Butter | Bibberche

Thanksgiving for Two? Try Seared Duck Breast with Korean Pear Sauce

Fast and Easy, Holidays, Poultry 7 Responses »

Nov 142012

My mother grew up in Vojvodina, the part of the country that was under the Austro-Hungarian rule until the end of WWI. When she married my father and joined him in central Serbia, she brought with her many culinary traditions which were not very familiar to the natives. Some of them were immediately accepted by her new friends and family; some needed a longer time and more cunning approaches to become a staple at dinner time; and some just never survived the challenges of the impenetrable barrier of the palates unaccustomed to weird, different, and foreign influences.

While we ate plenty of chickens along with Â pheasants and quails Father brought from his intermittent hunting expeditions, only when we went to Vojvodina did we have a chance to taste a duck or a goose. We were entranced by these white birds that seem to frolic in every yard, splashing in the ponds and squawking, the shape of their bright-orange beaks the only notable difference between the species: sharp, pointy beaks belong to geese, the flatter and rounded ones to ducks.

And while the holidays in our home town always involved roasted piglets or spring lambs, in Vojvodina we were treated to roasted ducks and geese. As if the mere taste of the water fowl was not enough to separate the two geographical regions deeper than the river Danube that marked the border, the fruit sauce that accompanied them made us feel as if we were visiting another country, with the benefit of still speaking the same language. Depending on the season, we had cherry, apple, pear, or quince sauces, only slightly sweetened, chunky and surprisingly delightful along the stronger tasting meat of the water fowl.

Back at home, we never mixed sweet and savory, even though Father was an adventurous eater. And I have never seen a duck or a goose at the Farmers’ Market (forget the grocery stores, as we do not buy our meets there) in my home town.

But then I decided to make my new home all the way across the Atlantic Ocean and my first Thanksgiving meal was turkey served with cranberry sauce from the can and many other side dishes and desserts, most of which originated in a can or a box. I have never tasted cranberries before and I immediately fell in love with their tart and assertive taste so capable of pairing with the gaminess of turkey. It took years to fight my way over to the real food and side dishes made from scratch, but I am now happy to know that my daughters will remember my slowly simmered cranberry sauce, candied sweet potatoes, and giblet gravy as the part of their holiday tradition.

And more than that, I carried over my mother’s culinary ways, including fruit sauces with roasts, always leaning on seasonal produce. That’s why I though of pairing beautiful duck breasts I bought at Lazy Acres Market with crunchy and juicy Korean pears simmered in apple cider (they worked so well in Kale SaladÂ I made last week). My ancestors might be rolling their eyes, but the combination worked beautifully. The pears were firm and kept their texture without becoming mushy, while adding a fragrant note to the sauce slightly enriched by the spiciness of the cider. A pat of butter was enough to add a smidgen of richness without competing with the complex taste of the seared duck breasts.

My family has dwindled in size in a few last years, and a whole turkey at Thanksgiving looks very intimidating. But a pair of flavorful, seared duck breasts with a tart cranberry sauce, some cornbread dressing, and gravy might be just right for an elegant and intimate family affair.

My mother passed away last July. She might have raised an eyebrow if I served her this dish and she might have given me an advice on how to make it better, but I know that she would have approved of my creativity after a few hours of grumbling. She might have been silent at dinner table, but I am pretty sure that she would have smiled comforted in the thought that her culinary traditions are making their way across the meridians and across the generations.

SEARED DUCK BREAST WITH KOREAN PEAR SAUCE

Ingredients:

2 duck breasts
a pinch of salt
some freshly ground pepper

Korean pear sauce:

1 Tbsp butter
1 Tbsp rendered duck fat
1 Korean pear, cored and diced
1 cup of apple cider

Directions:

Heat a cast iron skillet on medium heat (you can use a stainless steel skillet, too). Score the duck skin in a criss-cross manner, making sure not to cut into the meat. Sprinkle with salt and pepper. Place the duck skin down in the skillet for 6 minutes, allowing the fat to render and the skin to turn brown. Turn the breasts and cook or another 4 minutes for medium-rare, up to 8 minutes for well done.

Place on a plate and let them rest for 10-15 minutes before cutting into thin slices.

Sauce:

Pour all but 1 Tbsp of duck fat into a separate bowl and save for frying potatoes (or anything else). Add butter and heat a 10-inch skillet on medium heat. Add diced pears and saute for a minute, until they start to brown and sizzle. Add apple cider, cover and simmer for 30 minutes. Take the cover off and simmer for another 15 minutes, reducing the sauce until it’s thick and chunky.

Serve atop of sliced duck breast.

Korean pears are in season from November through March. Check out what some of my friends did with them – you will be amazed!

Grilled Ribeye Steak Marinated in Asian Spices and Korean PearsÂ - Cooking on the Weekends
Korean Pear Slaw, Gangnam-StyleÂ - Jolly Tomato
Asian-Style Slaw with Korean PearsÂ - Cooking on the Weekends
Korean Pear and Kale Salad – Bibberche
Riesling-Poached Korean PearsÂ - A Communal Table
Introducing Korean Pears, and 10 Things to do with ThemÂ - Shockingly Delicious
Honey-Glazed Baked Korean Pears in Wonton Crisps with Honey-Cinnamon MascarponeÂ - Cooking on the Weekends
Blue Cheese & Brie Fondue with Asian Pears – Geez Louise
Korean Pear Celery Juice with Ginger and Mint – Recipe Renovator
Korean Pear, Cranberry, Pecan Salad with Ambrosia Vinaigrette – She’s Cookin’

Thank you Melissa’s Produce for the sample of glorious Korean pears! They are truly magnificent and versatile.

Â I received a sample of Korean pears fromÂ Melissaâ€™s Produce. I was not otherwise compensated for this post. The opinions are mine and only mine:)

My Thanksgiving Tradition: Southern Candied Sweet Potatoes

Community Events, Fast and Easy, Holidays, Side Dishes, Sweets, Vegetarian 10 Responses »

Nov 072012

Sweet Potato 1 of 1 600x483 My Thanksgiving Tradition: Southern Candied Sweet Potatoes

Photo credit: Dorothy of Shockingly Delicious

I encountered sweet potatoes at my first Thanksgiving, a few months after I moved to the U.S. I watched from the sidelines as my ex-husband, his sister and her boyfriend woke up with the first rays of sun to start the vigorous and detailed preparation for this, for me an unknown holiday. Roasted turkey and mashed potatoes were the only two dishes made from scratch. The rest arrived to the table straight from the can or a box. For years I participated only as a menial laborer – stirring, dicing, mixing, and washing dishes, fearful not to upset the feelings of a traditional holiday meal.

And for years I did not see the appeal of gorging on processed and semi-processed food three times a day, only to collapse on a couch and watch an interminably long game that held absolutely no interest for me. My ex-husband’s ancestors arrived to this country on the Mayflower and I bowed to the traditions as a newest family member. I wanted to feel the goosebumps and excitement of sharing the familial table, experiencing the closeness, support, and love, but there was no pay-off to the hours of hard work, as everyone scarfed the food down in minutes and migrated to the living room, whining and patting their engorged bellies.

I am an adventurous eater, not afraid to try new and unknown dishes, but grayish spears of green beans baked with a can of cream of mushroom soup and mealy sweet potatoes poured into a pan from a huge can and roasted with marshmallows on top left me uninspired and disappointed. I was not a food snob, but I was raised on dishes prepared from scratch, fresh produce, and meat raised humanely and ethically. I accepted the fact that creativity was not welcome at this holiday, and went along with family traditions presented to me.

