Archive Page 5

buried treasure

Published March 29, 2013 garden fare , pig slop 5 Comments
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Living in Northern Wisconsin has it’s perks, to be sure. But it also means coming to terms with being a step or two behind most of the world. Fashion trends, for instance, typically don’t make their way up here until they are already on their way out in most places. Or, wait. Do they ever even make it up here? Not really sure on that. Likewise, when the spring barrage of cooking mags start pouring in with glorious photos of rhubarb and spring peas, I take it with a grain of salt. I’m lucky if I get my first pea harvest by the end of June.

I know to set my new throng of must-try seasonal recipes aside for at least another month or two. Still, my heart goes pitter-patter at the mere thought of fresh produce. On a whim I go out to check my most promising contender – the parsnip patch. I plant a few rows of parsnips every summer. Half of them I devour in the fall, and half I leave well mulched in the ground for a spring feast. Parsnips are good in the fall, but they’re even better after a winter underground. The frost converts some of their starch to sugar and gives them an unbeatable subtle sweetness.

parsnips

I grab the yard stick on the way out the door. As I suspected, things do not look promising. My gnarly jewels are buried under thirty-six inches of hard snow pack. I desperately rack my brain for some of the benefits of living on Lake Superior. There must be some, I’m sure of it, but at the moment all I can focus on is my hidden treasure. Clearly this is going to require some human intervention. I strike hard with my shovel, keeping my eyes on the prize. It becomes immediately obvious that my plastic tool is no match for 3 feet of snow that has repeatedly thawed and frozen over the season.

Time for the big guns. I summon my husband Mark and his unwieldy beast of a snow blower. I doubt I’ll even have to plead. Mark is sort of a snow blowing nut. He must find it satisfying work. Halfway through the winter I discovered an amazing labyrinth of paths criss crossing the upper half of our property. I had no idea. When I confronted him about it, he burst out singing “Don’t Fence Me In” and claimed that a fella needs to roam. Did I mention we have long winters?

spring garden

We concur that the parsnips are indeed a noble cause and Mark fires up the beast. Of course the ground is still frozen solid underneath, but we’ve made headway at least. A few weeks of spring weather is all it will take for the parsnips to start poking their heads above ground. And you can bet that I’ll be out there muscling my way through to them with a pitch fork at the first sign of a thaw.

Luckily, in the meantime, I’ve got a few parsnips lingering in the crisper from our winter CSA share. I like to mix parsnips in with other root vegetables for roasting, and equally, I love a creamy potato-parsnip mashup, but my favorite way to prepare parsnips is to feature them head on in a simple parsnip pie. It really lets them shine in an easy, comfort food sort of way way.

parsnip pie

Brown Butter Parsnip Pie

1 9-inch unbaked pastry shell*
1 1/2  pounds (roughly) parsnips
2 tablespoons tahini
3 tablespoons butter
2 tablespoon lightly crushed pecans
Salt, pepper, nutmeg

Peel and dice the parsnips. You want enough to fill the pie pan, so you can sort of eyeball or do a dry test run before you line the pie shell. Steam the parsnips until tender, about 10 minutes. While they steam, roll out the pie crust and line the pan. Brown the butter in a small sauce pan until it is nutty and fragrant, but not at all burnt. Mash the steamed parsnips with the butter and tahini and spoon the mixture into the pie shell. Leaving a few lumps of parsnips is a-okay. Fold over any edges of crust and sprinkle the top with salt, pepper and a dusting of nutmeg. Bake at 350ºF for 15 minutes. At this point, scatter the crushed pecans over the top and continue to bake for another 10 – 15 minutes,

* My standard note on the pie shell: after trying many recipes and methods, I’ve settled on Alice Waters’ pie dough in The Art of Simple Food as my standby. It is easy, straightforward, and has yet to let me down. But a frozen store bought shell would work just as well.

pie gone

tricky business

Published March 14, 2013 bee yard 6 Comments
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Northern Wisconsin has had a particularly blustery winter. Which means I’ve been checking in on my beehives more often than usual. Any time I hear talk of an Alberta clipper coming our way I make a trip out to the girls. And then I always check in on them again after the cold snap breaks. Of course my visits can’t really change the outcome of things, but still, I like them to know that we’re in this cold mess together.

hive view

I also visit them after significant snow falls. If we get more than a few inches, I’ll need to clear away their bottom entrances so the hives maintain adequate airflow. At least on these trips I feel useful. Another chore is to keep the electric bear fence shoveled out. It’s a small thing, I know, but it feels good to get the beeyard nice and tidy before checking in with each hive. By “checking in” I mean sitting down next to the hive and putting an ear up right against their top entrance. Sometimes it’s faint, but if you listen hard, you’ll be treated to the most magnificent buzzing.

But the buzz isn’t actually the sound of their wings moving. It’s the vibration of their flight muscles. In essence the bees generate just like we do – by shivering. It’s a remarkable thing though. Thousands of constantly shivering bees produce a core hive temperature of about 90ºF. I wish I could bring on 90º temps just by shivering. As the bees on the outer edge of this shivering mass get chilled, they move inward, pushing warmer bees out for a turn on the edge. Go team!

