Hello again, finally.

It feels so good to say that.

Thank you for your immensely kind comments last week, friends, and for waiting patiently while I plowed through a few deadlines. It’s always so nice to come back to this space after a little while away. It is also very nice, I hear, to sit on the couch with a good book and drink a beer. I hope I still remember how to do that. I also hope to clean the baseboards around our apartment sometime soon, because you would not believe how much dust those things can accumulate. Or maybe you would? Seriously. They’re like little tiny shelves - Barbie™-sized, almost - only instead of holding useful objects like tiny plates or tiny books, they hold tiny dirt.

Wow. It really is good to be back.


Now, I don’t know if I mentioned this before, but my birthday took place recently, in the midst of all the hullabaloo. It was a week ago yesterday, and it was my thirtieth. I’m not sure how that could possibly be, but seeing as my birth certificate says 1978, I’ve decided to go with it. Anyway, I don’t really mind the thought of entering another decade. A number of people have told me that their thirties were a very peaceful time, mellow and forgiving, and I like the sound of that. I’m ready. I also think that my thirties might be the time for a pair of red heels. My grandmother loves red shoes - she says they go with everything - and I do have her genes, after all.

But what I really wanted to tell you about was what we ate that night, last Sunday night, the night of my birthday. The refrigerator was almost empty, so we decided to go to Cafe Lago. It was late when we got there, and the kitchen was closing, but we managed to grab an order of ravioli and a serving of lasagna, along with a glass of prosecco for me and a beer for Brandon. Our friend Carla was working that night, and she kept us company while we ate. But when our plates were cleared, she sneaked away - she’s very sneaky, that Carla - and a few minutes later, she emerged from the kitchen with a wide, flat bowl. Inside it were two halves of a grilled peach, topped with a scoop of honey ice cream.


Needless to say, we did not protest. We picked up our spoons and dug in. The peaches were warm and tender, having been cooked over apple wood until their juices went thick and sticky. They were lovely, perfectly late-summer, but in truth, the ice cream was even better. Sitting atop the fruit, it was melting quickly, forming a milky puddle at the bottom of the bowl, so we spooned it up like soup. Then we scraped the bowl. Even soft and half-melted, the ice cream was superlative: silky and delicate and surreally light, and faintly floral from the honey. I asked Carla how she had made it, and she smiled a little sheepishly. The recipe came from Alice Medrich, she said, and it was ridiculously easy. You just scald some milk, let it cool, stir in honey and salt and cream, and freeze it in an ice cream machine. Ba daa! The end. Happy birthday to me.

I made some yesterday, just to be sure that it really was that simple, and of course, it was. Which is why I am telling you about it today. So hurry up! Go make some. And while you’re at it, maybe grill a few peaches to go alongside? Or make a plum crisp? Or how about a cornmeal cake? Or no, wait, how about this: bake a batch of ginger cookies - the soft, chewy kind with a crinkly top - and turn them into ice cream sandwiches. I might even do that myself, come to think of it, if the couch doesn’t claim me first.



Honey Ice Cream
Adapted from Pure Dessert, by Alice Medrich

The original version of this ice cream calls for ½ cup honey, but I found that to be a bit too intense and sweet. I think, however, that it’s mainly a question of what type of honey you use. I used blackberry honey, which has a fairly strong flavor. If I had used something more dainty and mild, I think the result would have been more balanced. So, that said, I guess I would recommend starting with a bit less honey, no matter what type you use. Then taste and adjust to your liking.

½ cup whole milk
1/3 to ½ cup honey (see note above)
Slightly rounded 1/8 tsp. salt
2 ¼ cups heavy cream

In a small saucepan, warm the milk over medium heat until it begins to simmer gently around the edges. Pour it into a medium bowl, and allow to cool completely. (This will prevent curdling when the honey is added.) Add the honey and salt, and stir well to dissolve the honey. Stir in the cream. Taste, and adjust the amount of honey as needed. Cover and chill thoroughly, preferably overnight.

Freeze according to the instructions for your ice cream maker. Then, before serving, store the ice cream in the freezer until hard enough to scoop, at least 3 to 4 hours.

