By popular demand

Good people! Here it is, by popular demand: my new friend Aperol. Your new friend Aperol. Our soon-to-be old friend Aperol, a most cooperative portrait subject.




I first tasted Aperol last November, when Brandon and I spent the weekend after Thanksgiving at a friend’s apartment in Brooklyn. We were wandering around that Saturday, I think, content to have no plans and no restaurant to run, and late in the afternoon, we wound up at Marlow & Sons for some oysters and a plate of soppressata. There was something called an Aperol Spritzer on the cocktail menu, and though I knew that Aperol is bitter and I had yet to meet a bitter drink I liked, I went temporarily insane and ordered it. It came in a Collins glass with a straw, just Aperol and Muscadet and some soda, and I thought, oh well, how bad could it be. It was cold and fizzy, and there was bitterness there, but it was a measured bitterness, very fragrant and pleasantly sweet. I was surprised by how much I liked it. The flavor of the Aperol reminded me of what it’s like to eat an orange peel, the way the bitter flavor doesn’t feel like an off-note or an accident, the way it’s inseparable from the flavor of the thing itself. I wished there were more of it, and I was sorry when it was over.

So I came home and started ordering every drink I saw that contained the word Aperol. I also started feeling like I need a vacation in Palm Springs, because this is how dark it was in my kitchen at noon today. NOON.

Don’t worry: I made that drink only to photograph it. I wouldn’t drink a cocktail at noon. Or maybe I would. Maybe I did! Ooh la.

I have to say this before we go on: I am not a spirits writer. If you want to delve into the topic of booze, the person to see is Mr. Jason Wilson, spirits columnist for the Washington Post. But in the past couple of months, I’ve read up a little on Aperol, and I’ve learned that what I drank in Brooklyn was essentially a classic Aperol Spritz. Like Campari and Cynar, Aperol belongs to the family of Italian bitters, or amari, commonly consumed before a meal and said to stimulate the appetite. Nearly every region of Italy has its own bitter spirit, and Aperol comes from Padua, in the Veneto. It’s a vivid shade of reddish orange and very low in alcohol - 11 percent, less than most wines - and it gets its flavor from some thirty herbs and spices and fruits, the most prominent among them being orange, rhubarb, and gentian root, whatever that is. It smells a little, just a little, like medicine - though less so than Campari, if you’re familiar with that. It’s also less bitter than Campari, sweeter and more floral, and if you have it on hand, you’re never far from a good drink.

That drink up there, in the second photograph, is the one I mentioned in my post last week, made from Aperol, white wine, and grapefruit juice. It’s a pretty color, isn’t it? I think the proper word for that color is salmon, and there was a time, a time happily long ago, when my mother had a lipstick just like it. The name of this drink is the Pamplemousse (French for grapefruit), and I had it at the Walrus and the Carpenter, one of my favorite restaurants in town. (I should note that one of its owners, Renee Erickson, is a friend and mentor of ours, but I would love the place even if I didn’t know her from a fence post.) I did a little investigative work and got the recipe, and with permission, I pass it along to you. It’s very light and immensely refreshing, and the Aperol works quietly, underlining the bitterness of the grapefruit at the same time that it sweetens it. It’s going to make your February go a lot faster.


Pamplemousse
Adapted from the Walrus and the Carpenter

At home, I serve this drink in a Champagne coupe, but at the Walrus and the Carpenter, they put it in a martini glass. Frankly, I like it so much that I could probably be convinced to drink it out of a rusty bucket, so serve it in whatever you like.

Also, consider the amount of Aperol below a starting point. I like to use a little more. And if you have sparkling wine on hand, try substituting it for the white wine - a great variation.

½ oz. Aperol
2 oz. freshly squeezed grapefruit juice, pulp strained out and discarded
2 oz. dry white wine

Fill a tall glass about halfway with ice cubes. Add the Aperol, juice, and wine, and stir to blend. Strain into glass.

Yield: 1 drink

January 30

Greetings from Book Proposal Land.



I lied. That isn’t really what Book Proposal Land looks like. Not in the winter, anyway.



(Only in the summer, from a ferry.)

It’s quiet here. The nightlife isn’t much to write home about.

Socks and slippers, mostly.

There’s not a lot of sensible eating here in Book Proposal Land. Almost no vegetables.

