The Salty Spoon

I have a confession: I cheated on my favorite sandwich bread recipe.  For several months, I regularly made the Multi-grain Extraordinaire recipe from Peter Reinhart’s wonderful book, The Bread Baker’s Apprentice.  Whether toasted or incorporated into a sandwich, it sings.  The finished product and I were so happy together.  But I had my differences with the recipe.

It’s not complicated or faulty, quite the contrary.  Once the ingredients are ready, it falls squarely in the mix-it/shape-it/bake-it gang of sandwich breads (as does the following recipe).  The problem, for me, lies in getting the multiple grains ready for their extraordinaire status.  At least 8 hours prior to mixing the dough, the grains (cornmeal, oatmeal, wheat bran) must be soaked in a bit of water to form the aptly-named soaker.  Unfortunately, this sometimes exceeds the limits of my advance planning skills.  I usually make sandwich bread for the week on the weekend, which requires putting together a soaker on Friday or Saturday night.   After several weeks of making it to Sunday afternoon without a proper soaker, I went in search of a new sandwich bread recipe.

The fine folks at King Arthur Flour provided me with a new prospect.  I know we met on the rebound, I know.  So I’m taking it one loaf at a time.  It’s been over a month since the Multi-grain Extraordinaire has heard from me.  We were pretty close, but there’s no need for a formal pronouncement about the change in our relationship.  I hope we can just become casual friends who catch up once in a while.

If we do end up having to Have a Talk, I’ll tell it the truth: it’s not you, it’s me.
(Keep reading Wheat and Oat Sandwich Bread…)

When I left college after my sophomore year, hoping the impending summer would bring news that one of my transfer applications had been accepted elsewhere, I made a list of things I would miss about Tiny Women’s College On the East Coast (TWCOEC).  It was a short list, hence the transfer applications.

The list was so short that I could barely believe it had been so hard to decide to leave TWCOEC.  After all those nights staring out my window, wondering whether I was making the right choice, shouldn’t it have been a little harder to leave?  In later years, I would come to realize that my hesitation in pulling the trigger had less to do with my feelings about TWCOEC and more to do with the fact that I was, in a way, admitting to colossal failure.  After all, this was the school I had most wanted to attend.  I had been so sure…sure enough that I didn’t apply anywhere else.  I was accepted early decision in December of my senior year of high school.  A few essays, an interview, and just like that, it was done.

Like so many things, it seemed like a good idea at the time.  More than a decade later, I can say that it actually was.

But back to that list.  One of the things I knew I would miss most was my job.  I’ll talk about it more fully another day, but I really loved working at the campus bed and breakfast.  I waited tables, bartended, manned (womanned?) the front desk, and worked as a prep cook in the kitchen.  Most of my knife skills and menu-planning abilities were developed there.  My cooking today is the product of many influences, but the experiences I had in that kitchen were truly formative.

Among the other things on the list is a particular presentation of mussels at Marbles, one of the only mildly upscale restaurants in TWCOEC’s tiny town.  Their preparation was nothing special – just steamed with a little garlic.  But then, before being plated, they were transferred to an herbed broth that was ever-so-gently kissed with tomatoes.  The result was heavenly.  It was by far the nicest thing you could order at any restaurant within walking distance of campus, and I had it every time I went.  The food in TWCOEC’s dining halls was unpredictable, the awkward result of an attempt to meet the many dietary requests you would expect to find on a campus of 1200 highly privileged young women – vegan, vegetarian, low-fat, high protein, and fruitarian.  The old adage about the disastrous results that come from too many cooks in the kitchen doesn’t even begin to contemplate the horrors from attempting to satisfy too many palates at the table.

But sitting at Marbles, with a trail of that glorious broth dribbling down my wrist as I slurped the mussels from their shells, I may as well have been hundreds of miles away.  Of the few details from that time that I chose to remember vividly, that broth leads the list.  Over the past few weeks, recreated it for myself to enjoy with scallops, one of my favorite quick proteins.  Scallops cook fast, taste great, and are incredibly low in calories and fat.  I keep a bag of flash-frozen sea scallops from Costco on hand, quickly defrosting what I need in a bowl of cool water before searing them in the pan.

The proportions here are for one serving – John is working on a case that has gone to trial, so his evenings are spent at the office reviewing materials for the days to come and I’ve become somewhat of a trial widow.  Double this recipe if your table is set for two; smack your lips and grin about how well you’re eating if you enjoy it solo, as written.

(Keep reading Scallops with Herbs and Tomatoes…)

We saw it as a sin to waste excess frosting. Never bound to follow a strict recipe, my mom and I would mix and taste, mix and taste until we had a bowl of smooth, hearty buttercream frosting for whatever cake or brownie begged to be dressed. There’s nothing wrong with following a recipe – and I regularly do with tinted frosting to be sure I avoid having to make more that would risk being a different color – but the ad hoc way is much more fun. It almost always means leftovers, the best kind.

