Bananas, Coffee, and Chocolate

While I am fond of all three ingredients in the title of this post, I was not entirely sure they'd go together well in a muffin. But The Cheese Board: Collective Works cookbook says it's a great combination and that many patrons love these muffins, so I figured scores of Berkeleyans couldn't be wrong.

These are not healthy muffins by ANY stretch of the imagination, but could be modified to be somewhat less bad. The cup of sour cream added a really nice tang to the batter, which was still present after the muffins baked (I was afraid it would dissipate). Plain low-fat yogurt could be substituted, though, and still impart the same basic tang. An entire cup of chocolate chips just isn't necessary; I used a half cup and thought it was more than enough. I also reduced the sugar in the recipe by a tablespoon or two, which turned out just fine.

I was a bit disappointed that the coffee flavor seemed to get lost in the muffins, what with all the banana, sour cream, and chocolate, so it might be worth adding some espresso granules or instant espresso powder to the batter to increase the mocha flavor.

The recipe actually says to fill the muffin cups all the way to the top. When does THAT happen?!

I froze most of the baked muffins, since I can't possibly eat 12 of them in a few days, and have found that when I slice them in half and reheat them in the oven for several minutes, they hold up pretty well. Maybe that's because the stick of butter contains enough fat to prevent them from drying out. Like 47 times over.

The perfect muffins for letting a little kitty cat warm himself on a cold winter morning.

Banana Mocha Chocolate Chip Muffins

from The Cheese Board: Collective Works

makes 12 muffins

1 egg

1 egg yolk

2 ripe bananas, mashed

1/2 tsp vanilla extract

1/2 C strong brewed coffee, cooled

1 C sour cream or plain yogurt

2 1/4 C AP flour

1/4 tsp baking soda

2 tsp baking powder

1/4 tsp salt

3/4 C sugar

1/2 C (1 stick) cold unsalted butter, cut into 1-inch cubes

1/2 - 1 C chocolate chips

1. Preheat oven to 375 degrees. Coat muffin pan with cooking spray and set aside.

2. In a medium bowl, combine egg, egg yolk, bananas, vanilla, coffee, and sour cream or yogurt. Whisk until blended.  Set aside.

3. Sift flour, baking soda, and baking powder together in bowl of stand mixer. Add salt and sugar to dry ingredients. 

4. Add butter and cut in on low speed for about 4 minutes, or until it is the size of small peas. Mix in chocolate chips. Make a well in the center and pour in wet ingredients. Gently mix just until combined. Do not overmix!

5. Scoop batter into prepared muffin pan, filling each well until batter just peeks over top of well. Bake for 25-30 minutes, or until muffins are golden brown, firm, and springy.

6. Let cool in pan for 10 minutes, then unmold and cool completely on a wire rack.

I Heart You

 

The Texan and I celebrated our first Valentine's Day together this year. And while, as one of my friends pointed out roughly 27 times on Facebook, one should not save all gestures of love and affection for February 14th, The Texan planned a lovely surprise for me, so I figured I would cook him something heart-y in return.

 Ages ago, I cut out a recipe for Rosemary Shrimp Scampi Skewers from Cooking Light magazine (February, year unknown). The blurb that accompanies it says, "Rosemary has a long history of being associated with the heart: It has been believed by many to be a love charm, by others to be a token of remembrance and fidelity, and by some to be a potent aphrodisiac." So figuratively, this recipe was perfect for V-Day.

Literally speaking, it was also perfect: The Texan and I had fallen into the highly indulgent but not so healthy habit of eating out a zillion times a week. We agreed that our hearts (not to mention our wallets) would be better off if we cooked at home more. Plus, shrimp are a good source of omega-3 fatty acids, which can help reduce the risk of cardiovascular disease and stroke. Which is of course what everyone is thinking about on Valentine's Day.

Anyway, there just happens to be a rosemary bush in The Texan's backyard, so he snipped off a few sprigs a few minutes before we cooked the shrimp, which had been marinating in white wine, lemon juice, and a bit of olive oil with some spices. He threaded the shrimp onto the now-naked sprigs, which still smelled fantastic despite being totally bare, and because it's February and his girlfriend  would have spent the evening complaining about how cold she was, he fired up the stove top instead of the grill.