Just pancakes and coffee. Cereal. Girl Talk. Some John Mellencamp, when I have a sweet tooth. But last night, my friend Sam called, and then there was yellow curry and rice.




And a cocktail with Aperol, white wine, and grapefruit juice. Okay, two cocktails with Aperol, white wine, and grapefruit juice.

I’m going back in. See you in a few.

Yes, already

Well. The good news is that I’m making headway in my book proposal. I was working on it at a cafe on Saturday afternoon, and I could actually see it taking shape, right there in front of me. I love that feeling. I was absolutely elated. I lost all sense of time. I was in it up to my eyebrows. And I must have looked it, too, because as I was packing up to leave, the girl sitting next to me commented politely that I must have gotten some very good work done, because I was staring at my computer so intensely. And I decided that from now on, I should work only in the privacy of my home, so no one else has to witness that.

And that’s the good news. The bad news is, I’m tired. Did you know that I have a neighbor who, though at home all day, waits until night to do his gardening and outdoor home improvement projects? As I type this, my poor, stressed-out dog has his nose pressed to the window, watching our neighbor stroll the length of his yard, surveying the territory with a flashlight of such size and power that it could double as a fine searchlight. Living next to this is one of many things that can make a person tired.




I hope you people were serious when you said you were excited about the prospect of more breakfast recipes in 2011. Because I have another one for you. Yes, already. I’m going to try to limit it to one a month from now on, but what can you do? I woke up the other morning, realized I had the ingredients for a batch of oatmeal popovers, and the next thing I knew, they were made.



As with last week’s fresh ginger muffins, this recipe - or at least the ingredients part of it - comes to us from Ms. Marion Cunningham and The Breakfast Book. It’s a very subtle riff on a classic popover, one that includes a fistful of rolled oats that you’ve coarsely ground in the food processor. Her headnotes explain that she uses the oatmeal for additional texture, and I can attest that the result is really lovely: a little heartier, a scant degree more substantial, than an ordinary popover. But I would add that the oats bring some flavor too, which I like very much. It’s a quiet flavor, one you only notice if you look for it, but it’s there. Ordinary popovers can sometimes taste too eggy, but the oats counter that, giving the flavor some depth and grounding. It felt fiddly to haul out the food processor first thing in the morning, before I’d even put on real clothes, but I was glad I did. Actually, I might grind extra oats next time, so they’re ready whenever I want them.

I have to admit, though, that I did make some adjustments to the method. Ms. Cunningham starts her popovers in a cold oven, but that sort of terrifies me. I have an electric oven, and the only time that I tried the cold-oven popover method, the lower heating element scorched my popovers in the process of preheating. I am not a nice person when my breakfast gets ruined. Maybe it was a fluke, but I don’t use the cold-oven popover method anymore. I start my popovers in a hot oven, and I also preheat the pan before I pour in the batter, which gives them an extra boost. The method that I like best is detailed nicely in the book The New Best Recipe, and so that’s what I’ve written below. Basically, you get Marion Cunningham’s concept and ingredients, with The New Best Recipe’s method. I hope she’ll forgive me for taking such liberties.


Oatmeal Popovers
Adapted from The Breakfast Book and The New Best Recipe

I’ve made these popovers twice now, and I find that they don’t rise quite as exuberantly high as normal (oatmeal-less) popovers. But they’re still perfectly airy on the inside, and the oil in the cups of the pan make the outer edges nice and crisp.

Oh, and Marion Cunningham says that the combination of oatmeal and marmalade is very good. She’s right.

2 large eggs
1 cup whole milk
¾ cup all-purpose flour
1/3 cup rolled oats, coarsely ground in a food process or blender
½ tsp. salt
1 Tbsp. unsalted butter, melted
1 Tbsp. vegetable oil, for the pan
Orange marmalade, for serving (optional)

In a large bowl – ideally one with a pour spout, if you have it – whisk the eggs and milk until well combined, about 20 seconds. Whisk the flour, oats, and salt in a separate bowl, and add to the egg mixture. Stir with a wooden spoon or spatula just until the flour is incorporated. The mixture will still be lumpy. Add the melted butter, and whisk until the batter is smooth, about 30 seconds. Set aside at room temperature for 30 minutes. (This gives the gluten time to relax and brings the chilled ingredients closer to room temperature, so that the batter isn’t quite so cold when it goes into the oven.)