I remember one afternoon during my senior year of high school. I came across a bowl of leftover frosting on the kitchen counter as I made my daily post-school forage through the kitchen. It was chocolate buttercream. Whatever baked good had been its original target was gone – all that remained was this bowl of excess joy. I hastily grabbed a teaspoon and dove in for one, good bite. Then another. And another. My indulgent solitude splintered when my mom came upstairs to find her piggy daughter shoveling frosting into her mouth. “Bria!” she hissed, and there was a pregnant pause while she marched into the kitchen, during which time I was sure she was about to scold me for wolfing down frosting straight from the bowl. “Use a big spoon.” She pulled two dinner spoons out of the silverware drawer and joined me as we savored the excesses of our prior handiwork.

So it would be accurate to say I have a sweet tooth. And that I come by it honestly.

I do not understand people who say they “don’t like sweets.” When I hear that, I feel as bewildered as I would if someone were telling me “I don’t really like having arms.” Still, as my advancing years teeter on the brink of 30, I find myself acquiring new-found patience for accommodating such bizarre tendencies (though I will draw the line at cutting anyone else’s meat so they don’t have to be bothered with the imposition of their northern appendages). My arsenal of demi-sweet desserts is growing, and I can begrudgingly admit I enjoy them, too.

This olive oil cake mediates handsomely between the sweet-loving and the sweet-tolerating factions. Mildly sweet, it allows the nutty pizzazz of the olive oil to lilt upon the palette in a sly, flirty dance. The original recipe calls for Grand Marnier, which I have replaced with drambuie and almond extract. Despite many attempts to otherwise align my palate, I do not care much for citrus liqueurs. If you feel differently, substitute 3 tablespoons of Grand Marnier for the other liqueurs. Use the best, brightest-tasting olive oil you can justify. I serve this with a simple dusting of powdered sugar, but it would also be lovely with a berry coulis or a sugary glaze. If you go that route and end up with extra glaze for snacking, be sure to use a big spoon.

(Keep reading Olive Oil Cake…)

Happiness. adj. The occasional combination of (i) a pot of coffee, (ii) a plate of simple muffins, and (iii) a Saturday morning.

Lovelies, I have just revealed to you my inner sloth. Left to my own devices and otherwise unencumbered by other obligations, I can stretch a batch of muffins and a pot of coffee well into early afternoon as I faff about watching Bravo. But I’m persnickety. Not just any muffin will do. It has to be fresh, and it has to be simple. No overdressed Starbucks monstrosities or cupcakes slumming it without their frosting; a triple-chocolate, wrapper-wearing something or other is not my Saturday style.

You’ll find a ziptillion muffin mixes in the baking aisle of your grocery store. Please walk on by. Two bowls, a muffin tin, and a few ingredients are all that separate you from one of breakfast’s basic beauties. They are tremendously simple and very much worth the modicum of extra effort.

If chocolate chips aren’t your thing, add a handful of chopped pecans or dried cherries. If you really want to get snazzy, spoon a large dollop into each well of your muffin tin, add a small spoonful of jam to the center of each dollop, and top with the rest of the batter. The jam will stay put and make for tasty centers.

The underlying recipe comes from Michael Ruhlman’s excellent book, Ratio: The Simple Codes Behind the Craft of Everyday Cooking (see link in the sidebar).  You’ll notice that the quantities for the flour, sugar, milk, and butter are listed first by weight.  If you have a food scale, use it.  Volume measurements are listed in the parentheses and will also work.

(Keep reading Simple Chocolate Chip Muffins…)

When was the last time you gave more than a fleeting thought to carrots?  They seem so rooted in the province of lunchbag snackery that I sometimes forget the many ways they can be gussied up for dinner.  That’s the danger of being a perfectly delicious raw vegetable.  Who wants to bother dressing you in a cocktail dress with you when you can carry the show in your street clothes?

I also don’t care keenly for making carrots sweeter, though that seems to be a common tendency.  Glazed carrots can be very lovely, but I want to eat them about as often as I want to watch Sleepless in Seattle (and for the same reason: too cloying for regular consumption).  Carrots are, in fact, the Meg Ryan of the vegetable world – spunky, pretty, predictably sweet, and generally inoffensive – and while I might not want to partake on a daily basis, it’s silly to shut them out completely over a single role I find difficult to swallow.

Here are two variations on the same theme – carrots flavored gently with citrus and herbs by boiling them until slightly squishy.  Do not be alarmed if the second variation smells like old socks while it is cooking.  I promise, it only tastes of carrots.

Once the carrots are done cooking, you can play around with how you serve them.  I enjoyed the first batch both hot (chopped coarsely and splashed with balsamic vinegar) and cold (no frills, just a little additional salt).  For variation 2, I used the early harvest Spanish Arbequina, an artisan-crafted extra virgin olive oil from Olio Nuevo.  Made in Paso Robles, it has a piercingly bright taste that almost seems to vibrate on the tongue.  When tucked among the billowy folds of the smoothly blended carrots, it sings out with effervescent harmony.