Naturally, the colder it is, the harder the bees need to work to maintain their cozy hive temperature. And just like humans, the harder they work, the more calories they need. This raises two potential problems. If it stays too cold for too long, it gets difficult for the bees to break away from their big warm cluster to access their honey stores. It also means they will need more honey than usual to make it through the winter. Which is why Alberta clippers make me nervous.

lonesome yard

My usual routine when visiting the winter bee yard is to shovel first, check second. But on my most recent trip, I went straight to the hives. Something in me must have known. I listened to each hive, but the life I craved wasn’t there. All three hives we quiet and still. Sweet queen Freeda, her newly established daughter hive, and even the boisterous and obnoxious girls of Valerie’s hive had moved on. I stared up into the colorless sky and waited for sadness to seep into me.

I know it sounds silly, to be emotionally attached to a box of stinging insects, but I am. Deeply. Which I guess just speaks to the extraordinariness of honeybees. The bees know something. And unlike humans, they have not forgotten. They have not buried their instincts. Nor have they managed to hide behind the veil of something better. I yearn for their sacred knowledge. I cling to it. So I watch and listen. And in doing so, they give me infinitesimal drops of wisdom.

Finally I manage to pick myself up from the snow and, because I don’t know what else to do, I shovel out the hives. While I work, I berate myself, wondering if I have failed my bees. Did I leave them enough honey? Did I wrap them differently, causing unforeseen airflow issues? Did they go into winter with too small of a population? Probably, after all my late summer shenanigans trying to “help” Freeda split her hive into two. Freeda’s hive is the one I will miss the most. She gave me something extra, something unnamable.

Enough. I shake off my sadness and instead focus my energy on opening my heart to the new arrivals who will come later in the spring. I think of the delight in getting to know each new hive. And in the meantime, I’ll be able to go through my equipment, remove old comb, and make any other necessary hive repairs. Fresh starts are good, I try and convince myself.

bee gone

Weeks later, on a Saturday morning, I find one of the last seats in the crowded basement of the Salem Baptist Church. About 60 of us have gathered for the Northern Wisconsin Honey Producers annual spring meeting. The room is a quirky mix of old timers and newcomers. We’re a funny lot, beekeepers, but the one thing we have in common is our willingness to sit on folding chairs in a church basement for hours on end to talk bees.

As I settle in, my neighbor informs me that Verne has already been by. Verne is our club’s secratary. Every fall he takes the honey report and every spring he takes the overwintering report. I go over, and with a sigh, give him my data – went in with three, lost three.

A few minutes into the meeting Verne is ready with a rough statistic. Out of 269 total hives going into winter, 125 are still living. Which means about a 46% survival rate. This low number saddens me, but as the meeting forges on, my curiosity and love of bees is sparked even higher. Bee keeping is a tricky business to be sure, but you can count me in. There’s so much more I need to learn from them.

rejecting rejection

Published March 6, 2013 pig brain 9 Comments
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I am momentarily trapped in one of those “when it rains it pours” patterns. I’ve got some really terrific projects I’m working on, but (despite my best efforts) they all sort of collided at once, landing in a big ol’ heap on my desk. So I’ve been left bobbing along, doing my best to keep my head above water. Which is why the pig-pen here has seen a little neglect lately.

More often than not, working as a freelancer wins in the advantages category. I highly recommend it. That said, I know there will be times when I work late every night and put in a full weekend to boot. This is one of those times. So when I was having dinner with friends last Friday night and talk of a Sunday afternoon dog skijoring outing came up, I thought it would be a perfect break in a weekend otherwise spent chained to my computer. “Count me in!” I said, a little over enthusiastically.

homeward-bound

As Sunday approached, I was feeling more behind than ever. Momentary waves of panic swept over me. Just keep bobbing, I assured myself. Just keep bobbing. I left a message for my friend Julie, explaining that due to an increasing grip that was taking hold of my chest, I needed to bail out of skiing. She promptly replied with an e-mail. “I reject your rejection,” she wrote. “A couple of hours in the great outdoors will be perfect for relieving tightness in the chest.”

She had a point. I called her back and agreed with one condition. “Give me Juliette and we have a deal.” I countered. See, the thing about skijoring with Julie is that you have your pick of nine dogs. She and her husband Charly own a team of Siberian huskies. Juliette is the current matriarch of their kennel. At thirteen years old, she has put in her share of trail miles. In people years, this puts her well into her nineties. But you’d never guess it. Her enthusiasm to run still shines bright. She is inspiration at it’s finest. But here’s the real kicker. She’s also lost an eye to glaucoma. Which is where my special admiration for her comes in. If old Juliet can run the trails with one eye, so can I! I hope I remember this wisdom when I’m ninety.

As is often the case when undertaking an excursion with Julie and Charly, there was no shortage of logistical details. We grouped up at Julie and Charly’s place to load skis and skijoring gear into their Prius. Julie was already up at the kennel, harnessing dogs and preparing to send our young friend Jack off on his maiden solo voyage with the team. Meanwhile, Charly escorted our gang of 6 skijorers in their Suburban to a nearby logging road where Jack would meet us with the team. After having got Jack off and running, Julie would follow behind in the Prius with the gear. Once all reunited, we would dole out the dogs and be on our way down the trail.

jack-jaques

Jack and company arrived at our meeting spot without a hitch, but as we were moving the dogs from the sled to the picket line we had staked out, I couldn’t help but notice that there was no Juliet. Before I could even shrug off my disappointment, Julie pulled up in her little blue Prius with Juliette riding shotgun. I laughed and felt the grip on my chest loosen. This is what best friends are made for.