FBLA Thanksgiving table 1 of 1 2 600x492 My Thanksgiving Tradition: Southern Candied Sweet Potatoes

Judy’s pumpkins stuffed with stuffing – the epitome of the season

After my divorce, I sent my daughter and my mother to my ex-husband’s family for Thanksgiving and I enjoyed the holiday on my own, watching movies, drinking wine and eating crackers and cheese. I really liked my new holiday tradition and did not miss the gloopy jellied cranberry sauce plopped on a platter, still bearing the markings of the can that housed it, nor the gravy mixed hastily from an envelope.

My second husband hailed from the south and even though he pined for green bean casserole with cream of mushroom soup and jellied cranberry sauce, he introduced a few innovative and to me appealing dishes: southern dressing and giblet gravy. I embraced both, appreciating the efforts that went into preparing them, relishing the idea that there were no cans or boxes necessary for preparing them. All of a sudden, Thanksgiving started to shape into a different kind of holiday, a day that I would look forward to, a family event that made us all excited. It might have had something to do with a fact that my second husband could care less about sports of any kind, and enjoyed sitting at the table for hours, talking and sipping wine, surrounded by piles of dirty dishes and platters still filled with food.

There was no sister-in-law nor mother-in-law to reign over the kitchen and impose the habits that I would have to accept unconditionally. My husband craved certain tastes that brought him close to his childhood and I obliged him with every dish I prepared for Thanksgiving, but I refused to build my children’s traditions on cans and boxes. From our first holiday, everything I prepared was from scratch.

FBLA Thanksgiving table 1 of 1 450x600 My Thanksgiving Tradition: Southern Candied Sweet Potatoes

And this was not all…

Our Thanksgiving table’s theme is mostly southern. Turkey is roasted unstuffed, with cornbread dressing baked on the side and hearty giblet gravy to spoon on top. My cranberry sauce is chunky and simple, dinner rolls soft and buttery, green beans blanched and tossed with diced tomatoes and garlic. There is always a pecan pie, rich and boozy, decadent and oh-so-satisfying.

But one dish that is all mine and that fits beautifully in my adopted southern Thanksgiving tradition is candied southern sweet potatoes. This simple dish allows the taste of mashed sweet potatoes to come forward, accentuating their soft texture and elevating them to a higher level with a crunchy topping of melted butter, chopped pecans, brown sugar, and a hint of nutmeg. When I feel inspired, I stir in a glug of bourbon just to cement it firmly south of the Mason-Dixon line.

This November marks a third anniversary of our Food Bloggers LA group that ideally meets once a month. On Sunday, more than twenty of us showed up in Santa Monica at Andrew Wilder‘s place, bringing our favorite Thanksgiving dish. I am happy to say that my southern sweet potatoes disappeared and I brought an empty dish home. The best compliment came from my friend Christina from Christina’s Cucina, who brought this insanely good Pumpkin Cheesecake and Chocolate Mousse Cake with Ganache topping. She does not like sweet potatoes, but said that done my way, they can grace her family table any time.

Pineapple Cake 1 of 1 600x430 My Thanksgiving Tradition: Southern Candied Sweet Potatoes

Leslie baked this pretty Pineapple Cake for the third anniversary of our FBLA group

I hope you all have a great holiday with family and friends. I know that I have only a few more years to train my daughters’ sensitive palates and develop culinary traditions that will bring them home once they fly away and make their own nests. And I hope these sweet potatoes are going to be a part of their family celebration.

CANDIED SOUTHERN SWEET POTATOESÂ

Ingredients:

2 lbs of sweet potatoes (2 big ones)
2 Tbsp brown sugar
1 egg yolk
2 Tbsp butter
2 Tbsp Bourbon (optional â€“ but why not? Itâ€™s the holidays!)

Praline Topping:

1 Tbsp butter
3 Tbsp brown sugar
1/3 cup chopped pecans
Â¼ tsp ground nutmeg

Â Directions:

Preheat the oven to 400F. Pierce the sweet potatoes with a fork in a few places to make sure they bake evenly. Place in the heated oven and bake for 45-60 minutes. If the knife goes in easily, the potatoes are done.

Turn the heat down to 350F.

Cool the potatoes, peel an place into a large bowl. Add brown sugar, egg yolk, butter and bourbon if using and mash with a hand=held mixer for a few minutes until fluffy and combined.

Melt the butter fir the topping and combine it with the rest of the topping ingredients. Spoon on top of mashed sweet potatoes.

Pour into an oven proof dish and bake for 35-40 minutes. Let it rest for a few minutes before serving.

The Joy of Cookie

Community Events, Sweets, Vegetarian 31 Responses »

Apr 272012

I was in my early twenties when I first encountered the All-American Cookie. Where I came from, mothers and grandmothers turned their noses disdainfully at a cake that had less than four layers, many of my friends in grade school had hands-on experience with Swiss meringue, and cookies definitely came from a box bought at the grocery store.

My first American cookie experience involved the dough that came from a tube. It did not catch me completely off guard as it followed a gigantic mountain of nachos chips drowned in melted Velveeta cheese, and an odd ritual of passing thin, unfiltered cigarettes from hand to hand, around and around (which I found very unhygienic). I figured I’d roll with the local customs, having accepted a long time before the old adage “When in Rome…” Nachos tasted pretty good, particularly when chased with a sip of beer from a bottle – a deliberate act of defiance, as every single one of my male friends and relatives would shudder at the mere thought of imbibing the amber liquid without the proper glass (emphasis on proper).

Refrigerator cookies in a tube were the cheapest we could find, but once I meandered around bodies sprawled on the floor, squinting to avoid smoke, I stuffed two or three freshly baked cookies in my mouth and threw my head behind in bliss, giggling, convinced that I have figured out the secret of life on Earth. I wish I had thought of writing it all down, as the euphoria dissipated by the morning, and the revolutionary Eureka! moment vanished.

I learned in time that it was not a weird version of Marlboros that we were passing around, that nachos tasted much better with real cheese, and that cookies were a fool-proof way to anyone’s heart. I could smoothly adjust to the cultural shock as I did not have my Serbian matriarchs breathing down my neck and admonishing me for taking the easy way out.

My sister-in-law smirked disgustedly at perfectly balanced billowy whites and creamy yellows in my Iles Flotantes, but could not stop smiling when I made a batch of peanut butter cookies. I spent hours roasting and grinding hazelnuts, mixing them in a fragrant dough, cutting out tiny one-inch circles, baking them, making small sandwiches with crÃ¨me anglaise in the middle and dipping them in chocolate ganache, only to hear some of my co-workers complain that my petit-fores were too sweet. Next time I brought oatmeal raisin cookies to work, and everyone thought I could part Lake Michigan.

Once I became a mother, I surrendered to the unbeatable appeal of kitschy and gawdy birthday cakes my daughters wanted as they went beautifully along the pink and purple sequined dresses and feathered tutus they ogled whenever we went shopping. It’s what’s on the outside that counted, and again I rolled with the accepted, but feeling just a little bit guilty when I cut through the cake heavily topped with unbearably sweet turquoise or fuchsia frosting that clung to my palate, as I heard Mother’s tsk, tsk, tskÂ in my head and remembered masterfully assembled delectable tortes of my youth.

Chocolate chip cookiesÂ were the family favorites, but I started making sugar cookies just because I knew my girls would be happy: pink and red for Valentine’s Day, brown and orange for Halloween, red, white, and green for Christmas. That it was less of an effort than making crepes or a cake with summer fruit – desserts that Mother would declare utterly pedestrian and not worthy of guests – was just a bonus for which I was immensely thankful. After all, Mother was not in the kitchen with me.

And then I started reading food blogs and I could not stop. I discovered people who could weave magic with their words, people who captured a perfect moment with their camera, people who were on “per tu” with French cooking, and people who made stunning, perfectly decorated cookies. I was in awe as I pored through the posts, admiring the patience, creativity, and dexterity of cookie-makers, envious of their skill and artistry.