(Keep reading Herbed Carrots, Two Ways…)

Can you ever have too many closets?  We are fortunate to have a house with plentiful closet-space (though don’t think for a second that I have abandoned my dream of turning a bedroom into a giant, fancy closet someday - complete with an island of drawers and angled shoe shelves). One of the closets in our bedroom is a cedar closet.  It’s exactly what it sounds like – a regular closet with cedar plank-covered walls. Sometimes I look at it and think man, if only we had a cubic ton of salmon to grill.  We could really go to town.  Instead, it’s the repository for a giant down comforter (from our Michigan days) and all our wool suits.

And the nice wine.

The realities of living in a hill home mean that we don’t have a basement, so no wine room (next house, next house, next house, she says plaintively, ignoring the fact that this will be ridiculous without substantially more wine).  Instead, we stack our nice wine on the floor of our cedar closet, where it stays uselessly moth-free.

Amassing a small collection of Very Good Wine is worth the money and effort, if you’re into that kind of thing.  It’s always nice to have a snazzy gift on hand for oenophilic friends, and special dinners at home become that much more lovely with the occasional treasure we’ve been saving until it’s ready to drink.  That’s all well and good, but more often than not, I want something other than a $40+ bottle of wine.  There are several funny little slots for wine built into the Salty Spoon kitchen cabinetry.  I like to keep them stocked with inexpensive wines (preferably less than $10 a bottle) that I would feel no qualms about opening on, say, a Tuesday.  Until recently, I kept the slots full with grocery store finds.  But one day, we stumbled upon this Penfolds Koonunga Hill Shiraz Cabernet at Costco, and the world changed.

It’s a truly lovely table wine.  Inexpensive and readily available at the Burbank Costco, John buys a case whenever we’re running low.  The 2006 was really something special, and the 2007 is no slouch, either.  Though I am a total sucker for a beefy, tobacco-y, berry-laden zinfandel, I often want something that will play more of a Cloris Leachman supporting role with my meal rather than a Meryl Streep lead. Enter Penfolds.

This is a wine you can easily drink by itself while you cook or brood about your day in the tub, but it’s substantial enough to stand up to a full dinner.  At less than $8 a bottle, I never feel bad about adding a slug to whatever I’m cooking.  And, I’m sorry to say, I can safely report that it’s pretty good with chocolate chip cookies.  But let’s pretend none of us know that.

My neighborhood smells like perfume. Though my schedule over the past few weeks has been somewhat chaotic (it may not surprise you to know that the bankruptcy world is a little…what’s the word…busy these days), I cannot resist pausing on the landing on the way out the door each morning to inhale the crisp, damp air. Laden with moisture from the previous night and the impending threat of the week’s summer storms, it burgeons with the heady presence of jasmine, roses, and lemon verbena. Dewy brush and grass begin to warm in the morning sun and the scent reminds me of an old campground, even though we are in the middle of a gargantuan city. The Hollywood hills are strange this way – a wild island in the midst of a sea of concrete. Despite the messy realities of my upcoming day, in those moments the scented air makes the world seem perfect.

Eventually, those realities catch up with me. My job, like so many others, can be unpredictable from week to week. It’s not uncommon for me to interrupt a nice leave-by-6:30 streak with two weeks of complete crazy, only to return to relative calm once again. During those busy times, it’s critical for me to keep things on hand that can easily be thrown together into real food. This week, a few simple ingredients – polenta, Italian sausage, and tomato sauce – have made for a few fast and delicious dinners that I’d love to share with you.

This is one of my lightning-fast recipes. It’s so incredibly simple, I almost hate to call it cooking - it feels more like ingredient assembly to me (though, really, you can say that about all cooking if you take a big enough step back). Consider this one of those baby steps between picking up takeout and cooking something complex. I set a timer last night to see just how long this takes. It seems fast, but my sense of time is roughly as accurate as a terrier’s, so some objective verification was necessary. From opening the fridge to plating the finished food, I clocked this in at around 9 minutes, and that included the sliced polenta modeling session on my cutting board. Four ingredients, two pans, less than 10 minutes. Wowza.

If you aren’t familiar with polenta, my lovelies, you should be. I cheat and buy the precooked kind. You can easily make your own, though it can be a little time-consuming. Precooked polenta typically comes in either a roll or a loaf (both called a chub). I like the roll because it slices into disks very easily. You can usually find it near the salami/pepperoni in the grocery store. Made of corn, polenta is a hearty, delicious alternative to pasta (and delightfully wheat-free for our gluten-avoiding friends). Though delicious in savory dishes, as I suggest here, it also makes a wonderful addition to the breakfast table. Sauté and top with maple syrup for rib-sticking, corn-based goodness.

(Keep reading Polenta with Tomatoes and Italian Sausage…)