While the batter rests, put ½ teaspoon oil into each cup of a popover pan. Adjust the oven rack to the lowest position, place the popover pan in the oven, and preheat to 450° F. After the batter has rested, remove the hot pan from the oven and, working quickly, distribute the batter evenly among the 6 cups of the pan. (If your bowl doesn’t have a spout, you might want to transfer it to a vessel that does; it’ll allow you to work much more quickly.) Return the pan to the oven. Bake for 20 minutes - and DO NOT open the oven door. Lower the heat to 350° F, and bake until evenly golden brown, about 15 minutes more. Remove the popovers from the pan and cool for 2 to 3 minutes before eating.

Yield: 6 popovers

Note: If you don’t have a popover pan, you can use a regular muffin tin. Don’t use all 12 cups, though; use only the 10 outer cups. You’ll need extra oil to grease them.

And try to be cheerful

Okay. This year, I’ve decided, is going to be the year of The Breakfast Book. I’m allergic to resolutions, so let’s not use that word. Let’s just say that if I do nothing else in 2011, I would like to spend more time with one of the worthiest books on my shelf, one that has never done me wrong, one authored by she of the famous yeasted waffle, the esteemed Ms. Marion Cunningham. There is no one I trust more on the matter of breakfast. There is also no one else that I know of who has managed to wedge a treatise on manners into a chapter on quick breads. Witness a selection from “Breakfast Table Civility and Deportment” (page 53):

3. Clean fingernails, please.
5. Sit up straight and try to be cheerful.
7. Because everyone is defenseless at breakfast, there should be no contentiousness or crossness.
13. And don’t answer questions in a saucy manner.

I’m hoping to master #13 within the year.

This is Marion Cunningham’s fresh ginger muffin, the best muffin I have made in memory. Possibly ever. I like muffins, but often, I wind up leaving half of the batch on the counter, uneaten, until they’re stiff and dry and I throw them away. I’m more of a scone person than a muffin person. However. I will tell you that in the less than 48 hours since I made a batch of said ginger muffins, eight of them are gone, and of those, only one was not eaten by me. If you give me another hour, a ninth might disappear.

I’ve never seen another ginger muffin, cake, cookie, or other sweet that uses the method this one does. It starts with a knob of fresh ginger root with the skin on, a perplexing and maybe even off-putting detail that, it turns out, works very well.




You mince the ginger in a food processor, and I think this is why you want that skin: without it, the ginger would probably fall apart when confronted with a whirring steel blade. The skin helps the ginger to hold its integrity, so that it reduces to small, discrete bits, not something with the consistency of a smoothie. Then you take those bits and put them in a skillet with an equal measure of sugar. The sugar melts to syrup, and warmed in that syrup, the ginger cooks just enough to lose its sting. Then you take it off the heat, add lemon zest and a little more sugar, and there it is: a lot of flavor in a small, ugly, turmeric-colored heap, ready for mixing into a bowl of batter - which, in this case, is sagely moistened with buttermilk.

The resulting muffins are tender and pale yellow and look a little like cornbread. Mine wound up with humps like madeleines, which is weird, because I’ve never been able to consistently make madeleines with humps like that. Totally unfair. Anyway, the crumb is damp and sturdy but not heavy, and if you eat them while they’re warm, you’ll find that the top has a lacy edge that gives with a crackle. That’s nice.



And then the flavor comes: that quiet, breathy, slow-building heat of fresh ginger root - more a feeling than a flavor, almost. If you eat three muffins in an afternoon, as I did yesterday, you may actually experience a burning sensation at the back of your throat, which I tell you not as a warning, but because it’s awesome. Also: I didn’t notice any obvious ginger skin as I ate, in case you wondered. I imagine it’s good fiber for the digestive tract, if you don’t mind thinking of it that way.

Having now eaten these for breakfast and dessert, I’m thinking they might make a great cupcake - maybe with lemon cream cheese frosting? If you try it, please report.

Marion Cunningham’s Fresh Ginger Muffins
Adapted from The Breakfast Book

A word of warning: before beginning, take care to wash the ginger root well, checking its crevices and wrinkles for dirt.