Yield: about 1 quart

IOU

Well, I know it sometimes looks like things are all sunshine and Bordeaux around here, but I’m having sort of a rough week. It seems that I have bitten off more than I can chew lately - and unfortunately, I don’t mean that literally. I’m so sorry, guys, because I really would like to sit down today and catch up with you. But I just can’t.

I can, however, give you a rather triumphant picture of the sky. I took it about a month ago, on a very nice, calm evening, and it always makes me feel better.


I can also give you an IOU, if you will take it. Will you? Please? I promise to make good on it - and get things back to normal around here - next week. Promise.

The least I can do

Hi again.

Thank you for taking such good care of the place while I was gone. That was a long way to go for only a week - and I have the jet lag to prove it - but wow oh WOW. It was good. You’ll have to wait until the article comes out to get the juicy details, but for now, how about a few pictures? You were so nice to cheer me on, and the least I can do is give you some photographs in return.

Do you think fourteen will be enough? I hope so.


On the way over, we had an eight-hour layover in Amsterdam. I had never had an eight-hour layover before, and I can’t say that I recommend them, but if you do happen to have one, you should make sure that you’re in Amsterdam.


The airport is conveniently attached to a train station, so we crammed our bags into a luggage locker, bought tickets, and went into town. We were only there for a few hours, but it was long enough to have a bowl of tomato soup with bread and butter, to wind our way through the narrow streets and between the canals, and to have a torrid love affair with about 1,000 bicycles. I don’t know what it was about the bikes in Amsterdam, but they stole my heart right out of my chest. They have upright handlebars and curvy fenders and sometimes a basket in front. They are old and battered and rusted in spots, as functional as can be, and in their utterly simple way, they are gorgeous. They’re like men’s lace-up dress shoes, the kind my dad used to wear with a suit: timeless, well-worn, almost romantic somehow.

I also liked the buildings. Especially this blue one here.


And in the late afternoon, the sun on the canals was nice too.


But we had somewhere else to go. Namely, Bordeaux. (Not Paris! I know, I know. I like to mix things up a little.)


This was my first time in Bordeaux, but having now spent six days there, I can say with some authority that it is a very lovely place. Especially in early September, when the sun shines almost every day, and the light in the evening makes the limestone buildings look glowy and golden, and you can walk around in jeans and flats and short sleeves and never get too hot or cold.



It is also very beautiful, no matter where you look. Whenever we crossed the Pont de Pierre, the stone bridge, I liked to look up at the street lamps.


And out in the countryside, you should always stop to look out at the vineyards along the road, even if you’re in a hurry.


Some of them are a bit much, but if you make good wine, I guess you can get away with things. Like erecting a giant wine bottle sculpture at the edge of the property.


And should it happen to rain, you can still have a good time. The view from the car is not half bad.


Plus, merlot grapes look very pretty when they are wet and drippy.


And so do sauvignon blanc grapes. Even if you are rushing to leave for a dinner reservation and get a shoeful of mud while you try to snap a photograph of them.


When you come back to the city, you can wear a different pair of shoes. Ideally something comfortable, for walking on paving stones and old cobblestones.


And when you get home, you can give those muddy shoes a good cleaning. As soon as you recover from the jet lag, of course.


P.S. Brandon and I are gearing up to teach another cooking class in Bellingham, and this time, the topic is quick pickles and basic jam. (Or, in other words, how to make the most of the farmers’ market before fall sets in for good. Eeek.) The class will be held on Tuesday, September 23, at 6:30 pm. For more information, or to register, call 360.927.4890, or e-mail classes (at) inthekitchenbellingham (dot) com.

Out of Office AutoReply

Today I planned to give you a recipe for a roasted eggplant salad. It was kind of an Italian riff on ratatouille, only minus the tomatoes and plus a dressing of roasted garlic, balsamic vinegar, red wine vinegar, and olive oil. I found the recipe a handful of years ago in one of my cookbooks, made it a couple of times, and loved it. I was thrilled when I thought of it again last week, because it’s the perfect thing for late summer, when the market tables are piled high with shiny-skinned eggplants and peppers.