As the shrimp cooked in their marinade, I sauteed some asparagus spears in a bit of olive oil and a seasoning that had the words 'Texas', 'cowboy', and 'grill' on the bottle. I know! My eyebrows were raised, too! But it turned out well, and we ate every single piece. The Texan knows his way around a microwave, so he steamed up more veggies to round out the greenness on our plates, and dinner was on the table in under 30 minutes.

You couldn't give a rat's ass about omega-3s, marinades, or spice blends, though. What you are really wondering is, is rosemary actually an aphrodisiac?

I can't tell you that. My dad reads this blog.

Rosemary Shrimp Scampi Skewers

adapted from Cooking Light magazine

NOTE: I made at least double this quantity of marinade, both to cover all the shrimp and to have extra to use in the pan. 

1 TBSP dry white wine

1 tsp fresh lemon juice

1 tsp olive oil

1/8 tsp salt

1/8 tsp pepper

1 garlic clove, minced

3/4 lb shrimp (I used 1 pound of the 26-30 size), peeled and deveined

6-inch rosemary sprigs (number you will need depends on number of shrimp used)

1. Combine first 6 ingredients in a resealable bag or non-reactive bowl. Add shrimp, turning to coat. Marinate in refrigerator for 30 minutes, turning occasionally.

2. Remove leaves from rosemary sprigs, leaving about an inch of leaves at one end. If grilling, rinse/dip sprigs in water to prevent fire.

3. Load 3-4 shrimp onto each rosemary sprig. Carefully load onto preheated grill or saute pan, using marinade if desired. Cook 2-3 minutes per side, or until shrimp is pink and cooked through. 

Do NOT use uncooked marinade on cooked shrimp!

Texas French Toast

Before we started dating, The Texan boasted to me that he knew how to make a mean batch of French toast. He warned that it had a gazillion calories a slice. I was unfazed. He promised to make it for me after the holidays.

On our first date, he asked conspiratorially, "Wanna know the secret ingredient in my French toast?" My mind raced as I considered the possibilities: An exotic spice? Syrup in the batter? A special type of bread?

He leaned in, grinned, and divulged, "Cap'n Crunch cereal!"

Seriously?

He'd come across the recipe, which was featured on Food Network's Diners, Drive-Ins, and Dives, online. It also features 2 cups of heavy cream, a stick of butter, and 6 eggs. Sounded like the perfect way to start the morning. That is, if it were our last morning on earth, since the French toast would probably send us into cardiac arrest.

As we planned the meal, we discussed ways to make it slightly less lethal. I suggested using milk instead of cream, but he wasn't sure whether he should gradually step down from cream to half-and-half, or just jump way down the fat ladder to whole milk. He chose the latter, but not because he thinks my ideas are so great. No, it was a perfect stranger's comment on the recipe, saying she'd used whole milk and it turned out fine, that convinced him it was safe to do. In all fairness, though, he did use my suggestion of cooking spray combined with a little butter to grease the pan in place of the stick of butter the recipe calls for.

Normally, the Texan uses Texas toast for this recipe. Which you totally could have guessed. But he has this bread machine that he thinks is pretty darn cool. And it is, I must admit. For the occasion, he made two loaves of beer bread: one loaf two days before The Breakfast Event, and the other, one day before. We cut both loaves into Texas-sized slices, and drowned and dredged them in all kinds of goodies. As we ate, we realized we preferred the day-old slices, as they seemed to have better absorption of the cream-I-mean-milk mixture, creating a tastier, softer French toast.

The Texan was in charge of the cooking, firing up not one but two pans for the event. And I do mean firing: a few minutes into the process, I noticed a slightly smoky smell in the kitchen. I fanned the back door a few times. The smoke increased. I opened a window. The smoke detector went off. His roommate and I opened many windows, and I checked the flames under the pans. They were Very High.

Because that's what men do.

There is already about a week's worth of sugar in the Cap'n Crunch coating, so maple syrup is not really necessary (nor advised). I put some frozen raspberries in a saucepan, along with a spoonful or two of raspberry jam, and cooked them to form a syrupy topping for the French toast. We put a few dollops of whipped cream next to the raspberry sauce, and one particular roommate may have created a smiley face or two on her breakfast even though she is no longer 8 years old. Clearly, she knew she might keel over from this meal, and wanted to make it memorable.

And it was.