One by one, we hooked up dogs to skiers and shot off down the trail. Juliette and I set forth onto a quiet trail of blue skies, full sun, and double digit temps. It took approximately 53 seconds before I was struck with the “this is so perfect, I never want this to end” sensation. So instead of thinking of the ending, I focused on the shadows in the snow, and on Juliette’s back right paw that would kick out every eight or ninth stride, and on the cool wind that mingled with my warm skin. I focused on being alive in the woods. Then I wondered how Julie got so smart.

We met up as a group at our predetermined turn-around point for water and a rest. Just when I thought things could in no way get any better, my friend Ted tossed me a salted nut roll. How did I manage to get such smart friends? We turned back and Juliette stayed true to the end. When it came time to hook the team back up for their trek home, she was right in there, barking in anticipation. I held her back and assured her that riding home in the Prius was the better choice. She turned to look at me through her one bright eye and flooded me with her enthusiasm. And that was it, I knew it would all be okay. I can keep on bobbing.

juliet

For more perspectives of this epic dog adventure, visit honest dog and the cookery maven.

jilted

Published February 18, 2013 pig slop , sweets 11 Comments
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The third time’s a charm, right? Let’s hope so. Last week I underwent my third eye surgery in as many years. And with any luck, it will be the last – at least for a while anyway. If nothing else, I’ve got the surgery drill down pat. I’ve learned the crucial necessity of power hydrating the night before. I know that it is pointless to lug a book around – even though there will be hours of waiting. And I’ve learned to anticipate the eerie feeling of slowly coming back to reality mid-way through surgery. All of my surgeries have been at the University of Minnesota, which is, of course, a teaching hospital. So to wake up and realize you’re listening to a play by play of what’s happening to your eye can be a little unsettling.

But mostly what I’ve come to appreciate is the recovery room. It’s such a nice feeling to land and become increasingly re-grounded in the world. Like magic, my husband Mark materializes in front of me with a reassuring smile on his face. That’s when I know we’re really getting to the good part. They’ll ask what I’d like to drink and without hesitation, I’ll choose the apple juice. My juice will almost assuredly be accompanied by a package of Lorna Doone shortbread cookies. And I will methodically indulge in this snack like I were in the finest of restaurants enjoying an absolutely memorable meal.

lorna-doone

So I was taken aback this time around when the recovery nurse asked me what color popsicle I wanted. Popsicle? I hadn’t thought about popsicles. “Green? Orange?” I answered with uncertainty. She arrived back and handed over a paper cup with a half-opened popsicle perched inside. It was purple. I ate half and gave the rest to Mark. It was okay. But it wasn’t apple juice and Lorna Doones.

I forgave my nurse this oversight, but I have to admit that I started to lose a little faith in her as she was reviewing my post-operative care directive. She recited the orders verbatim, Mark following diligently along with his own copy. When we got to the part about putting a hot compress on my eye, it included a little tip. An easy way to do this, read the instructions, is to microwave a sock full of rice. To feel like I was contributing something to this process, I piped up from my bed that we don’t have a microwave. The nurse looked up and said, “Well whatever you do, don’t use the oven. I tried to dry a pair of jeans that way and they burnt right up.” Wow.

I pondered this as she resumed reading. I can’t imaging stuffing a pair of jeans in my oven. I mean, what rack would you put them on? But what I really can’t imagine is actually telling someone that I attempted it. There are just some things better left unsaid. The nurse wrapped up my care requirements and encouraged me to get started straight away with a pain pill. I was still feeling substantially numb but reluctantly decided to take her advice. She brought me a pill, a cup of water, and finally, my long-awaited package of Lorna Doones. I downed them all.

Right around this time, however, the discharge process seemed to come to a screeching halt. My nurse left and came back and left. Time dwindled. Another nurse came and left. I started detaching rogue pieces of medical equipment from myself. I never did see my pants-burning nurse again, but finally, a man appeared at my door with a wheelchair for O’Neill. Mark sprinted for the car and while I waited in the lobby with my escort I realized that I was becoming increasingly nauseous. The dull headache I noticed two hours earlier was now a freight train barreling by at high speed. I had not eaten for 20 hours and my Lorna Doones were not holding their own.

By the time Mark got me to food, it was too late. A Divanni’s hoagie never looked so ugly. There was no turning back. I was in for a five-hour car trip to hell. Nothing helped. I was hot, I was cold, I was delirious, I was tortured. It was wretched. But finally, just as we made our final turn north, the vice grip on my head began to loosen ever so slightly. With my one working eye I saw Lake Superior’s frozen Chequamegon Bay come into focus and I actually felt slightly human. I could breathe.

frozen bay

Things only got better from there. I was in good hands and well cared for. A friend had left a pot of wild rice soup waiting and I was actually able to eat a few spoonfuls. It was exactly what my stomach wanted. Another friend brought by some Thai pork that made a lovely little Valentine’s Day dinner the following night. My local coffee shop sent up a bag of goodies.  I had everything I could need.