Unfortunately, however, when I made it this weekend, it was totally underwhelming. Actually, it was more than underwhelming: it bordered on painful. It was so aggressively vinegary that it singed my sinuses. It could probably be marketed, I think, as some sort of perverse aromatherapy – a new-age alternative, maybe, to smelling salts. I don’t know what I was thinking when I made it before and ate it so happily, but on this go-round, my first thought was DEAR GOD, PLEASE SAVE MY MOUTH.

So, needless to say, I am not going to tell you any more about that today. And I am so sorry, because this means that I have no new recipe to give you this week. As I type this, I am sitting on the floor of the Amsterdam airport, en route to France(!) for my first travel writing assignment(!!). I will be there for the next week, eating and drinking and feverishly taking notes, pinching myself at regular intervals to make sure that I am not in fact sitting at my desk in Seattle, imagining the whole thing. I will also be hoping that my sinuses soon recover sufficiently that I can actually smell and taste again. That would be really nice.




But before I go, I would like to quickly call your attention to something that may actually be even more perfect for late summer than that eggplant salad. It’s not a new recipe, per se, but as these things go, it’s only slightly used. It’s the recipe for pomodori al forno that ran with my column in the September issue of Bon Appétit. I’ve been meaning to call it to your attention for a couple of weeks now, ever since the magazine came out, and I figure that now is as good a time as any. Yes? I hate leaving you empty-handed.

Pomodori al forno is an appetizer served at Café Lago, one of my favorite restaurants in Seattle, and is, as the name implies, a dish of oven-roasted tomatoes. But these are a very fine specimen of the genre. First, they are roasted long and slow with a bit of sugar and salt, dried oregano, and a good dose of olive oil. Then, when they are tender and a deep shade of scarlet, you transfer them to a bowl, layer them with lots of minced garlic and parsley, pour the (now tomato-infused) oil from the baking dish over the top, and let them marinate for a few hours. They wind up rich, concentrated, and sweetly pungent with garlic and herbs, and I have yet to meet a person who didn’t find them completely, completely addictive. Especially when served with goat cheese and toasts. And especially right now, when we should all be eating tomatoes by the dozen, before winter comes and steals them away.

Happy September, everybody. See you very soon.

A clear sign

I know I’m not supposed to say this, but I think fall may be coming soon. Also, and I know I’m really not supposed to say this, but I baked banana bread again. I’m so sorry, on both counts.


Clearly, I have a problem. If my count is correct, this is the sixth, SIXTH, banana bread and/or cake recipe that I have written about here. Is there some sort of treatment facility for this? A Betty Ford Center for Banana Bread Dependency? I try to stop myself, but I am weak. So weak. Especially when there is honey involved, and when there are crumbly bits of cinnamon sugar on top, and when some of those crumbly bits fall onto the plate and you can press them with the tip of your index finger so that they collect in a sweet, sticky clump, which you can then lift to your mouth and gently, nibblingly, consume. I am so weak about things like that.

It doesn’t help that, as of sometime last week, the rain has arrived in Seattle. I’m sure that we have a few more sunny days in store before it hunkers down for good, but as I type this, I am wearing two layers and contemplating a pair of socks. I am told that I should complain about this - I do have a couple more picnics to squeeze in - but instead, I feel oddly content. I am almost afraid to say it aloud, but I think this might mean that I’m a Real Seattleite. I am heading into my seventh year here, so I guess it’s about time? That, or I have finally started to forget what it was like to live in places that aren’t overcast for eight months of the year? Either way, on Sunday afternoon, after lunch, when the clouds started to hover and a cold wind galloped in and rain pelted the kitchen windows, I lay down on the couch with Jack and took the best, most peaceful nap ever. I didn’t even mind when I woke up a little chilled, with the pattern of the upholstery embossed onto my cheek. I think this is a clear sign of fall, don’t you? Not to mention a big green light for banana bread, which, as everybody knows, is what people, and especially people named Molly, are supposed to eat when they wake up from a nap.