Texas-Sized French Toast

http://www.food.com/recipe/capn-crunch-french-toast-311788

6 eggs

5 TBSP sugar (you could cut some or all of this out)

2 C heavy cream (or whole milk)

1  tsp vanilla extract

1/2 tsp ground cinnamon

1/2 tsp ground nutmeg

1/2 C (1 stick) butter

1 box Cap'n Crunch cereal

1 loaf thick toast 

1. Crush cereal in a resealable bag or baking dish, but do not turn the entire thing into dust. Spread cereal into baking dish or large plate.

2. Combine eggs, sugar, cream or milk, vanilla, and spices in a bowl large enough to fit a slice of toast.

3. Preheat pan(s) or griddle, using medium heat. Coat pan with cooking spray and a thin pat of butter.

4. Meanwhile, soak pieces of toast in milk mixture, 30 seconds per side, making sure to moisten edges of bread. Dredge in crushed cereal.

5. Cook slices for 3 minutes per side, or until browned but not burned (sugar in cereal will burn if heat is too high). Keep in warm oven until ready to serve.

6. Top with raspberry sauce or fresh fruit and whipped cream, if desired.

Buffalo Soldiers

So there's this guy.

He's from Texas.

We're dating.

He lived in Mammoth for a season or two, and had to fend for himself while he was there. Poor thing. Anyway, he told me he used to make buffalo tacos when he lived there, and that he'd sing "Buffalo Tacos" to the tune of "Buffalo Soldiers" by Bob Marley. I think he even sang a verse for me to demonstrate. I didn't think much of any part of this story at the time, since it was a) less gory than the one about hunting and gutting his own venison; b) an affront to reggae lovers everywhere; c) probably just something Texans do.

One evening, we decided to cook dinner together at my house. You know, one of those couple-y things that people do together when they are still so enamored of each other that they can't get enough, so they plan the meal together, cook it together, eat it together, talk about how great it was together, and suddenly realize that 48 hours have gone by and they are still in each other's company.

He said, "Let's make buffalo tacos, like I used to make in Mammoth! I'll bring the meat."

Because that's what men do.

No, this wasn't the last remaining wild bison roaming the Great Plains.

I was a little wary of this whole idea. I'd seen bison burgers in the freezer case at the grocery store, as well as bison stew meat. But I'd never tried it, and wasn't sure how gamey it would taste. The Texan assured me buffalo meat was not very gamey, and would render off less fat than ground beef. Given that he has eaten deer shortly after killing it, I wasn't sure how closely aligned his version of gamey was to that of Normal People. But it turns out he was telling the truth.

Neither one of us had a real recipe for buffalo tacos. He usually used one of those seasoning packets, which he suggested and I must have made a face about, since he didn't bring one. I usually used a few spices in the meat, which I added as he stirred**, but it was missing something. A jar of salsa sat on the counter, and we both agreed it was worth a try. We added a few spoonfuls to the meat, which we thought tasted perfect.

His

Hers

He heated up the tortillas. He put cheese and more salsa on his. I put cilantro, radishes, lettuce, green onions, and more salsa on mine. We sat, googly-eyed, at the table together and ate.

We'll have to do it again some time.



**Despite me putting the real version of that song on the iPod, he sang his version almost the entire time he was cooking the buffalo. Guess which version was stuck in my head the next day.

The Sweet Texture of Success

I've lost track of how many times I failed at this. I blogged about it. I searched endlessly for the perfect recipe. I bought a new thermometer. I asked questions of other bloggers who are clearly more skilled than I. And still, I couldn't get it right.

I was nearly ready to give up trying, but then another blogger was generous enough to give suggestions and wish me luck, and an old friend went on a hunt for a digital thermometer for me.  Back at home, she hovered over the thermometer with me while we held our breath, hoping the 27th time would be the charm. And it was.

I realize people have been making caramel for centuries without the aid of digital anything. I realize I probably didn't angle the analog thermometer into the mixture properly, or may not have read it carefully, as the lines and numbers are small and the margin for error is even smaller. But I don't really care, because I can make caramel now.


I said I CAN MAKE CARAMEL NOW! How exciting is THAT?



So what if the whole world knows I have to use a digital thermometer? To borrow a friend's explanation for anything complicated, "It's science." I've seen videos of master chocolatiers who use digital  sensors that don't get dipped into the chocolate, but instead are just aimed toward the chocolate and instantly read its  temperature. Now that, my friends, really is science.

It's not dirt! It's flecks of vanilla.

Eleven more degrees to go.

 The thermometer even beeps at me to tell me I'm almost there. Isn't she nice?