Everything that is, except I still felt jilted out of my post-surgery Lorna Doones. They had become such a tainted memory. And since I am hopeful there is not another surgery in my near future, I decided to treat myself to a batch of shortbread cookies. The recipe I settled on is just what I was after. Buttery, salty, and just ever so slightly sweet. They are as fitting with a cup of tea as they are a glass of wine. The semolina flour gives them a delectable crumble.

shortbread

Canestrelli (Shortbread from Ovada)
adapted from The Essential New York Times Cookbook

1 1/2 cups flour
1/2 cup semolina flour
8 ounces salted butter, softened
1/2 cup sugar
pinch of kosher salt

Sift together the flour and semolina and set aside.

Beat the butter with an electric mixer on high speed for a minute or two. Add in the sugar and continue beating until light and fluffy. Lower the speed of the mixer and gradually add the flour mixture, continually scraping down the walls of the mixer bowl, and mixing until the ingredients are just blended. Don’t overmix! The dough will be somewhat crumbly.

Press the dough together into a ball and place on a lightly floured surface. Place a piece of parchment or wax paper over the dough and roll it out to a quarter-inch thickness. Cut the dough into shapes with a cutter or small juice glass.

Transfer the cookies to a baking sheet with a metal spatula. Before baking, prick them all over with the tines of a fork. Chill any unused dough while the cookies bake in a 325ºF oven for 15 – 20 minutes until just a hint of color begins to show. Remove and transfer to a wire rack. Makes about 3 dozen 2-inch cookies or 2 dozen 3-inch cookies.

short-stack

kick in the pants

Published February 1, 2013 pig brain , sweets 10 Comments
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I’ve been putting off writing. Because every time I sit down, there is only one thing that presents itself in forefront of my brain. And this “thing” immediately leads to a sad, twisted up knot in my stomach. But I’ve finally decided to stop fighting and go face to face with it.

gitche gumee

My friend Hannah is suffering a terrible loss. Last week she lost her very best best friend. Her husband. Here was a man who was a constant example of what it really means to live the life you love. Tragically and unexplainably, the untamable waters of Lake Superior took the life he was so passionate about. Jimmy only got 34 years in. But he made the most of them. And Hannah, through her grief, is graceful enough to embrace the fact that Jim died doing something he loved. Ice fishing.

If Hannah can find solace in this, shouldn’t I too be able to focus on this tiny pin-prick of light? I see it, but it keeps darting around. Because no matter how you cut it, I just don’t want Hannah to have to accept a new reality. Like always though, Hannah is charging though life, already ten steps ahead of me. I don’t know who poured all of the strength into this petite, firecracker of a woman, but she is brimming with it. And that, at least, is something that brings me hope.

I’ve been ruminating all week on what it means to be passionate. It’s not an easy topic (at least not for me, anyway, and I’m fairly enthusiastic about life). How do you find your true passion? And once you’ve found it, how do you incorporate into your life? In essence, how do you become your passion? And what do you do if you get stuck along the way? I don’t know the answers, but I figure I owe it to Jim, to Hannah, and to myself to really put some effort into it. We all do. Image a world where everyone radiates such a love of living.

Jim “got it.” He figured out the answers to these complex questions. And Hannah gets it too. She credits Jim for teaching her how to love life and never do something you don’t love, but I know they fueled each other on this. The truly amazing thing, though, is that I’m pretty sure this tragedy will only set Hannah’s flame for life even higher. That’s how well she gets it.

And if that isn’t a kick in the pants to give your life an honest to goodness assessment, I don’t know what is. I’m continuing to send every drop of love and strength I have to Hannah, but now – I realize – it’s with my eyes wide open, my ears pricked, and my heart a little more exposed. I’ve been slapped with the message that it’s time to sit up and pay attention. And at the moment, there are only two people I can thank for the call.

pie for hannah

Hannah needs love and support, but she also very clearly needs chocolate. Preferably topped with Nutella.

Brownie Pie for Hannah
From Momofuku’s Milk, Christina Tosi

Graham Crust

1 1/2 cups (190 grams) graham cracker crumbs
1/4 cup (20 grams) milk powder
2 tablespoons (25 grams) sugar
3/4 teaspoon (3 grams) kosher salt
1/4 cup (1/2 stick or 55 grams) butter, melted<
1/4 cup (55 grams) heavy cream

In a medium bowl, toss the graham crumbs, milk powder, sugar and salt with your hands to evenly distribute the dry ingredients.

Melt the butter in a small sauce pan. Let cool slightly and whisk in the cream. Add to the dry ingredients and toss again to evenly distribute. The mixture should hold its shape if squeezed tightly in the palm of your hand. If it is not moist enough, melt an additional 1 tablespoon of butter and add it to the mixture. Set aside.

Pie Filling

4 1/2 ounces (125 grams) bitter sweet chocolate
6 tablespoons (85 grams) butter
2 eggs
3/4 cup (150 grams) sugar
1/4 cup (40 grams) flour
3 tablespoons (25 grams) cocoa powder
1/2 teaspoon (2 grams) kosher salt
1/2 cup (110 grams) heavy cream

Press about 1 1/4 cups of the the graham crumb mixture into a 10-inch pie pan, working it evenly up the sides. Add another 1/4 or so of crumbs if you need to fill in anywhere. Set the remaining graham crumb mixture aside.