This particular recipe comes, with just a couple of adjustments, from a bakery in Oakland called Bakesale Betty, via the September issue of Bon Appétit. I stumbled upon it last Friday night, while I was trying to organize a teetering stack of magazines on the floor next to my desk before some friends arrived for dinner. Organizing magazines, I find, generally requires thumbing through them at least a little, no matter how rushed I am, and so it was that, on page 135, my eyes fell on the words BANANA BREAD WITH CINNAMON CRUMBLE TOPPING. You can well imagine the noisy chorus of bells this set ringing in my head. It was deafening, like finding yourself in a large, echoing cathedral while the organist is rehearsing. I could hardly keep up a conversation, what with that kind of din. Before the evening was through, I had retrieved three frozen bananas from the freezer - I always keep a stash around - and put them in the refrigerator to thaw. And on Saturday afternoon, I made banana bread.

The recipe isn’t that different, really, from a classic banana bread, the kind that your mother or aunt or best friend’s mother or whoever used to make. But it’s an exceptionally delicate, tender take on the theme, with honey and cinnamon stirred into the batter to make it more interesting and - for the clincher - a generous layer of cinnamon sugar on top, which forms a craggly sort of crust as it bakes. I think it’s my new favorite. In concept, it’s not entirely unlike this recipe, only where that one is chewy and bread-like and bordering on hearty, this one is daintier and more balanced, closer to cake. That doesn’t mean, of course, that you can’t eat it for breakfast, because you can. (Brandon can vouch for that.) It does mean, however, that it’s especially well-suited to the afternoon - to after-nap time, for example, on a weekend in late August. Of course, there’s only one of those left, so if I were you, I might go ahead and preheat the oven now.



Banana Bread with Cinnamon Crumble Topping
Adapted from Bakesale Betty and Bon Appétit, September 2008

For bread:
1 ½ cups all-purpose flour
1 cup sugar
1 tsp. ground cinnamon
1 tsp. baking soda
½ tsp. salt
1 cup mashed ripe banana (about 3 medium bananas)
2 large eggs
½ cup vegetable oil
¼ cup honey
¼ cup water

For topping:
2 Tbsp. sugar
1 tsp. ground cinnamon
2 ½ Tbsp. packed dark brown sugar

Preheat the oven to 350° F. Butter and flour a 9- x 5-inch metal loaf pan. (Alternatively, you can spray the pan lightly with cooking spray and then line it with parchment paper, letting the excess hang over the sides. That’s what I did, and it made it very easy to remove the finished bread from the pan; I just grabbed the parchment and lifted. Also, because I don’t have a 9- x 5-inch pan - and because an 8 ½- x 4 ½-inch is a little too small - I used a 10- x 3-inch pan that I found once at a flea market.)

In a medium bowl, whisk together the flour, sugar, cinnamon, baking soda, and salt. In a large bowl, whisk together the banana, eggs, oil, honey, and water. Add the dry ingredients to the wet ingredients, and stir well. Scrape the batter into the prepared pan.

In a small bowl, mix together the topping ingredients. Sprinkle them evenly over the batter.

Bake the bread until a tester inserted into its center comes out clean, about 1 hour, give or take a little. Cool the bread in the pan on a wire rack for 30 minutes. Then carefully remove the bread from the pan, taking care not to dislodge the topping. Cool completely before slicing.

Yield: 1 loaf

Good neighbors

The summer before last, I had a run-in with one of our neighbors over a blackberry bush. I am not usually the type of person who has run-ins, much less run-ins over fruit-bearing vegetation, but she started it. Have I told you about our mean, nasty, blackberry-hoarding neighbor? No? Well, pull up a chair. And bring a spoon, because I have some blackberry frozen yogurt in the freezer, and unlike some people, I don’t mind sharing.


We had moved into our apartment only a couple of months before, and with summer heading into its fullest flush, we noticed a thicket of blackberry bushes in one corner of the backyard. Needless to say, this was very exciting. The best part was, they were huge. Our yard is fenced on only two sides, and the bushes were sufficiently large that, on one of the unenclosed sides, they formed a partial wall along the property line. As walls go, it was somewhat ugly and unkempt, but it was covered in blackberries. Covered.

So we started picking, and then we picked some more. We made blackberry sorbet and a batch of jam. One afternoon, I decided to make some scones, so I went out with an empty Tupperware to harvest a little more. I was hunched over, picking intently on our side of the bush-wall, daydreaming about baked goods and probably humming something innocent and uplifting, when I heard footsteps. I looked up to see our next-door neighbor, the one whose yard adjoins the bushes, marching across the lawn. She came to a stop a few feet away, looked me up and down, and then spat, “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Stunned, I giggled nervously and explained that we had just moved in, and that I had this great scone recipe that my sister had given me, and that I wanted to make a batch with fresh blackberries, and giggle giggle giggle.