I don’t consider myself an accomplished baker and I am sure Mother would agree. Yeast does not scare me any more and I don’t think twice about pulling my 25-pound bag of Five Roses flour out of the pantry to play with a cake or two. But decorated cookies were one of last culinary bastions I was determined to conquer. Â And conquer them I did, indeed! Even if I spent days analyzing, reading, listening, and watching before I even pulled the butter out to soften. Even if I set my iPhone alarm to go off every minute when the cookies were in the oven, just to monitor their progress and attain that perfect hue of barely golden edges. Even if I stayed up until way past the witching hour to finish decorating them, feeling like Bugs Bunny trying in vain to get rid of colorful swirling circles in front of my eyes. (You know the cartoon I’m talking about, right?)

I am sure that skinny, unfiltered, fragrant cigarettes won’t make an appearance at my house any time soon, and neither will the mounds of Velveeta-smothered nacho chips. As for the cookies, I have to say that I have come a long way since the cheap, refrigerated dough version. I tasted them, bite by delectable bite, and even though the experience did not reveal the secrets of life, I felt at peace with the world around me.

My bouquet of cookies will join hundreds of different baked goods on Saturday, April 28, for the annual LA Food Blogger Bake Sale that supports Share Our Strength organization founded to eradicate kids’ hunger. All over the country, food bloggers are coming together, surrounded by clouds of powdered sugar and cocoa, sending off heady whiffs of vanilla, coconut, and lemon, and setting up the most amazing displays of cupcakes, cookies, truffles, caramels, pies, and brownies.

If you are in the neighborhood, visit us at BLD Restaurant in Beverly Hills for a chance to experience Candyland live! Last year I made four different kinds of truffles. You can read about my experience in this post: Casting Bread Upon the Waters. To see the list of all participating LA bloggers, click on the Bake Sale logo on the right.

ALL AMERICAN SUGAR COOKIES

The recipe for sugar cookies is a basic one that can be found anywhere. Royal icing recipe came with the Wilton’s jar of meringue powder. For the tutorials and videos on mixing color with icing and decorating cookies visitÂ Sweetopia,Â Sweet Adventures of Sugar Belle,Â Bake at 350, andÂ Lila Loa. My educational train ride through their blogs brought me many moments of inspiration, awe, joy, and admiration.

Ingredients:

For cookies:

3 cups all-purpose flour
Â½ tsp salt
1 cup (2 sticks, 230gr) butter at room temperature (not too soft)
1 cup granulated sugar
1 egg (it should be cold)
Â½ tsp vanilla extract
Â½ tsp lemon zest or Â¼ tsp lemon extract

Royal Icing:

1 lb (a little less than 500gr) powdered sugar
3 Tbsp meringue powder (Wiltonâ€™s brand has vanilla and cream of tartar, so you donâ€™t have to add any)
6 Tbsp warm water

Directions:

Mix together flour and salt in a medium bowl. Cream butter and sugar until fluffy. Add egg, vanilla, and lemon zest (or extract). Add the flour and mix until thoroughly combined.

Turn the dough on the counter and shape into a disc. Wrap in plastic and place in the refrigerator for 30 minutes.

Dust the counter with a bit of flour and flatten the dough with a rolling pin to Â¼ inch thickness. Cut the shapes as desired using various cookie cutters. Place the cookies on a cookie sheet covered with a piece of parchment paper. (If you are making cookie pops, insert the popsicle stick in the base of the cookie with your right hand (if you are right-handed), keeping your left hand atop of the cookie to prevent the stick from piercing it; if the stick is bare on the back, take a piece of dough and patch the spot). Place the cookie sheet wit the cookies in the freezer for 15 minutes.

Preheat the oven to 350F. Bake your cold cookies for 10-13 minutes, depending on your oven. Let them cool for a few minutes on the cookie sheet and transfer to the cooling rack.

In a large bowl combine powdered sugar and meringue powder. Add warm water and mix with a hand mixer for 10 minutes. Let the icing rest, to allow air bubbles to disappear.

After School Special

Fast and Easy, Sweets, Vegetarian 14 Responses »

Apr 242012

It’s a quarter past three and they’re at the gate, their long fingers clutching the bars. They pretend they are in jail, and when I turn the key to liberate them, they shuffle across the brown-colored concrete of the courtyard, howling in make-believe despair, arms flailing, their eyebrows turned into apostrophes, their backpacks magically turned into iron shackles, putting an unbearable weight onto their hunched shoulders. They nudge each other while they take the stairs, two steps at a time, and arrive at the apartment door giggling, the jail game forgotten, another one already brewing.

They race each other through the doors of their bedroom hoping to make it first to the bathroom, leaving behind a trail of discarded jackets, notebooks, and shoes. Their shrieks of delight echo around the house and follow them when they emerge from their sanctuary in a tangle of long legs and intertwined arms, my beautiful middle school bunch of tumbleweed.

They skip into the kitchen inhaling the smells wafting from the stove or the oven, trying to guess what surprises I might have for them. Their senses are already discernible and they twist their heads left and right trying to find the best nose angle for deciphering all the aromatic ingredients that combine to fill the house with the unforgettable smell of comfort and security.

In between sniffing and inquisitive glances, they bombard me with short, explosive recaps of their day, overlapping each other’s excited expressions, competing in speed-talking and emphasis, until I manage to get a vivid picture of all things wonderful and horrible that marked their day.

While I lay the white plates on the counter, they drag papers from their backpacks and run back, elbows working overtime to ensure the coveted front position. I shift my eyes from the serrated knife zigzagging through the buttery crumb of the cake and look at barely marked essays and math tests, a smile of pride alighting my face. I carefully place yellow slabs on the plates and scoop a few heaping spoonfuls of sliced strawberries that yielded to sugar, becoming softer and pliable. The cake thirstily absorbs the scarlet juices as the red fruit triangles glisten like jewels. A dollop of whipped cream, barely kissed by sugar, nestles comfortably on top, like a snow cap on a mountain. A light dust of powdered sugar wafts from my fingers and settles over the plates.

They squeal and yelp, their eyes wide open in anticipation, their excitement more than enough to show their gratitude. As I hold the plates and start toward the dining room table, they encircle my waist with their arms, snaking around me lovingly, resting their heads on my shoulders, the soft hair tickling my neck. I lean my head to one side, and then the other, inhaling their sweet smell, dividing my time equally between a straight strawberry-blonde and a wavy light brunette, elated and saddened at the same time that my girls are taller then me and heading out with ever accelerated speed.

They settle at the table and poke at their treat reverently, the forks leaving trails in bright red juices and coloring the pristine white of the whipped cream pink. When the forks cut through the mound, the shrieks and yelps are silenced for a moment. They proceed slowly, allowing barely warm strawberry-soaked cake to melt on their tongues, savoring harmonious flavors that play pleasant sensory games with their taste buds.

They bring their clean-looking plates to the sink and retreat again to the room, their faces basking in afterglow. For a long time I hear only rustling of paper and dull thuds as they pull their overweight text books off the shelves and down to the floor. I wrap the remaining pound cake and wipe pink strawberry drops that speckle the counter top, still smiling from the retreating line thrown my way: “I am so happy you are my mother!”

POUND CAKE – AN AFTER SCHOOL DELIGHT

Ingredients:

1 1/2 cup all-purpose flour, sifted
Â½ tsp baking powder
a pinch of salt
1 stick (4 oz, 4 Tbsp, 115gr) of butter at room temperature
1 1/4 cup granulated sugar
1 tsp vanilla extract
3 large eggs
Â½ cup milk
powder sugar (optional)
strawberries (optional â€“ if you choose to use strawberries, slice them and place them in a bowl with some sugar (1 Tbsp per cup) to macerate for 30 minutes before serving)

Directions:

Preheat the oven to 350F. Butter and flour a 9×5 loaf pan.

In a medium bowl, stir flour, baking powder, and salt. In a large bowl, cream butter with sugar until fluffy. Add vanilla and eggs, and mix until well combined. Add flour alternating with milk until smooth.