One (~3-ounce) piece of unpeeled ginger root
¾ cup plus 3 Tbsp. sugar
2 Tbsp. grated lemon zest
8 Tbsp. (1 stick) unsalted butter, at room temperature
2 large eggs
1 cup buttermilk
2 cups all-purpose flour
½ tsp. salt
¾ tsp. baking soda

Preheat the oven to 375°F. Grease a muffin tin.

Cut the unpeeled ginger root into large chunks. If you have a food processor, process the ginger until it is in tiny pieces; alternatively, mince by hand. Measure out ¼ cup – or a little more, if you like. It’s better to have too much than too little. Put the ginger and ¼ cup sugar in a small skillet and cook over medium heat, stirring, until the sugar has melted and the mixture is hot. Don’t walk away from the pan: this takes only a couple of minutes. Set aside to cool.

In a small bowl, whisk together the lemon zest and 3 tablespoons of sugar. Add to the ginger mixture.

Put the butter in the bowl of a stand mixer (or, a mixing bowl, if you plan to use handheld beaters or mix by hand). Beat the butter for a second or two, then add the remaining ½ cup sugar, and beat until smooth. Add the eggs, and beat well. Add the buttermilk, and beat until blended. Add the flour, salt, and baking soda, and beat just until smooth. Add the ginger-lemon mixture, and beat to mix well. Spoon the batter into the prepared muffin tin. Bake for 18 to 20 minutes, or until a tester comes out clean. Serve warm.

Yield: 12 muffins

I am celebrating

2010 didn’t exit quietly, and the last month of it was a royal mess. But my aunt is okay now - even heading back to work! The rewards of health! - and for that, we’re relieved. I’m home again and excited for a new year, for the return of plain, normal, everyday life. I love plain, normal, everyday life. The laundry, the occasional clean sheets, the morning coffee that I never brew right, the dog asleep on the couch, the arrival of the mail, the mail carrier who hates the dog, the restaurant, the work, the split pea soup.

Few things are uglier than split pea soup, but that is alright with me. I’ve been on something of a split pea binge for the past month. (Am I the first person in the world to write the words split, pea, and binge in sequence? If so, I assume I will also be the last.) I’d made split pea soup a few times in years past, and once I even made an exotic version involving miso, but until this past fall, I hadn’t found one I felt loyal to. Now that I have, I am celebrating by eating a totally immoderate amount of it. By the way, if the idea of a split pea binge doesn’t ring your bell, I can also recommend a Reese’s Peanut Butter Trees binge. ‘Tis the season, -ish. Hard to go wrong, either way.

Split pea soup is a straightforward thing, and it hardly needs a recipe. Whether it includes ham or not, the process is mostly the same: get some aromatics going in a pot, add split peas and your liquid of choice, and cook until the peas soften, soften some more, and finally settle to a pleasing mush. But I learned my recipe, or the bones of it, from my friend Winnie, and though it looks plain on paper, it really does the job.




Behold the Winnie in her natural habitat. She’s one of the finest, most intuitive cooks I know: even when she’s cooking from a recipe, she hardly looks at it. She just knows what to do. Though she lives on the other side of the continent, I was lucky enough to get to cook with her several times in 2010, and to learn a few things in the process. For instance, I learned that one should never be without a stash of Allan Benton’s country ham, the backbone of this split pea soup and, now, the newest staple of my kitchen. I would have taken a picture of it for you, but I used my last package a week ago. 2011 is off to a rough start.

Until Winnie let me in on the not-so-secret secret, I used to be daunted by the idea of trying to get a hold of proper country ham: the southern kind, slow cured and naturally smoked, fragrant and salty and thoroughly hammy. I thought you had to buy a whole leg - and maybe from some producers, you do. But Allan Benton sells his in vacuum-packed slices that are perfect for chucking into a soup pot or frying in a skillet, saucing with apple cider, and then sandwiching in a biscuit. Whatever you like. Sometimes I open the fridge, pull out a package, and just sniff at it. It’s so smoky - in the true wood-smoke way, not that trumped-up liquid smoke way - that you can smell it even through the plastic. Now you know how I spend my free time.

