic tomato soups, pasta tossed with marinara sauce and, on occasion, a cheeseburger spread with liberal amounts of ketchup. But something about the texture of a fresh tomato has always made me push my plate away when I encounter it. No matter that the heirlooms looked temptingly beautiful with their glossy sheen and imperfect silhouettes at the market this fall, or that if I tried hard enough I could conjure a craving for a BLT or caprese salad. When I nibbled at a cherry tomato or tried to trick myself by hiding small slices of an Early Girl tomatoes in a panini sandwich, I discovered that my stomach would not concede to my wishes.

All of this throat-clearing is my way of saying I still don't like fresh tomatoes, and as such fresh tomatoes won't appear in this week's recipe. My tabouleh is all green.

The first time I made tabouleh - the popular Middle Eastern salad traditionally made from parsley, bulgur wheat, mint, tomatoes and green onions - it turned out ok. At that point in my life, I didn't own the modern kitchen workhorse, the food processor, and try as I might, I couldn't chop the parsley fine enough to help it meet my expectations for the dish. I ate that makeshift concoction - sans tomatoes of course - but quickly forgot about tabouleh until I ran into two recipes for this sprightly salad last week. 

So one night this week when I planned to eat alone (my husband also has particular food neurosis - he disregards hippie-dippie ingredients like bulgur with fervor), I gave generous handfuls of parsley and a few mint leaves a quick spin in the food processor. Then I tossed the chopped herbs together with the cooked bulgur, which is the easiest-going grain I've encountered yet. Making it simply requires you boil water, add the bulgur and wait for it to cook. That's it. 

Anyway, I then added some chunks of cucumber to contrast the soft grains with a crisp, clean bite and tossed the whole jumble in a simple vinaigrette of extra virgin olive oil and lemon. Then I piled it atop a bed of greens and sat down to a meal that was particularly lovely - tomato goal achieved or not. 


All Green Tabouleh 
If you're like me, you won't miss tomatoes in this recipe. But if you want to add them, go ahead. I imagine chopped tomatoes or plump little cherry tomatoes slivered in half would both work well here. Also, it's worth noting that you can adjust the amount of vinaigrette you use to suit your tastes. When I first made tabouleh, I used twice as much dressing. Now, I prefer it lightly dressed. 

2/3 cup water
1/3 cup bulgur wheat
1/2 cup parsley leaves
2 tablespoons mint leaves
1/2 small cucumber, seeds scooped out, peeled and diced 
1 scallion, finely chopped
1/8 cup lemon juice (approximately the amount from 1 small lemon)
2 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil
Salt and pepper to taste
Red leaf lettuce

Bring the water to boil with a pinch of salt. Once it is boiling, turn off the heat and add the bulgur. Cover, and let stand for 30 minutes.

Meanwhile, place the parsley leaves and mint leaves in the bowl of a food processor and pulse until they are finely chopped.

If necessary, drain the remaining water off the bulgur. In a small mixing bowl, stir the cooked bulgur, parsley and mint mixture, cucumber and scallion together. Add the olive oil and lemon juice and toss until well combined. Salt and pepper the salad to taste.

Pile the salad on a bed of red leaf lettuce and serve immediately.