Combine the chocolate and butter in a heat proof bowl set over a pan of simmering water and gently melt them together on low heat. Stir until the mixture is glossy and smooth. Set aside.

In the bowl of a stand mixer fitted with the whisk attachment, combine the eggs and sugar and whip together on high speed for 3 to 4 minutes, until the mixture is fluffy and pale yellow and has reached the ribbon state. (To test, drag the whisk or a spatula through the mixture – it should form a thickened, silky ribbon that falls and then disappears into the batter.)

Switch to the paddle attachment and slowly drizzle the chocolate mixture into the eggs on low speed, then increase the speed to medium for about 1 minute Scrape down the sides of the bowl.

Add the flour, cocoa powder and salt and paddle on low speed for another minute or so until there are no clumps. Stream in the  cream on low speed, mixing for 30 to 45 seconds, until the cream is just mixed in.

Remove the bowl from the mixer and scrape down the sides of the bowl. Gently fold in 1/3 cup of the remaining graham crumbs into the batter. (This means you will have a small bowl of crumbs leftover that makes a delightful little pinch snack.)

Fill the pie crust with the filling, put the pie pan on a sheet pan and bake in a 350º F oven for about 25-30 minutes until the pie is slightly puffy and set in the middle.

Cool and serve with a dusting of powdered sugar. Or, (particualarily if you are making this pie for Hannah) spread a thin layer of Nutella over the top.

empty shell

potato amnesia

Published January 16, 2013 garden fare , pig slop 5 Comments
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It happens every January. But still, it always catches me off guard and leaves me feeling bleak. The dreaded January thaw. One night of rain and our gorgeous snow base is diminished by half. One night of freezing temperatures turns our world into an awkward skating rink. A funk envelopes the house. My husband Mark mopes around and resolves to go biking with studded tires instead skiing on the trails. I stare out at the garden through the fog, searching for solace. It’s only a tease though. I know better.

Earl

The only member of the household who finds meaning in this gray bout of mucky of weather is our dog, Earl. He gets a reprieve from suiting up in full winter regalia before heading outdoors. And like magic he can smell the earth again. His walks take on new significance. He lingers over scents unknown to me, no longer anxious to sprint back to the warmth of the house. His nose goes into overdrive when he catches something in the wind. I try and let his delight trickle down to me.

I’ve been through this before, I tell myself. I know what to do. I queue up a few classic episodes of The Office – like the one where Dwight forms an alliance with Jim and stages a secret operation from a cardboard box, or when Ryan (the temp) starts a fire in the break room with his cheesy pita, or maybe for one final belly laugh, the episode where Andy Bernard does the splits in his dance routine and lands on his car keys. I’m smiling already.

Then I head to the kitchen, open a bottle of Sangiovese, and start rummaging. Potatoes, leeks, mushrooms, shallots, a little wedge of Gruyère, and a splash of cream. That’s right. It’s time for a gratin.

mushroom-leek-sauté

I’m pretty sure that January was made for gratins. When else can you get away with a layer of browned cream and nutty cheese atop your vegetables? Or rather, when can you get away with AND feel good about it even? During a January thaw. That’s when.

I put the gratin in to bake and call Mark to my home office to escape into a much more amusing office. And later, when our spoons break through that golden brown crust to the goodness below, we sigh and revel in momentary potato induced amnesia. What weather?

My plan is working. Maybe even too well. By the time I repurpose the leftovers with a fried egg on top a few mornings later, the thermometer has plummeted back into single digits. It’s still disastrously icy, but I feel a little bit better about the whole thing. Earl, on the other hand, is ready for spring.

potato-amnesia

Leek and Potato Gratiné
Inspired from Russ Parson’s How to Pick a Peach

1 tablespoon butter
4 medium leeks, tops removed, and thinly sliced
4 ounces mushrooms, chopped (a mix is nice like cremini and shiitake)
3 small shallots, thinly sliced
1 1/2 pound potatoes
2 ounces Gruyére, grated
1 1/4 cups vegetable or chicken broth
1/2 cup heavy cream
Salt, white pepper, nutmeg

Saute the leeks in 1 tablespoon of butter over medium heat until softened, about 5 minutes. Add the mushrooms and shallots and reduce the heat to low. Cook for about another 5 minutes until the mushrooms begin to give off their moisture. Add a generous pinch of salt.

Slice the potatoes very thin – a mandolin makes quick work of this. I prefer my potatoes unpeeled, as long as the skin is relatively tender. Layer half of the potatoes in the bottom of a well buttered 8 1/2 x 11-inch casserole dish. Spread the leek and mushroom mixture over the potatoes, followed by half of the cheese. Give a sprinkle of salt over this if you’d like. Then layer on the remaining potatoes. Scatter the rest of the cheese over the top.