Many thanks to Shawnda of Confections of a Foodie Bride for her advice and encouragement!

All Threats Will Be Taken Seriously

My dad threatened my brothers and me this year.

His side of the family has been making stuffed calamari on Christmas Eve for as long as any of us can remember. The still-living relatives who know the recipe are four in number: two of his sisters and one brother on the East Coast, and my dad on the West Coast. The still-living relatives who will eat the dish are similarly few in number: one of my sisters-in-law, a few cousins, an old friend of my brother, and I. Even so, my dad's threat to stop making the dish after this year created quite a stir.

Here’s what you have to understand about traditions. They have nothing to do with the finished product. They are really about the stories that get told about them. For example:

(back of hand pressed to forehead) “I worked my fingers to the bone to make this calamari/sauce/appetizer/ravioli for you!” 

          

As the photo clearly indicates, my dad had help this year (and nearly every year I can remember) making the calamari, but it wouldn’t taste the same without his one-sentence guilt trip. And as with all great traditions, this is one that was passed from his parents to him and his siblings, and then to us, and I am certain at least one of my brothers will use it on his children just as soon as they are able to internalize guilt. 

Traditions, though, eventually become forgotten if no evidence of them exists. Stories told and retold help prolong their life, but these are not immortal. My small nieces, nephews, and second cousins simply won't be able to grasp just how fishy the marinara sauce becomes with the squid in it, or how tedious it really is to stuff the calamari, or how whiny the pitch of the voice should become when laying the guilt on nice and thick if they never witness The Stuffing Of The Calamari. All of these, and the conversations they spark (which are nearly identical year after year), are what make Christmas Eve the production it is in my family. 

So when my brother informed me that our father threatened to remove this critical element from the celebration, I devised a 21st century fix: blog about the recipe, and preserve it for the 2.87 people who still want to make it. 

With camera and notepad in hand, I arrived at my brother's house and got to work. Note that cute cupcake aprons are vital to the whole operation. My dad had already done the gross important work of beheading and disemboweling the squid (when imparting guilt, always use words such as 'disemboweling' instead of 'cleaning' for dramatic effect). He had also prepared the stuffing, so all that was left was to stuff the squid,

seal them closed with a toothpick, 

Warn your guests that there are toothpicks in the food BEFORE they eat it.

and cook them in the red sauce that was simmering on the stove.

Except it's never that simple. There's always the running commentary that goes along with any labor-intensive meal preparation. This year, the fatherly lecture was on the size of the calamari: the neck openings were practically microscopic, which made them hard to stuff efficiently, which prompted the obligatory Back In My Day monologue. As in,

"Back in my day, the fishermen would've thrown squid this small right back into the water! Bah! Can you believe it? This is all a result of overfishing, you know. These blasted gigantic fishing operations will just take anything nowadays, won't they? Anything for a profit, I tell you. The whole world is going to hell in a handbasket..."

Yep, plenty of Christmas cheer at our house.

Then there were the lucky few who asked about the origins of the recipe: some of our secret family recipes contain bits of dried fruit, especially raisins, which is a typical North African influence. Our calamari stuffing is no exception, so the inquirers listened attentively at first to the explanation, and before long their eyes glazed over as they were subjected to the Unabridged History Of The Arab Influence On The People Of Southern Italy And The Ancestry Of The DiStasi Family Which Might Be Descended Partly From Albanians.

But in the end, it is these stories of tradition that have such powerful influence over us. Their demise, real or only threatened, can spark reconciliations, my brother eating stuffed calamari for the first time in forty years, or possibly even a sudden interest in migratory patterns of people along the Mediterranean Sea. And of course, there is the next generation of the family that has begun its years-long initiation into the realm of Stuffed Calamari. The tradition may live on after all.

NB: An ongoing debate in our family is on the merits of cooking the calamari in the marinara sauce, as opposed to boiling them and spooning sauce over them. Cooking them in the sauce makes the sauce fishy, which is why the small children pictured above are actually eating pre-fishified sauce that was set aside just for them. The next day, the sauce reeks of fish, making it unappetizing to most of us, while the elders of the family stand around scratching their heads, wondering why no one has eaten the leftover pasta with (fishy) sauce. Cook the squid as you see fit.

Stuffed Calamari

In true Old World style, the amounts are approximate, and each cook adds quantities to his liking. The goal is to achieve a stuffing that is moist but not wet, with a balance of herbs, salt, and sweetness from the fruit and nuts.  