“Well, this is my bush,” she snapped. “I planted it. And I use it every summah to make blackberry cooorrdial.” [In my mind, when I replay our conversation, I give her an upper-class British accent, even though she doesn’t have one. I think it makes her seem especially stern, don’t you? Like a strict governess, or maybe Queen Elizabeth.]

I wish I could tell you that I had a smart retort at the ready, or that I shot her down by pointing out that this particular side of the bush fell on my property or that blackberries are, in this part of the country, a non-native invasive weed, not something that one generally plants. In fact, they are considered a Weed of Concern by King County - I love that term, “Weed of Concern” - and if she did indeed plant these bushes, my (tall, imposing) landlord would probably like to have a word with her and, possibly, request that she pay a gardener to remove the bushes from my side of the property line.

Unfortunately, I only thought of these things after I had skulked away and gone inside to lie down and contemplate the general cruelty of the universe. I also contemplated the Robert Frost poem “Mending Wall” and its wise line, “Good fences make good neighbors.” I love our delicate bush-wall, but for a minute there, I wished for something a little more substantial, like wood or brick or stone. Preferably with barbed wire on top.


Of course, I am able to tell you this now because our neighbor is no longer our neighbor. She still owns the property next door, but she moved out about a year ago and rented it to a couple of girls who are not only nice, but whose wardrobes and hair I covet. And last Friday afternoon, when it was scorchingly hot and all the blackberries were fat and warm, I took my Tupperware and went picking. I came back inside a half hour later with one pound of berries - having also, in that time, had a very nice conversation, pet a cute pug, been invited to a party, and received a glass of lemonade. I feel much better about everything.

And while I can’t exactly spread the good will by inviting you to the party, which already happened, or by sharing the lemonade, which I already drank, I am happy to pass along the recipe for the frozen yogurt that I made from the blackberries. I based it on David’s recipe for strawberry frozen yogurt, which I made twice last month and highly, highly recommend. It’s not frozen yogurt in the Pinkberry sense, so don’t start expecting a mound of rippling soft-serve, but it is utterly delicious - and, in my book, so much better. Also, it’s dead-easy. You macerate the berries in sugar and a small splash of vodka, puree them with plain yogurt and lemon juice, and freeze. That’s all. Think sorbet, essentially, but with a gentle roundness and soft tang from the addition of yogurt. Our friend Ben declared it “terrif,” for which we teased him mercilessly. He was right, though, and assuming that our good neighbors agree, I think I will make another batch this week.



Blackberry Frozen Yogurt
Inspired by The Perfect Scoop, by David Lebovitz

1 pound fresh blackberries, rinsed
¾ cup sugar
2 tsp. vodka
1 cup plain whole-milk yogurt
1 ½ tsp. fresh lemon juice

In a medium bowl, toss the blackberries with the sugar and vodka, stirring until the sugar begins to dissolve. Cover, and let stand at room temperature for 1 hour.

In a blender, process the blackberries and their liquid with the yogurt and lemon juice until smooth. (I generally do this in two batches; it seems to work better that way.) Place a mesh sieve over a medium bowl, and pour the mixture through the sieve to remove the seeds. Taste. It should be a little too sweet at this point, but that’s good; it will taste less sweet when frozen.

Refrigerate the mixture for one hour. Then freeze in your ice cream maker according to the manufacturer’s instructions.

Yield: 1 scant quart

Also, picnics

I have a little theory about summer. It’s called the Picnic Quota, and basically, the idea is this: that a person requires a certain number of picnics per summer (PPS) in order to maintain a reasonable level of happiness through the impending winter. The baseline PPS may vary slightly from person to person, as does the definition of “reasonable,” but you get the idea. As a general theory, I think it is pretty airtight. I also, incidentally, think I need more picnics.