Gently heat the broth and carefully pour this over the potatoes so that the majority of the liquid rests under the potatoes and cheese. Drizzle the cream over the top and finnish with a grating of nutmeg and white pepper. Bake in a 400º F oven for 50-60 minutes until the top is thoroughly browned and the gratin looks compact. Serves about 6 as a side.

adventure-pup

sock it to me

Published January 9, 2013 pig brain 9 Comments
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This past July, when I was celebrating my forty first birthday, my friend Julie gave me a pair of socks. And until recently, they’ve been hanging out in the back of my closet with the tag still attached. People who know me well can tell you that I am nearly always barefoot. It has to be really cold and bleak before I get the urge to put on a pair of socks, let alone shoes. These same people know, though, that when I finally don a pair, I take the event seriously. Nothing beats a really good pair of socks.

sock pile

Luckily, Julie knows me like a book. She knew her gift would have its day. The socks she gave me are loaded with good attributes. They are the perfect thickness – sturdy, but not so thick they’ll stretch out those shoes that I never wear anyway. And they’re knee-highs. Which I love. Every year, about two weeks into the Wisconsin long underwear season, I start getting claustrophobic just getting dressed in the morning. Knee highs provide a marvelous respite from long underwear and tights. A little extra warmth, but not so constrictive.

 Julie is also aware of my weakness for anything striped, so not surprisingly, the socks she picked for me have stripes. But not just any stripes. Big, bold, stripes – pink, maroon (an excellent color combination right there) alternating with green and white. If you’re as choosy about your socks as I am, you might be starting to think these sound like darn nice socks. And they are. But just wait. It gets even better. Here’s the punch. Each sock has a neon pink lightening bolt going down shin. 

shizam!

Now, I’ve never had an actual pair of super-hero socks before, but I’m here to tell you – they are positively transformative. Phone call you don’t want to make? Appointment you’ve been dreading? Proposal you want to knock out of the park? Slip into your super-hero, lightning bolt socks. I swear they help. It’s like the come infused with a surge of super-hero power. I don’t know how they do it, but they do.

“They” in this case are the good people at Sock it to Me, my new favorite sock company. Not that I had a former favorite sock company. But that hardly matters. I was so intrigued with my new super-hero socks that I saved tag with their website. I never save clothing tags.

But since I did, my sister-in-law got some kickin’ black and white derby socks for Christmas. My husband Mark, a fish biologist, got art deco fish socks. Oh, and a pair of Lucha libre wrestling socks. He teaches high school sophomores after all. My brother was the recipient of a much more modest, crew style, super hero sock in black and green. And my nieces? One got owls and the other got a pair that are now on my personal must-have list: PB&J. I’m sorry, but who wouldn’t feel better with a pair of peanut butter and jelly socks? Especially ones where the peanut butter is holding jelly’s hand, and jelly has a cute little pink bow? I suppose if you can’t wear super-hero socks every day. PB&J socks are a decent alternative.

The older I get, the more I understand just how little of the universe is actually within my control (as much I sometimes beg otherwise). But my socks? My socks are free domain. Life is simply too short to diddle with below average socks. So go ahead, sock it to me life! I can take it.

socks hanging

looking back

Published December 29, 2012 pig slop , rise and shine , sweets 11 Comments
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Believe it or not, there is a special place in my kitchen for Pillsbury Pop n’ Fresh Biscuits. Normally I’m more of a “do it from scratch” sort of girl, but the Dough Boy has long held a spot in my heart. This most likely stems from early childhood, when I became very attached to the whole Pop n’ Fresh family.
This was in the 70’s – pre action figures. My Pop n’ Fresh toys are more like static rubber dolls, but the heads on all of the adults do spin. I have the whole Fresh clan. Grandpa Fresh, Grandma Fresh, Mrs. Fresh, Poppin and Poppie (the kids), BunBun (baby Fresh), Biscuit (the Fresh cat), Flapjack (the Fresh dog), and of course Pop n’ Fresh himself. I was especially taken with Biscuit. He went everywhere with me.
pop n fresh family
When I was about six my family took a trip to Sweden to trace my mother’s roots and visit long lost relatives. This was my first big trip and I packed carefully. I singled out Biscuit to keep me company on the long overseas flight. But after we were settled in our seats, I was dismayed to find my little cat was missing. Really the only thing I remember about my one and only trip to Sweden is the agony I felt over loosing my best companion. That and I got nipped in the stomach by a pony at some relative’s farm while trying to feed it an apple slice. It was a traumatic trip.
But my luck shifted upon arriving back to the States. It turned out that Biscuit had spent the entire trip to Sweden under the guest bed at my grandmother’s where I had slept the night before our flight out. And oh the relief to have the whole Fresh family reunited again! I think this incident is what really sealed my allegiance to Pillsbury.
That and my mom was good enough to fuel my love of being in the kitchen by supplying me with kid-friendly recipes. One of my signature dishes was weekend Sticky Buns – made with a tin of Pillsbury refrigerated biscuits. It was so thrilling to pop open the roll of biscuits. And the gooey warm buns that resulted were a treat to be sure. Gradually, I evolved in the kitchen and outgrew my Sticky Bun phase. But not without having made them often enough to commit the recipe to memory.
sticky buns
Several years ago, after what seemed like an arduous amount of time in the kitchen preparing fancy meals and copious holiday baking, I was racking my brain for something quick yet festive to ring in the new year with. Frankly the thought of my usual homemade cinnamon rolls for the first breakfast of the year felt like too much effort. And that’s when it hit me. Sticky Buns. Ten minutes to assemble, ten minutes to bake. Exactly what I was looking for. And they were even – a little to my astonishment – as good as I remembered.
For a slightly more grown up flare I switched from light corn syrup to honey and added a hint of vanilla. But beyond that, I’ve never looked back. A strong pot of coffee and a plate of Sticky Buns has become my New Year’s Day morning tradition. I look forward to it every year. Even though popping open the can of refrigerator biscuits still makes me jump.
When I was at my mom’s this Christmas, I asked if she remembered the binder of recipes she had assembled for me as a kid. Neither of us could recall what became of it, but she still had some of my favorites filed away. I felt like a ten year old all over again reading the stained, dog eared page. And I was surprised to realize that there are Sticky Bun variations. I’m a raisins only fan. But according to the recipe, Peter likes chocolate chips, Maggie likes raisins, and Katie prefers coconut and nuts mixed together. I don’t know who Peter, Maggie, and Katie are, but I am firmly in Maggie’s camp. And like the recipe says, they are “really good and really sticky!”
bun recipe
Sticky Buns