Winnie’s split pea soup, as she taught it to me, begins with a slice of Benton’s ham, which you fry in a soup pot with a little olive oil. When it’s golden on both sides and the bottom of the pan has a few nice, browned bits stuck to it, you add some chopped carrot and onion and sweat them for ten minutes or so, and then you add split peas and water. There’s no need for stock here; the ham flavor is so generous that it fills the pot. Then you forget about it for at least an hour, and likely two. And then you set the table, and because it’s January and dark outside and you happen to have bought some candles at the store, you light one or two or three, and dinner is ready.


Split Pea Soup with Country Ham
Inspired by Winnie Yang

Until recently, I didn’t know that the age of dried legumes made a difference in their cooking time, but it does. If your dried split peas are fairly fresh, they will take less time to cook than those that have sat on the grocery store shelf for a while. In any case, cook them until they completely break down. If yours are on the older side, you may need to start with a little more water than I call for below, since the cooking time will be on the long side.

Olive oil
1 slice (~4 ounces) Benton’s hickory smoked country ham, or similar
1 large onion or leek, finely diced
2 medium carrots, finely diced
2 cups dried split peas
8 cups water, plus more as needed
Salt, to taste
Apple cider vinegar, to taste

In a soup pot or Dutch oven, warm a little olive oil over medium high heat. Add the ham, and cook, turning once, until golden brown on both sides. Add the leek and carrot, and cook, stirring occasionally, until tender but not browned, about 10 minutes. (If the pan seems dry when you add the vegetables, add oil as needed.) Add the split peas and 8 cups of water. Bring to a boil; then reduce the heat and simmer gently, stirring regularly to prevent scorching, for 90 minutes to 2 hours, or until the peas have completely broken down and the soup has a creamy texture. This amount of water makes for a fairly thick soup; if you like yours thinner, add more water until it reaches your desired texture. The slice of ham should break apart as it cooks, but if necessary, use a couple of forks to tear it into smaller pieces. Taste the soup, and salt as needed. If the flavor is a little dull, add a splash or two of apple cider vinegar; you shouldn’t taste the vinegar in the soup, but it should subtly wake up the flavor.

Serve hot.

Yield: about six servings

You might hear someone sing

My family is not having the Christmas that you hear about in carols and television specials. I am typing this from California, where we were supposed to arrive next Tuesday for the holiday festivities, but instead I flew down six days early to help take care of my aunt, who is in the hospital. My mother is here, too, and my aunt’s two daughters, my cousins. My aunt came down with an acute illness, very fast and sudden and serious, but after more than a week in the hospital, she’s going to be alright. Today she even cracked a joke. I was so elated that I tried out a couple of bad puns, and she actually laughed at them. It was a good day. I’m glad to be here.





My mother and I spent the late afternoon sitting in squeaky, vinyl-covered chairs next to my aunt’s hospital bed, reading books while she napped. At one point, through the wall, I could hear an old man in the next room start to sing. The sound was muffled, and I couldn’t make out the words, and he was not what is commonly called a good singer. But he sang easily, cheerfully, the kind of slow, ambling song you might hear someone sing beside a campfire in an old western. He went on like that for maybe ten minutes. I hoped he would go on forever. For the past few days, I’d been wanting to write here, but I wasn’t sure what to say. Then I heard that man singing, and I thought, Well, there you go. This is what you write about. Exactly what’s happening.

Wade way in

November was nice, but what happened to it? Hi.

Our visit to the East Coast was good and long and involved a lot of sleeping and pizza research, the common themes of our days off since Delancey came along. I wrote a story about stuffing for this fine newspaper - you know that it’s not just for Thanksgiving, right? You can eat stuffing whenever you want - and now I’m working on a story for this fine magazine. But lately, my head is very full of Possible Future Book. I want you to know that I thought long and hard before I typed that last sentence. Because now it means that I can’t chicken out.

The idea of writing another book has been percolating for a while, but to be honest, I wasn’t ready. And to be even more honest, though I know approximately what the story is, I still don’t know what precise path that story will take. I’m the kind of person who has to write for a while, wade way in and splash around, before I can see where I’m going. (I write everything that way, including this blog post.) But I’m ready for that slog. I’m excited for it. Winter was made for projects, I think. So I’m going to write a book proposal and see what I’ve got. Who knows. But I wanted you to know what I’ve been up to, and what I’ll be up to for some time to come. Knowing you’re here makes me feel braver.