The thought hit me this weekend, when I got caught in the rain while walking the dog - did I mention that we got a dog? We got a dog! - and realized with a start that I am not at all ready for summer to end. The calendar has somehow rolled around to August, which means that we have approximately one month, maybe six weeks, before the real Seattle rains arrive, and I haven’t yet had a swimsuit on. I haven’t even rolled up my jeans and waded. I don’t know what is wrong with me. Also, picnics. I have a quota to fill.

So, in an effort to promote a picnic or two, I planned to tell you today about something called Deep Dish Fruit Pie. It’s a recipe that I found in my grandmother’s recipe box while I was in Oklahoma, written on an index card in her loopy handwriting. I’m not sure why she called it a pie, because it’s more of a cobbler, or what some might refer to as a “dump cake.” (I love that name.) Either way, I made it yesterday, and it was terrible. It was too sweet, for one, but even worse, it was oddly jiggly, almost puddingesque, and the batter separated so that the fruit was bobbing in melted butter, lethargic and forlorn, like tiny buoys in an oil spill. I wasted four cups of blueberries on that sorry mess. FOUR. It was so sad.

However, as I scooped said mess into the compost, I remembered something else, another something I had meant to tell you about. And glory be, as my grandmother would say, this something was even better for a picnic.


Under ordinary circumstances, I am not much of a potato person. I like them as much as anybody, but to tell you the truth, when it comes to thinking about what to make for dinner, I tend to forget that they exist. But earlier this summer, I fell hard for the Hasselback potato, as you might remember, and it left me feeling sort of soft and susceptible. So when I saw a recipe in Gourmet for fingerling potatoes braised in a skillet and tossed with fresh herbs, I couldn’t help but start to daydream a little, and then clip it posthaste.

The principle is simple. You simmer the potatoes, peeled and halved, in a skillet with olive oil, salt, pepper, garlic, and water to cover, and when they feel tender to the prick of a knife, you reduce the liquid to a loose glaze, bang in a generous palmful of herbs, and eat. Thanks to their gentle bath in the salted water and oil, the potatoes get silky and rich and full of flavor - not unlike a regular boiled potato, but better. I ate them warm that first night, with scrambled eggs and blanched green beans tossed in olive oil, and the next day, I ate them cold, right out of the fridge. The third day, on a whim, we threw them in a tote bag and took them to the lawn at Seattle Center, and they were unspeakably good that way, outdoors, on a blanket, eaten at room temperature with a little extra salt. We also had some cheese, crusty bread, yellow wax beans, and spiked lemonade in a water bottle, but I don’t think any of those swayed my opinion in the slightest. Not even the lemonade. Scout’s honor.

The original recipe calls for finishing them with chives and tarragon, but I opted for chives and parsley instead. Parsley is always classic, right? It’s like red lipstick. Anyway, tarragon, I find, has a sneaky way of making things taste absolutely awful. And while we’re being honest here, I guess I should also tell you that peeling fingerling potatoes is a royal pain. That doesn’t mean that you shouldn’t make these, of course, because you should. I’m just saying. Go slow and make a meditation of it, and it can be quite pleasant. Whatever you do, don’t try to do it in a hurry. Take it from me: I got a nick in my thumbnail today because of these. But I also got a good excuse for a picnic, so I don’t really mind.



Fingerling Potatoes with Chives and Parsley
Adapted from Gourmet, July 2008

These would be delicious with almost anything: roasted chicken (served hot or cold), eggs any style, salmon (served hot or cold), you name it.

1 ½ lb. fingerling potatoes, such as Russian Banana
1 ½ cups water
3 Tbsp. olive oil
1 large garlic clove, pressed
½ tsp. salt
A few grinds of black pepper
3 Tbsp. chopped chives
1 Tbsp. chopped Italian parsley

Peel the potatoes, and halve them lengthwise.

Combine the potatoes, water, olive oil, garlic, salt, and pepper in a nonstick 10-inch skillet.


Place the skillet over medium-high heat, and bring to a simmer. Cover, reduce the heat slightly, and continue to simmer briskly, shaking the skillet occasionally, until the potatoes are just tender, about 10 minutes. Remove the lid, and continue to cook until most of the water has evaporated and the potatoes are glazed, about 5 minutes. Stir in the herbs.

Serve hot, warm, or at room temperature, with extra salt for sprinkling.

Yield: about 4 servings