Pour into the pan and flatten the top surface. Bake for 55-60 minutes until done (I usually stick a bamboo skewer in the middle and if it comes out dry or almost dry, the cake is done.) Let it cool off for 5 minutes. Cool completely on a wire rack.

Serve dusted with powder sugar, with macerated strawberries and whipped cream, or with everything, as I did.

Spring Break(fast)

Bread and Pastries, Breakfast, Fast and Easy, Vegetarian 15 Responses »

Apr 122012

It’s spring break week and every day seems like a Sunday. Most of my friends have packed their bags and left sunny California for evenÂ warmer, more tropical climates, and I cannot wait to hear their stories of culinary escapades and see their sun-kissed faces once they return to reality.

The girls have been going to the pool every day for a few hours and we are taking walks down to the beach, breathing in the ocean air with full lungs, happy to call this amazing town our home. I let them be lazy, grateful for the moments when they envelope me in their elongated teen limbs and plant soft kisses in my hair and on my cheek. We hug a lot these days and stay in a clinch for minutes, an intertwined statue of femininity at its most fragile state, and at the same time the epitome of strength.

I went to the drugstore on the last day of school and brought home a bag of small, luxurious, nice-smelling, and utterly-meant-to-spoil items, promising them a day of pampering, the three of us the only patrons of the exclusive spa. They ogled pretty bottles and jars and giggled with anticipation, only to leave and continue playing with their Barbies, excited by the interruption, but eager to get back to their stories.

They are starting to like boys just a little bit, but their affection is aimed exclusively at out-of-reach young actors like Asa Butterfield and the adorable kid who played Draco Malfoy in the Harry Potter movies. Their male schoolmates are still the specimens of an icky, unknown, and hostile species, but I observe the sudden attention they pay to putting together outfits they would wear to school Â and at the same time exhale in relief when they innocently pull the plastic box filled with Barbies from underneath their bed.

I indulge them in the kitchen and ask every morning if they crave something special. They stretch their arms and yawn, look at one another, the sleep slowly fading from their semi-closed eyes. This lazy week allows me to to spend time with breakfast and I love the feel of not rushing and expanding my options to include anything they might desire.

Invariably, on one of the mornings, they decided in unison that they wanted biscuits. Biscuits used to intimidate me. Â I viewed them as spoiled Southern Belles, finicky and over-sensitive, fragile, pouty, and easily offended. I dreaded the thought that they might turn on me, scorn me for not belonging, and refuse to play nice. But I was determined to win them over and prove that a Southern Slav is as skillful as any Southerner below the Mason-Dixon line to tackle their snobbish peculiarities. I wanted to be accepted into their inner circle–big hats, mint juleps, and fainting spells with the necessary vapors included.

Coming out of the oven they were gorgeous, golden around the edges and pale in the middle, filling the kitchen with their comforting aroma. They perched perkily on the plate, and when the girls reached for them and opened them up, they were flaky, tender, and light, with a crumbly crust. They thirstily accepted the first yellow pad of butter, perfect in their seeming simplicity. I felt vindicated and for just a second I thought I heard the reverberating echo of horses’ hooves disappearing into the distance, as the breeze brought a touch of Southern humid heat into our California home.

There are certain things I learned on my quest to attain the perfect, flaky, light biscuits:

1. The butter has to be really cold. I don’t own a food processor and I mix my dough by hand. That’s why I borrowed Mother’s grating method for keeping the butter chilled. The more time the flour, the dough, and the biscuits spend in the fridge, the better.

2. Do not overwork your dough, or the biscuits will be tough. I cut my biscuits in squares to avoid the remnants form the circles, as they always make for tougher biscuits, having been rolled several times.

3. Once you shaped and placed them on cookie sheet, you can cover them with a plastic wrap and freeze them. To bake them, let them sit at room temperature for 10 minutes.

4. The biscuits should be eaten immediately.

5. If you donâ€™t have buttermilk, you can make your own in minutes. Measure Â¾ cup regular milk and squeeze 1 Tbsp of lemon juice. The acid will slightly curdle the milk and turn it into buttermilk! You can use it immediately.

SOUTHERN BELLE BUTTERMILK BISCUITS

Ingredients:

2 cups all purpose flour*
2 tsp baking powder
1 tsp salt
Â½ tsp baking soda
8 Tbsp very cold butter
Â¾ cups cold buttermilk

* I was not able to find White Lilly flour that everyone recommends for quick, flaky breads, as it has much less gluten then the all-purpose flour. Next time I will have to experiment and substitute some of the all-purpose flour with cake flour, just for comparison.

Directions:

Sift together flour, baking powder, salt, and baking soda. Using the side with the biggest holes on your grater grate the butter as quickly as you can. Mix with a fork and add buttermilk. Mix until combined. Turn the dough onto a very lightly floured kitchen counter and knead just a few times. (The dough will be slightly wet). Wrap in the plastic wrap and place in the fridge for 20 minutes to allow butter to cool off.

Preheat the oven to 475F.

Turn the dough out on the lightly floured counter and flatten into a rectangle with a rolling pin without pushing too hard and overworking the dough. It should be about Â½ inch thick. Using a sharp knife (or even better a pizza cutter) cut into 2 inch squares. Sprinkle with a little flour and place on a cookie sheet. (If the time allows, put the cookie sheet in the freezer for several minutes to ensure that the butter stays chilled.) Bake for 15-20 minutes until golden. Serve immediately.

Last year: Rosemary Focaccia

Lioness in the Winter

Sweets, Vegetarian, writing 52 Responses »

Mar 132012

I decided to deliver my first daughter in Serbia rather than in the U.S., which might sound like an illogical choice. But Father was an ObGyn, Mother would be there to take care of me and the baby when it arrived, and my friends would fill my batteries depleted of energy after the months of my voluntary exile.

In America I was a perfectly legal alien, a proud owner of a pink green card, able to work and pay taxes, but unable to vote and get social help. As we could not afford any type of medical insurance and I could not apply for Medicare, the most practical choice was to go overseas.

Everything was as I predicted: Mother pampered me and prepared my favorite meals; Father sequestered me into a room with the door closed to advise me on pregnancy matters; my friends took turns accompanying me on long walks in the park that inevitably ended with a short rest in one of the outside cafÃ©s, drinking Schweppes Bitter Lemon or tasty European Iced Coffee.

When she finally decided to emerge, my baby girl was more beautiful than I hoped, and everyone doted on her. I heard from my (first) husband in America that the phone had been cut off, that he could not pay the bills, that it was not fair of me to have abandoned him. I listened, bit my lips, shrugged my shoulders, and decided to stay where we were safe until he grew up. Once I became a mother, my priorities shifted.

I started teaching English in a high school, all those pounds that miraculously appeared in the last two months of pregnancy started to melt away, and I attended my tenth high school reunion illuminated by the halo of new motherhood, happy, excited, and looking forward to each new day.

Orange Cake 1 of 6 600x396 Lioness in the Winter

Just picked California oranges

In June the rumors of UN Sanctions and NATO bombing started, and I was scared. The panic was spreading, and even though I knew I was going back to uncertainty and hardship, I bought the train tickets to Germany, where my sister lived with her husband, and left my country again, watching my family and friends run after the speeding train and waived, drowning in tears.

I borrowed enough money from my sister for a one-way ticket to America, and arrived in Detroit on a hot, muggy night in August, with nine-month-old Nina strapped to my body, hauling two suitcases behind me, barely able to keep my eyes open from exhaustion. My husband waited for me at the airport, and after we embraced and he got a good look at this new creature in his life, perplexed in thought that it belonged to him, asked me for $5.00 for airport parking.