3 tablespoons butter
dark brown sugar
honey (or substitute light corn syrup)
raisins (and/or chopped nuts, toasted coconut, chocolate chips)
vanilla (optional)
1 can (8 ounces) refrigerated biscuits

Cut each square tablespoon of butter into quarters. Take two of the pieces and grease 10 cups in a standard muffin tin. Take the other 10 pieces and put 1 in each of the 10 muffin cups. Add 1 teaspoon of brown sugar and 1 teaspoon honey to each cup. For a little extra flavor you can also add 5 to 6 drops of pure vanilla in each cup.  Sprinkle a few raisins in each cup (or if you want to branch out like Peter and Katie, add any combination of coconut, chocolate chips, and nuts). Pop open the can of biscuits and put 1 on top of each cup. Bake the Sticky Buns in a 400ºF oven 8 to 10 minutes, until the biscuits are gently browned. Run a knife around each bun. Then put a cookie sheet or tray over the muffin pan and invert the whole shebang. Give the bottom of each cup a tap with the base of the knife, wait about 2 minutes and lift up the muffin pan. Gently pry out any stuck buns with the knife. Makes 10 buns.
biscuit

somethin’ extra

Published December 9, 2012 pig slop , sweets 20 Comments
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Ah. I love Christmas cookie season. I typically start thumbing through magazines and cookbooks sometime in mid-November in anticipation. I have my usual standbys, but I always like to try a few new ones too. And every once and a while one will shine through, upgrading it’s status from trial to permanent.

mittens

I seem to be especially taken with cut-out sugar cookies. I have sort of a sick habit of using the tiniest cookie cutters I can find and then spending an inordinate amount of time decorating them. December can be a ridiculously busy month. But despite everything there is to do, somehow I find it very therapeutic to sit and put little carrot noses and itty-bitty buttons on a plate of one inch tall snowmen. I especially like doing this late at night, when the house is dark and quiet with only the glow of the tree and a glass of wine to keep me company.

cut-out cookies

To facilitate my cut-out cookie fetish, I have orchestrated scads of sugar cookie trials. But a few years back, I finally quit. None of them ever made the jump to permanent. The reason, I finally concluded, is that nothing can top my Great Aunt Mabel’s sugar cookies. These cookies have to be one of the first things I ever baked, and certainly one of the first “real” recipes I ever copied down into my now overstuffed binder. They are buttery, flaky, and just sweet enough.

But there is something else that sets them apart. Something that I didn’t realize was unusual until I really started baking. The dough gets a shot of vinegar. And this, I believe, is why in blind taste test after blind taste test, I always pick Mabel’s cookie. It just has a little somethin’ extra. I sure wish she was still here to ask “why the vinegar Mabel?!” It no doubt reacts with the tiny bit of soda, eliminating the need for baking powder, but still, I’d love to hear her take on it. That’s Mabel, below on the left, with her sister-in-law (my grandma) Myrtle (the table setting diva). Have you ever seen two women so happy over a bowl of mashed potatoes?

sisters

Mabel’s recipe is the traditional, flatten with a glass sort of sugar cookie, but many years ago I started using it for cut-outs too. In either rendition, it’s a lovely cookie. And as far as cut-out are concerned, I don’t limit myself to the Christmas season. In my book any holiday is reason enough for cut-out cookies – valentine hearts, easter eggs and spring chickens, four leaf clovers, canoes and sailboats, witches, even turkeys – I don’t discriminate. But in the off-times, a plain old, glass-flattened sugar cookie and a stiff cup of afternoon tea can certainly do no harm.

Great Aunt Mabel’s Sugar Cookies

1 cup sugar
1 cup butter
(the original recipe of course calls for shortening, which was very vogue in the day – use whatever combination of butter and/or shortening you’d like)

Cream together. Then add and mix in:

1 egg
2 tablespoons vinegar
1 teaspoon vanilla OR almond extract

Sift together and add:

2 1/2 cups flour
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
1 teaspoon salt

Form into balls. Press flat with a glass dipped in sugar. Bake in a 350º F oven for about 10 minutes, until just barely golden.