5 pounds fed a crowd of 10 adults, plus extra for me to bring to a friend, plus a few left over for the next day.

5 lbs squid, thawed (if purchased frozen), gutted, and cleaned
3 slices slightly stale wheat bread
1/3 loaf slightly stale sourdough bread (approximately)
1/3 to 1/2 C bread crumbs
handful of raisins (or more, if you like)
handful of pine nuts (or more, if you like)
some parsley, chopped
a little basil, dried
a few cloves of garlic, minced
1/4 C grated parmesan cheese, more or less
2-3 TBSP marinara sauce that the squid will be cooked in
salt and pepper to taste

1. Tear breads into small pieces, and toss in a large mixing bowl. Add bread crumbs and remaining ingredients EXCEPT marinara sauce. Mix well.
2. Add marinara sauce (use a bit more if mixture is very dry). Mix well. 
3. Stuff calamari, leaving enough space at the open end to insert toothpick to close (see photo above). Be careful not to over-stuff squid, as they tend to burst while cooking. 
4. Cooking time depends on quantity of squid in pot, but will generally be between 3-5 minutes after the sauce or water has returned to a boil once squid are added. Squid will turn cream-colored when done. 
5. Drain immediately and serve with marinara sauce, alone or with pasta.

Fifteen Days

 
It took me 15 days to make this bread.

Sort of.

It took me 15 days to make the sourdough starter that became this bread. 15 days of feedings, of worrying that it might not survive, of wondering what kind of character it would develop. That's right. It became my child for two weeks.

Clearly I'd make a horrible mother, since I forgot to feed it on schedule once or thrice.  This is why I haven't reproduced. Anyway. My child turned out just fine, of course, getting stronger and less smelly over time. Its first two loaves were not great, tasting a lot like something that was baked in a Fisher-Price oven, but then came the third loaf. Pretty near perfect, and I'm not just saying that because I'm its mother.

In Breads from the La Brea Bakery, Nancy Silverton makes a simple statement that makes everything about bread baking infinitely more complicated: Bread is alive.  The starter used to make it is born of wild yeasts and beneficial bacteria in the air. The starter has a metabolism, which is maintained through portion control and eating regular meals.  It is temperamental and likes the room to be at a balmy 75 degrees. And it can be ornery-- it will be ready to bake when it is ready to bake, and not before.

It reminds me of someone I know.

I can't think of who it--

Oh right. Me.

                                                                     

The answer to your question is, "Because it tastes better." Commercial (i.e. active dry yeast that you buy at the grocery store) yeast makes the dough rise too quickly, like it's taking growth hormones or something.  The flavor and character that are found in good loaves of sourdough bread come from the yeasts in the starter, and from the slow rise that happens as the starter is chomping on the starch in the flour. Silverton even says that starter created in New York, for example, won't have the same flavor as starter created here in the Bay Area, because the yeast varieties are different in the two regions.

It's like East Coast vs. West Coast rap, only with yeast.

I passed a bakery in Chicago once that offered baking classes. I stopped in to talk to the owner, who was a large, pasty, sweaty hulk of a man with a thick Eastern European accent. He was (a little too) excited to show me his starter, which was also large, pasty, and sweaty-looking, and I really didn't understand its purpose or his enthusiasm for this stinky glob. He said he drank some of the liquid daily for health, to which I silently replied that it clearly wasn't working.

I didn't take the classes from him.

But I do understand now why he was so excited about his starter, and why his having kept it alive for years is really quite impressive.  I so should have taken his classes.

Raising and maintaining a starter is fairly easy, now that I've got the hang of it. I have a container of base starter that lies dormant in the refrigerator until I need it. I now use a sticky note on the lid of the container to keep track of feedings, and I start with a smaller quantity each time I want to bake, since

1 cup starter + [(1 cup water + 1 cup flour) x 3 times per day x 3 days] = enough starter to fill a swimming pool


As with all living things, though, the starter must go through the cycle of life.  It is cute and bubbly as a child, then toughens a bit as it rises, and later takes on a distinct shape and size as it prepares for the oven. But as it bakes, the starter dies-- it is 450 degrees in there, after all-- and leaves behind its legacy in the form of a loaf with a crusty exterior, a chewy and irregular interior, and a note of pleasant sour.

Fortunately, its starter relatives are still alive in the fridge, and so it begins again.