That night I just dropped the suitcases at home and went to the store to buy milk and diapers. If my heart had not already been broken into a thousand pieces, I would have panicked. For the next three months I moved as if in a dream, answered the calls from collection companies and learned what happens when you stop paying the bills. I often went to the store and bought one apple and a container of chicken livers, the best I could afford for my daughter, and I ate broccoli from the garden my sister-in-law planted while I was away.

We still could not get any help as I was not a citizen. I could not work, because we could not afford to pay a baby-sitter, and what little money I managed to earn on the weekend working in a restaurant was not even enough to keep the light on and diapers coming. And then, in November, Mother arrived, and like a fairy, spread her magic dust all over me and Nina. I went to work full force, six, seven days a week, pulling double shifts and marathons, comforted in thought that my baby was in safe hands. I lived in the restaurant, coming home only to shed the food grime off my body in the shower and lay prostrate on the floor, while Mother massaged my cramped legs and shoulders, but no one was hungry any more.

Years went by, and those days are living in my memory like anecdotes. My ex-husband is a chef in a nice seafood restaurant in Southern Florida and he often sends crates of crabs to us. He loves his daughter, but I brought us up from the bottom, running on pure instinct and thinking only of her survival.

For a long time I forgot about hunger and the moments of desperation that kept me awake night after night. And then the recession struck and in one horrifying swipe erased our life in Ohio as we knew it. Everything we had disappeared almost overnight, and we showed up in California on a beautiful August day penniless, in a rented SUV, as our van died in western Illinois, just before the St.Louis arch appeared. Our kids got on the bus available only to poor kids and ate subsidized lunches. We barely had any household items as we could not afford to bring them over from the storage unit in Ohio.

Unable to cope up with the incessant barrage of bad luck, Husband fumbled and lost his footing, allowing despair to take over. Day after day, I woke up at 5:45, donned my uniform, and walked through the mall to a diner, hiding my tears and worries behind smiles as I greeted my customers and made them feel like the world was one happy place, one pancake at a time. And even though money was not really rolling in, in a few months we bought the car, brought our furniture from Ohio, and fed not only our girls, but their little Mexican friends whose father left them with a mother who could not speak English.

The pressure was still on, but that gnawing feeling right below my sternum stopped from time to time and I allowed myself to relax. For three years I made the same trek through the mall and back, not looking around, aware that all of those beautiful clothes and shiny boots were out of my reach. But we were not hungry.

I left for Serbia last summer only to find out the night I arrived that Mother is seriously ill. I spent four months there taking care of her, crying hidden in the corners, not ready to see her so weak and fragile, this woman who carried my whole world on her back for years. It broke my heart to have to leave her, but my girls were in America way too long without me. A month after I returned we moved again to this beautiful town on the ocean, and I felt that I finally belonged for the first time since we arrived to the west coast.

The girls liked their new school and I started making friends and exploring ethnic stores and farmers’ markets. We bought bikes and I oiled an old pair of rollerblades. I placed badminton, tennis rackets, and volley ball in the corner of the kids’ room for easy access and made daily pilgrimages to the beach just a few blocks away. Life could not look rosier from where I stood, perched on the wall overlooking the blue expanse of the majestic ocean.

But the Fates were not done with us. It happened again, the panic, the despair, the sleepless nights, the feeling as if a baby elephant were taking a nap on my chest. The hunger looms again, showing its ugly head between fluffy stuffed animals, grinning victoriously, as if challenging me to a duel. But all I need to do is look at the two pairs of differently shaped blue eyes to know that I will prevail once again. And this time I intend to fight to the end, to press the “delete” button and erase completely that sneering impostor that threatens my little family.

Yesterday I watched a video of , a 107 year-old woman who came alive from the Terezin concentration camp smiling, holding her young son by the hand. She continues to smile every day. She finds life beautiful and considers it a present. She does not perceive her hardships in the camp as terrible, but as an experience which only made her richer. She thinks that when she laughed with her son in the barracks, he forgot there was no food. Â She does not hate anyone, but greets each morning with a sense of wonderment. And then she goes on to practice piano for three hours.

For a long time I just sat there, unable to form a cohesive thought, embarrassed by the moments of self-pity I allowed to creep into my stream of consciousness. And then I decided that I will not let my girls see worry in my eyes, that I will greet them with a wide-open smile reaching all the way to my eyes every day they burst through the door, filled with teen excitement and angst. I will go out into the world and once again conquer the ugly with the indomitable strength of motherly love. And we will never be hungry again.

My dear friend brought me a paper bag full of oranges from her neighbor’s yard. I could not think of a better way to bring smiles to my daughters’ faces and brighten our home than to make this beautiful cake I saw at one of my favorite blogs, Life’s a Feast. Jamie is an American, married to a Frenchman, and lives in the quaint (at least to me, as I have never been there) city of Nantes. She is my sister by pen, and we connect as if we were separated at birth.

I love her writing and I love her food. You can feel the love she pours into everything she makes for the men in her life – her two smart sons and her talented husband. Every time I visit her blog I stare longingly at the perfect delicacies she bakes and wish that I could whip out something as good. And this time I did. The cake was moist and buttery, infused with the bold scent of orange zest, with freshly squeezed juice offsetting the sweetness. It was like a ray of sunshine, like a gift from a Candyland store, simple, and yet unbelievably satisfying. Dusted with some powdered sugar and sprinkled with some more bright specks of orange zest, it was the perfect after-school snack.

ISABELLE’S ORANGE CAKE (adapted with permission from Life’s a Feast; for original recipe click here)

Ingredients: Â Â

4 medium oranges, scrubbed and dried – if they come from your neighbor’s tree you can be less vigorous) – you may need more or less, depending on how juicy your oranges are, but you should end up with 2/3 cups of juice
200 g (7 oz) granulated sugar
230 g (8 oz, 2 sticks)Â unsalted butter, sliced into chunks
4 large eggs
200 g (7 oz) all-purpose flour
1/2 tsp coarse salt
1 Â½ tsps baking powder
Orange Syrup:
2/3 cup freshly squeezed and strained orange juice, about 4 medium oranges (that’s how many it took for me to get 2/3 cup of juice that the recipe asks for)
2 Tbsp granulated sugar

Directions:

Preheat the oven to 350F (180C). Butter a round cake pan, line the bottom with parchment paper, butter it again and sprinkle it with some flour. Shake the excess off.

Zest the oranges, trying to avoid the bitter white pith. You should get about 1 and a half tablespoons of zest. Cut the oranges in half and juice them.

Heat the butter on low temperature until almost melted, remove from the stove, and let it cool.

Combine flour, salt, and baking powder. Pour the butter into a bigger bowl and add sugar. Whisk vigorously until well blended and creamy. Add eggs, one at a time, mixing until completely incorporated. Add dry ingredients in thirds, mixing after each addition until there are no more lumps. Stir in the zest and the juice and mix until combined.

Pour into the prepared pan and bake 30-35 minutes until the middle is barely set (I needed and additional 5 minutes) and to surface is golden. Let it cool and serve at room temperature, dusted with powdered sugar and grated orange zest.

Two Angels on the Head of a Pin, of Course

Bread and Pastries, Sweets, Vegetarian 15 Responses »

Feb 282012

She is nine and a half years old this June, and her Baba’s birthday is coming up in a few days. She does not have enough money to buy a proper present, something that adults plan and execute with little thinking. As far as she can remember, Baba has made everyone’s birthday special, pouring all her creativity and love into that particular day, excited to bring joy and cause shrieks of laughter with her thoughtful and unique presents.

Besides her mother, Baba was the biggest part of her life, a constant that made her feel loved, secure, and comforted. Her middle name (Angelika) was in honor of her beloved grandmother. Baba taught her how to read in Serbian and put her to sleep singing beautiful melodies in her soft alto. She took her to the park every day, pushed her on her bike until she took off and became free for the first time, and held her little squirming body up in the pool while her splashing legs and arms sent a thousand droplets of water around them.