* For cut-out cookies:  After the dough is mixed, divide into 3 rounds. Flatten each disc between 2 large piece of parchment. Roll the dough through the parchment until it is an even 1/8″ thick. Chill the rolled out sheets for about three hours. Once chilled, peel off the top sheet of parchment from one packet at a time and cut out shapes. Use a small spatula to transfer cut-outs to a baking sheet. Cold dough is your best friend! Keep the other sheets chilled until ready to use. If the sheet you’re working on starts to become unruly – stick it back in the fridge or freezer for a quick chill and then resume cutting out. Save the scrap piles from each sheet and re-roll between parchment, chill, and cut again. This dough is pretty easy to work with as long as it is chilled. If you don’t have the patience to periodically re-chill it, you can add up to an additional 1/2 cup of flour during the original mixing. This will help the dough be a little more forgiving.

Smaller cookies take less time to bake. Watch carefully – the bottoms should be light golden, with almost no color on the tops! Once cooled, frost (or, sprinkle cookies with decorative sugar before baking)

Glossy Frosting

1 cup powdered sugar
1 egg white

beat well with electric mixer. Add:

1/2 teaspoon cream of tartar

Beat again. This makes about one cup. I usually make 2-3 batches, divide  into small bowls and stir in a teeny bit of coloring to the bowls. Let the frosting harden before storing finished cookies in an airtight container.

cooling cookies

hidden gems

Published November 27, 2012 pig slop , snacky-snacks 12 Comments
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When I was a kid of about ten or eleven, I knew something that my cousins didn’t. I knew that my Grandma Myrtle would often set her fancy holiday table days before the actual event. I was privy to this insider information because out of nine grandkids, my brother and I were the only two who came from out of town. So unlike our cousins, we’d generally arrive at Grandma’s house a few days prior to any holiday. And almost always, we’d race in to find the table expanded to full capacity and set with her fine china. I always thought this was funny and sort of strange. Didn’t she have anything better to do, I wondered?

Well. Bite my tongue. Having just hosted my first ever, full blown Thanksgiving – I’m here to tell you that it turns out Grandma did have something better to do. Like maybe the prep work for a big ol’ roast turkey, a half dozen sides, and a couple of deserts. Oh, and she might have spent some time tidying the house and making sure there were clean sheets for the company. I wasn’t far into my own holiday preparations before I decided to take a page from Myrtle’s book and get the table set. Clearly she was onto something.
thanksgiving table
My table wasn’t as fancy as Grandma’s, but it got the job done. Butcher paper and crayons stood in for a long table cloth that I don’t own. Simple fall fruits and pinecones took the place of a flower arrangement. And my Grandma Marjorie’s china got a long-awaited reviaval. When my two nieces burst into my kitchen on Wednesday, I chuckled and gave a nod to Myrtle after they realized the table wasn’t set for that night’s meal. “Wait,” one of them asked incredulously, “This is for tomorrow?” I assured them that someday they’d understand. And then I told them about their great Grandma Myrtle.
Overall my inaugural Thanksgiving hosting went pretty well. My family was very forgiving of all my racing around. And they didn’t even mention that flash freezing my Parker House rolls after their final rise didn’t exactly work. There were a few things I would do differently in the kitchen next time, but by in large, it was a perfect holiday. There was good old-fashioned charades, custom made word-finds, and scavenger hunts. We even managed to get out and run the Chequamgon Bay 5k Turkey Trot on Thanksgiving morning.
We did, of course, find plenty of time to eat between all these activities. On the food front, I’d say there were two hidden gems. One was the surprise “banana tower” that my niece Evie constructed for us the morning after our big feast. It is as straightforward as it sounds – a raging tower of banana pieces. But we all agreed that the bananas were perfectly ripe. And plucking them off the tower one by one was especially gratifying.
Evie
The other star was a simple appetizer that really held its own, even against our succulent heritage turkey with bacon-herb butter stuffed under it’s skin. Keeping with the bacon theme, I knew I wanted to do a bacon wrapped something for a pre-meal tidbit. For the kids I decided I couldn’t go wrong with pineapple chunks wrapped in bacon. And for the adults, I found an old Gourmet recipe that fit what I was after perfectly. Bacon wrapped Parmesan-stuffed dates. Each bite offers a mini explosion of smokey, salty, and sweet. They’re satisfying without being overly rich and pair nicely with a glass of wine. And they are a cinch to make. On a whim I gave both the kid and adult versions a light drizzle of honey before popping them in the oven. Because what isn’t made better by a light drizzle of honey? Hope you all had a holiday that was sweet and cozy.
stuffed date
Bacon Wrapped Parmesan-Stuffed Dates
(Adapted from Gourmet)

12 Medjool dates
12 matchstick size pieces of Parmesan (about 1-inch by 1/8-inch)
4 bacon slices, raw – cut into thirds
Honey

Make a slit in each date with a paring knife and remove the pit. Stuff one piece of cheese into each date through the same slit. Wrap each date with a third piece of bacon, covering the slit, and securing with a toothpick. Arrange assembled dates on a baking sheet and drizzle very lightly with honey. Bake in a 425º F oven for 10-15 minutes, or until the bacon is crisp. Drain on a paper towel and serve warm. Serves about 6.

turkey sketch

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