Since she was born, Baba was an everyday presence in her life, but when she started kindergarten, she had to learn to say good-bye to her beloved grandmother at the airport, hiding her tear-soaked face in Baba’s embrace, not embarrassed at all that everyone at the gate could hear her sobbing. She counted the months until Baba’s next arrival, and at Grandparents’ Day in school she told anyone that would listen that her Baba spoke four languages, painted wonderful watercolors, knitted beautiful sweaters, sewed, cooked the best dishes, sang in a choir, knew her way around the Internet, and had a whole wall in her room lined with book shelves.

Baba sent her beautiful handmade cards filled with lines overflowing with love for her first grandchild. She sent Baba her first awkward renditions of flowers, butterflies, and families in which the two of them were always holding hands and smiling. Â Every year she eagerly awaited the last day of school knowing that only a long inter-continental flight separated her from spending her summer break in Serbia.

P8080019 450x600 Two Angels on the Head of a Pin, of Course

Nina and Baba

Still fighting the last vestiges of jet lag, she tried to think of something she could give Baba to make her happy. When the idea came to her, she knew it would be the perfect gift. She shared her plan with her mother and aunt, enlisted their help in gathering the necessary items, and gave them the instructions to wake her up really early on the morning of June 15th.

The morning broke and she quietly climbed down the stairs, mindful of the sixth step from the bottom which squeaked, clutching her wallet in her right hand, while holding to the banister with her left. She peaked into the kitchen where her aunt was pouring three small cups of Turkish coffee, and darted outside through the central hall, hoping that Baba was too busy talking and laughing to notice her sudden movements.

She ran to the corner bakery and back, closing the wrought-iron gate slowly behind her, and stealthily walked ahead hugging the walls of the house. As was the plan, her mother and her Aunt served the coffee outside at the table underneath the eave, where the apricot tree cast shade and the view of Baba’s lovingly tended yard was unspoiled. She busied herself in the kitchen fetching everything she needed, trying not to make any noise as the back door was open and Baba could hear fish talking.

When she was ready, she carried the silver-plated serving tray gingerly down the stairs as the three women stared at her. She ceremoniously placed the tray in front of Baba, leaned down and hugged her tightly, blasting an excited “Happy Birthday!” in her ear. Words chased words as she stumbled over her prepared little speech: “You always make breakfast for everybody and I wanted to make breakfast for you. Prijatno*!” Baba’s eyes were blinking as she was fighting the onslaught of tears, but it was useless. Â She clutched her oldest granddaughter’s narrow hands and sobbed silently, a habit she developed over the years as she cried herself to sleep night after night.

She did not want to make her Baba sad, and now her mother and aunt were crying, too. She started to feel weird, as if she had done something she was not supposed to do, and she shifted her weight from one foot to another, unable to understand the overflow of emotions and drama evolving in front of her. Baba finally released the grip on her hands and looked at the offerings displayed on the silver platter.

There was the ubiquitous handmade card with two female figures holding hands and smiling, oblivious to the world around them. A small crystal glass filled with milk hugged the far right corner.Â A soft, white damask napkin was folded into a triangle and tucked underneath a zwiebelmuster saucer barely big enough to hold a still-warm, plump, flaky chocolate croissant, dusted generously with powdered sugar, and three luscious, dangerously red June strawberries from the farmers’ market.

Nina is a student at the University of California at Berkeley now, and she will read this and look back and marvel at the beautiful little girl she once was who Â stood there and wondered why we were all crying… knowing now that tears are sometimes diamonds, beautiful and powerful and sparkling with the emotions that make us who we are.

*Serbian for Bon Apetit!

PAIN AU CHOCOLAT

Ingredients:

Dough:

2 tsp instant yeast (or 1 inch cube of fresh yeast)
100gr (3 oz) granulated sugar
250 ml (1 cup) warm milk
500 gr (2 cups) unbleached all-purpose flour
Â½ tsp salt

Other:

150gr (12 Tbsp, 1 and a half stick) unsalted butter at room temperature
100 gr (3oz) good quality chocolate (I prefer at least 70% cacao, but the rest of the family likes it sweeter), cut into pieces; you can use Nutella or any other chocolate spread

Directions:

Place yeast with sugar and milk in a large bowl and allow it to bloom for 10 minutes. Add most of the flour and salt, and mix to combine. The dough should be soft, but not sticky. Add the rest of the flour in small increments if necessary.

Remove to the counter dusted with flour and knead for 10 minutes until elastic. Lightly oil the dough, return to the bowl, cover with plastic wrap and leave at a warm place to double in size, about 1 and a half to 2 hours (I left mine in the refrigerator overnight).

Divide the butter in three equal parts. Punch the dough down and shape into a rectangle about 1/4 inch thick, the longer side facing you. Spread butter onto two right thirds of the rectangle, fold the left third over the buttered middle third as if you were folding a business letter, and in the end the remaining uncovered third over the other two folds. (I folded mine one more time to form a square). Place on a tray, cover with plastic wrap and keep refrigerated for 30 minutes.

Repeat the process two more time, for the total of three folds. After the final rest in the fridge (which can be overnight), shape the dough into a rectangle and cut strips 2 inches wide and 4-5 inches long. Or you can shape the dough into a circle and cut it in triangles to form croissants (first in halves, then in quarters, eights, etc., just like a big pie).

Preheat the oven to 450F.

Place a chocolate square close to the narrow end and fold into a roll. Flatten the roll just a little bit, and place seam down on a baking sheet lined with parchment paper (if you have a non-stick pan, you donâ€™t have to do this).

Bake the rolls for 10-15 minutes, until light brown. Let them cool in the pan for 5 minutes, and then transfer them to a cooling rack. After they cool off, sprinkle with powder sugar and serve.

Lisa Michelle from Parsley, Sage, Desserts and Line Drives is hosting Bread Baking Day #47, an event started by Zorra from 1x UmrÃ¼hren Bitte. She chose the theme for this month, Bread and Chocolate, and I think Â my Pain Au Chocolate would love to be in the company of so many baked beauties.

Another one of my favorite events is Yeastspotting, hosted by Susan of Wild Yeast. I wish only that I can participate more often. For now, I am sending her this beautiful pastry.

Blue Monday, Fat Tuesday

Bread and Pastries, Breakfast, Fast and Easy, Sweets, Vegetarian 2 Responses »

Feb 212012

I have never taken February seriously. It was the month right after winter break when my legs still craved the tortuous curves of the moguls on the snow-covered mountain, feeling the weight of the boards and the bindings days after we said goodbye to our family winter haven.

It was short and unassuming, but crammed full of school work devoid of the promise of a holiday (there is no Presidents’ Day or MLK Day in Serbia). It was also the month before my birthday, which made it irrelevant and easily ignored. The only interesting fact that I could attach to this gray and drab part of the year was my Grandmother Babuljica’s birthday: when she died she was technically only 16 years old, as her birthday occurred every four years on February 29. That and the first blooms of the spring, the bright yellow blossoms of forsythia bushes that stood apart like beacons in the sea of gray.

Fat Tuesday holds little significance for me, even though I am tempted every year to go into the kitchen and emerge only after I produce a big bowl ofÂ krofne, which are very similar to PolishÂ paczki or the beignets served at the Cafe du Monde.Â While my adventurous spirit always keeps alive a desire for losing myself in the throngs of scantily clad Brazilians inebriated by the seductive rhythm of samba, garishly costumed Southerners emptying innumerable hurricanes in N’awlins, or slender Italians hiding behind articulately decorated masks along the canals of Venice, I refuse to pretend that I am part of the celebrating crowd only by decorating the house in the appropriate colors and serving the delicacies meant to bring the tired carnival-goers necessary sustenance before they embark on forty days of Lent.

For Orthodox Christians, the last day before Lent is the Saturday that falls six weeks before Easter Sunday. Father diligently leaves me the calendar that marks the dates of all the religious holidays, but I still consult the almighty Internet whenever I need the information. This year, the two Easters are separated by only a week, which makes the next Saturday the last day before Lent for my fellow Serbs. There are no make-believe parades in my town, no colorful costumes, loud music, or traditional dishes that make the passage into Lent more bearable. Next Sunday, the believers will abstain from all red meat, dairy products, and eggs for six weeks, as the Christian Orthodox faith prescribes.

This February arrived incredibly fast. I have not caught my breath from moving to another city, the girls starting school just before the mid-terms, having to learn how to get around, where to find the best and most affordable produce, and where to enjoy the best burgers in town. The end of the month is approaching with geometric progression, and if we stayed in Midwest, I would be suffering the intoxicating effects of the incoming spring fever and be quite ready for the snow to finally melt. But in Southern California we are surrounded by eternal spring and bright forsythia flowers are not necessary to break winter depression.

When we were growing up, the six weeks before Easter were no different than any other week of the year as my parents were not religious. We will not embark on six weeks of abstinence either, and even though the geek in me has researched the traditions and observances of the Eastern Christians and come up with several dishes that mark the passage into Lent among Russians and Greeks, I will have to ignore the urges of the food anthropologist wannabe and refrain myself.

My oldest daughter, the College Kritter, left to head back to Berkeley this afternoon after spending fourÂ incredibly short days with us. As usual, we spent a big part of our time together cooking. It is easy to indulge her every whim as she is eager to tackle the most difficult kitchen tasks. We made much better tasting copycat Egg McMuffins, braised chicken enchiladas with black bean salsa, black-and-blue hamburgers with homemade buns, shrimp pesto, Â garlic and olive oil crostini, buttermilk biscuits with ham, eggs, and milk gravy, andÂ chocolate fudge.

Some of the dishes came out beautifully, just like we envisioned, and some flopped. But neither one of us despaired over the failures, knowing that there is always the next time. Before she woke up this morning, I made blueberry muffins, intending to send her off enveloped in a big, fluffy cloud of comforting smells. She emerged from the bathroom wrapped in her soft white robe, her long hair damp and feet bare, reaching for the cup of coffee I had waiting for her at the counter.

This month is short and seemingly unassuming. There is no forsythia in the neighborhood, but my rosemary plant and hibiscus are thriving in front of our apartment door.Â We skipped Valentine’s Day and celebrated Mardi Gras with humble and easy blueberry muffins. Next year we might make gumbo, krofne, or beignets. Or even better, me might be off to Rio, New Orleans, or Venice, ready to tackle on the most demanding challenges of the carnivals, toasting each other with a caipirinha, a hurricane, or a negroni.

BLUEBERRY MUFFINS

Ingredients:

2 cups unbleached all-purpose flour, plus more for flouring the pan and coating the blueberries
Â½ tsp coarse salt
1 tsp baking powder
Â¼ cup (1/2 stick) unsalted butter at room temperature
1 cup granulated sugar
2 Tbsp sunflower oil
Â½ cup milk
2 eggs, slightly beaten
1 tsp vanilla extract
1 Â½ cups fresh blueberries
1-2 Tbsp granulated or turbinado sugar (I prefer turbinado sugar, as the crystals are bigger and shinier)

Directions:

Preheat the oven to 375F. Lightly butter and flour a regular-size muffin pan (or place the muffin inserts to save this step; I would have done it, if I had not run out of the paper inserts).

Sift flour into a bowl (take out 1-2 teaspoons to coat the blueberries). Add salt and baking powder and stir to combine. In a separate bowl cream sugar and butter. Add oil, milk, eggs, and vanilla, and mix until combined. Stir in the flour and slowly add the blueberries using a wooden spoon.

Spoon the batter into the prepared pan, filling the holes to about Â¾. Sprinkle the sugar on top evenly.Â Bake for 20-25 minutes until golden brown and done. (To check for doneness, insert a knife at the thickest part of the muffin and if it comes out dry, muffins are ready.)

Let the muffins cool in the pan for a minute or two, transfer them to a rack and let them cool for another 5 minutes. Serve immediately.

Shrimp and Scallop Creole

Louisiana Chicken and Andouille Sausage Gumbo

Operation: Dessert Storm

Fast and Easy, Sweets, Vegetarian 13 Responses »

Jan 182012

They tip-toe into the kitchen stealthily, whispering to one another, trying to open the cabinets without making a sound. They cast furtive glances in my direction while they move the bags and boxes aside, afraid that the rustling will attract my attention. Failing to excavate anything desirable from the pantry they move to the refrigerator and conduct an extremely detailed inventory of its shelves. I can hear sighs of disappointment when their quest ends without the expected result and they start to slowly retreat to their room, crestfallen, but resigned.

I sit patiently and wait for them to reappear armed with the sweetest smiles and hastily put-together speech in an attempt to cajole me to change my schedule and divert some of my time to making them a treat. I pretend that I am annoyed at their most inconvenient request, testing their determination and persuasion skills. I take advantage of the moment to ensure that their room will be picked up and free of clutter before I even think of dragging the hand-held mixer out. I have learned that they will promise everything but the most precious toys and trinkets in exchange for something sweet, and I do not hesitate to negotiate.

I enjoy assuming the role of a drill sergeant to my hapless grunts as I send them on the mission to collect the necessary tools and ingredients. In the meantime, I print the recipe and divide the roles. There is inevitably a dissent as they bicker and argue over the coveted task of cracking the eggs and holding the mixer, but in the end they surrender, knowing it is a very small price to pay for the chance to lick the whisks and bowls clean.

They take turns measuring flour, sugar, baking powder, butter, and vanilla, admonishing one another and competing in accuracy and expertise. They know how to weigh the ingredients on a scale, and they always break the eggs in a ramekin first to check for errant shells. I monitor their progress from afar, allowing them to garner confidence and train their hands to wield the cooking utensils skillfully. I close my eyes if an egg ends on the floor or if a cup of flour mistakenly gets splattered all over the counter. I count in my head as they take minutes for a step that I could accomplish in a second, but I do not intervene.

They take turns shaping rounds of dough with an ice cream scoop and placing them on a cookie sheet. As the bottom of the mixing bowl starts to appear, they start sending imploring looks my way until I relent and let them eat some of the dough raw. While the cookies are dispatched to the oven, they finish licking the bowl and the beaters and without too much fuss place all the used utensils in the sink. They return to their room giggling, their cheeks flushed from the excitement, eyes sparkling with the satisfaction of achievement.

I sigh in relief, luxuriating in the ensuing moments of peace and quiet, as endorphins work their miracle in stopping them from bickering and whining. Every couple of minutes a sentinel would appear in the kitchen inquiring about the progress, seduced by the smell of melting chocolate blending with vanilla and butter, as the cookies slowly spread and turn golden. I get them out of the oven and let them cool for a bit before I carefully place them on baking racks in neat rows. They wait impatiently, having poured milk and laid the place mats on the table, their hands clutching small plates in anticipation of the first cookie.

They inspect them with scrutiny while they cool, trying to select the biggest specimens loaded with the most chocolate chips, their fingers slowly creeping to the chosen ones, afraid that the other one would get to them first. When I say Go! their hands flit to the cookies and snatch them off the rack in a second. For a moment they look into each other’s plates making sure that they ended up with the right cookie before they run to the dining room table and take the first, delicious bite of a still warm, soft cookie.

I return to my interrupted schedule with a smile plastered all over my face, listening to them giggle and describe the subtle undertones of vanilla and the barely perceptible, but complementing bursts of sea salt crystals. They might think they have won this battle, but I know that our little game will bring me hours of contentment.

When they finish, they place their plates and glasses in the sink and skip to their room, stealth completely gone from their steps. They will emerge from time to time to take another look at the cookies and to conspire about the best place to hide them before the Cookie Monster returns home from work and depletes their stash. But for now they are happy, working out their sugar rush with paper dolls and puppet shows, while I bask in the illusion of a quiet idyll.

CHEWYÂ CHOCOLATE CHUNK COOKIES

I cannot remember where I found this recipe, but I have been making these cookies for at least ten years. Husband, AKA Cookie Monster, has managed to convince me that they are the epitome of an all-American perfectly chewy chocolate chip cookie and I remain loyal.

Ingredients:

1 Â½ cups all purpose flour
Â½ tsp baking soda
Â½ tsp sea salt
1 stick (4 oz,115 gr) cold butter, cut into small cubes
Â½ cup granulated sugar
Â¾ cup brown sugar
1 Â½ tsp vanilla extract
1 slightly beaten egg
7 oz (200gr) chocolate chunks (I prefer dark, good quality chocolate with high percentage of cacao, but this time all I had at hand were semi-sweet chocolate chips)

Directions:

Sift flour and baking soda, and mix in salt. Using hand held mixer (I am still waiting for a fairy godmother to bring me a ruby red Kitchen Aid stand-up mixer) combine butter, sugar, and brown sugar at low speed. Mix for 3 minutes. Add vanilla and egg and stir until combined. Slowly add flour mix and stir until it just comes together. Mix in the chocolate chips or chunks using a wooden spoon.

Place in the refrigerator for 30 minutes.

In the meantime, preheat the oven to 350F.

Scoop rounds of dough with and ice cream scoop and place them on 2 cookie sheets lined with parchment paper, leaving about 2 inches in between each cookie. Place the cookie sheets on the first and third shelf and bake for 10-14 minutes (depending on the size of your cookies) until just barely brown around the edges. Rotate the cookie sheets after 6 minutes.

Let the cookies cool of on the sheets for a couple of minutes before removing them to the cooling racks.

Last year post: Les Miserobbed (and a delightful recipe for Braised Lamb Shanks)

Getting a Rise

Bread and Pastries, Serbian, Vegetarian 19 Responses »

Jan 132012

There are smells wafting from the kitchen window that can steal my soul during one breath and never release it: hazelnuts toasting in the oven; onions warming up in a sautee pan, slowly surrendering their sharpness and becoming sweet; garlic clove rubbed against the craggy surface of a brushetta; rows of red peppers roasting on the charcoal grill; specks of vanilla peppering the hot smoothness of CrÃ¨me Anglaise; smoky bacon dancing in the skillet, hiding glistening drops in the curls of its edges…

But only one is capable of bringing tears to my eyes and enveloping me in imaginary soft and fuzzy blankets, making me feel content, comforted, and absolutely safe: the smell of bread baking in the oven. It is not alluring, nor seductive; it is not exotic, nor is it elusive; it is primal and rustic, inviting me into a warm cave offering shelter from blustery winds that plaster ice crystals on my eyelashes.

Warm-from-the-oven bread is one of my favorite foods. I prefer it smeared with lightly salted butter, milkyÂ kajmak, orÂ home-rendered lard topped with salt, paprika, and thinly sliced onions. When I bite into the firm crust, I find myself running after the cows with my cousins, one hand clutching a book, the other firmly gripping a big, crunchy piece of bread that came out of the wood-oven minutes before.

Every time I sink my teeth into a slice, I wonder how something so basic can elicit so much pleasure. But with all its simplicity, I did not have the courage to make my own loaf for many years. I was comfortable with cooking, allowing my creativity to teach me how to improvise, eager to learn new methods and techniques, and willing to experiment with various cuisines and ingredients. But bread baking scared me. Even though many assured me that I need only try, I was mystified and convinced that nothing as miraculous as bread can come out of my kitchen.

Yeast seemed whimsical and impulsive, and I did not know if I would be able to wake it up from its slumber and make it play. Flour was confusing in all its different denotations and types, which were not at all the same in Europe and the USA. It appeared to me that too many variables would make it impossible to achieve success. The time for kneading, proofing, and resting, the temperature of the kitchen and the oven, the altitude, the consistency of the dough, the amount of pressure applied while kneading and when deflating, all conspiring against me.

But one glorious day, my perfectionism decided to go on sabbatical. Taking advantage of the moment, I dragged out a 10 pound bag of 5 RosesÂ flour that Mother preferred while in the US, tied my colorful apron around my waist, and courageously took the first step. I did not have to use the recipe; Mother’s words were embedded in my mind like a mantra and I plunged in with calculated movements, dissolving yeast in warm water with a bit of sugar to feed it; adding flour, salt, and more water; kneading for a long time, remembering Mother’s advice and admonitions; covering the dough with a clean kitchen towel and placing it on the stove.

By that time the doubts slowly started creeping up, but bolstered by my new energy and zeal, I brushed them all off. Even if my bread resembled a brick coming out of the oven, I decided not to fret, to just dump it into a trash can and start making another loaf. But when I peeked under the kitchen towel, my first-born dough was beautiful, round and soft, and doubled in size.

My first bread was not as good as Mother’s, but it was the first of many, some of them beautiful, some of them disastrous. I never looked back, placing another slash on the board of my accomplishments.

January 7th marks Christian Orthodox Christmas*. No matter what food is served, there has to be pork roast and homemade bread. I remembered with nostalgia the square, many-layered bread Â that Njanja made every Christmas. It wasÂ brushed with egg yolk and pierced all over the top with a fork, and somewhere in its soft middle there was a coin, promising luck to the person that found it.

I wanted to make Mother’s bread, which is shaped like a rose, and decided to combine the two, adding and subtracting, adjusting the amounts, and enjoying the process of creation. No matter how many times I made bread, I am still mesmerized when I see the beautiful loaf when it comes out of the oven. And for the first time in our new home I sent the smell of freshly baked bread out to all my neighbors, hoping that it would bring them comfort and peace.

*Our church has not accepted the Gregorian calendar and all the religious holidays are observed two weeks later.

ROSE SHAPED BREAD (POGAÄŒA RUÅ½IÄŒARA)

Ingredients:

1 inch piece of fresh yeast
2 tsp sugar
200 ml warm milk
2 eggs, slightly beaten
100 ml plain yogurt or buttermilk
1 tsp coarse salt
2 Tbsp butter at room temperature
650gr all purpose flour (a bit more for dusting the counter)
120 gr (1 stick) butter at room temperature
1 egg, slightly beaten

Directions:

Dissolve yeast and sugar in milk. When it blooms, whisk in eggs, yogurt, salt, and butter and stir until combined. Add most of the flour and knead in the bowl. Turn over to the lightly dusted counter and continue kneading, adding more flour as needed, to get an elastic, shiny, slightly soft, but not sticky dough. Place in a greased bowl, cover with plastic wrap and keep on room temperature until the dough doubles, about 1 hour.

Punch the dough on floured surface and flatten into a rectangle about Â¼ inch thick. Spread 2 tablespoons of butter over one half of the rectangle and cover the buttered side with the unbuttered one. Spread 1 tablespoon of butter over one half of the folded dough, and cover it with the unbuttered part, forming a square. Let it rest for 10-15 minutes. Flatten it again into a rectangle and repeat. Let it rest another 10-15 minutes.

Flatten into a rectangle and spread the remaining 2 Tablespoons of butter over the whole dough. Roll into a tight roulade, placing the seam down. With a sharp knife cut slices 1 to 1 Â½ inches wide and place cut side down into a round pan. Brush with beaten egg and let it rest on room temperature for 30 minutes. Preheat the oven to 350F. Bake your bread until golden brown and nicely risen, for 40-50 minutes. Allow it to rest in the pan before removing it to a baking rack.

I am sending my Rose Shaped Bread over to April Harris of 21st Century Housewife for her Gallery of FavoritesÂ and to Susan for Yeastspotting

Last year at about this time I wrote about my beautiful oldest daughter and a recipe for Saffron Rice.

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