Knowing there’s a tin of butter cookies with cacao nibs on the kitchen counter makes me feel braver, too. You should try it.

I’ve been a little wary of posting this recipe, because it’s a close cousin of this one, and because it uses whole wheat, which we’ve been talking about a lot here recently, and I don’t want to beat you over the head with it. But the truth is, if you made those whole wheat chocolate chip cookies - and I know a lot of you did, you excellent people - you’ve probably got some whole wheat flour around, and maybe you might like another place to use it? Like the chocolate chip cookies before them, these butter cookies combine the flavor of whole wheat and chocolate, but in a more subtle, delicate, refined way. If the natural habitat of a chocolate chip cookie is a lunchbox, say, the natural habitat of these cookies is the saucer of a teacup. And they’re even quicker to make, which is noteworthy, because chocolate chip cookies aren’t exactly slow and laborious. They also make a handsome gift, if you can stay out of them.




This recipe comes from the brand-new book by Alice Medrich, she of so many great sweets, and I’ve already baked four batches of them. (Admittedly, two and a half of those were for an event to celebrate her book. Another half batch went into my mouth. And the last batch is for gifting, if they survive the weekend.) There’s a lot of talk these days about using whole grain flours for flavor as opposed to using them for reasons of health, and while the latter is certainly admirable, I’m on board for flavor. Let’s be clear about that. These cookies would probably be very nice with white flour, but what makes them work, really work, is the whole wheat flour. I fed them to my friend Olaiya, and she told me she would have never known that the flavor she was tasting was wheat. She thought it was some sort of warm, nutty mystery spice. Whole wheat flour is also a smart tweak, texture-wise: a sablé cookie should have a crumbly, pleasantly sandy feel - sable is French for “sand” - and the natural coarseness of whole wheat accentuates that. They crumble almost instantly, and then they start to melt, and the cacao nibs kick in with exactly the right amount of crunch. Would it be weird to say that these cookies feel nice between my teeth? I’m all for weird. They feel nice between my teeth.


Whole Wheat Sablés with Cacao Nibs
From Alice Medrich’s Chewy Gooey Crispy Crunchy Melt-in-Your-Mouth Cookies

This recipe is particularly quick to assemble if you get out a scale and use weight measurements. So quick! I used whole wheat pastry flour because I keep it around (for scones, mostly), but you can also use a mixture of regular whole wheat flour and white flour. And I don’t see any reason why you couldn’t substitute white whole wheat flour for the regular whole wheat, if you have it. Oh, and if you live in Seattle or nearby, try the cacao nibs from Theo. They’re the best I’ve had.

2 cups (9 oz.) whole wheat pastry flour, OR 1 cup (4.5 oz.) all-purpose flour plus 1 scant cup (4 oz.) whole wheat flour
14 Tbsp. (1 ¾ sticks) unsalted butter, softened
½ cup (3 ½ oz.) sugar
¼ tsp. salt
1 tsp. vanilla extract
1/3 cup (about 1 ¼ oz.) roasted cacao nibs

If using the two flours, combine them in a bowl, and mix with a whisk or fork.

In a medium bowl, with a large spoon or an electric mixer, beat the butter with the sugar, salt, and vanilla until smooth and creamy but not fluffy, about 1 minute (with the mixer). Scrape down the sides of the bowl with a spatula, and add the nibs. Beat briefly to incorporate. Add the flour, and mix until just incorporated. Scrap the dough into a mass and, if necessary, knead it a little with your hands to make sure that the flour is completely incorporated. Form the dough into a 12-by-2-inch log. Wrap and refrigerate for at least 2 hours, or overnight.

Set racks in the upper and lower thirds of the oven, and preheat the oven to 350°F. Line 2 cookie sheets with parchment paper.

Use a sharp knife to cut the cold dough log into ¼-inch-thick slices. Place the cookies at least 1 ½ inches apart on the prepared sheet pans.

Bake for 12 to 14 minutes, or until the cookies are light golden brown at the edges, rotating the pans from top to bottom and front to back halfway through the baking time. Cool the cookies for a minute on the pans, then transfer them (with or without their parchment) to a rack to cool completely. Repeat with remaining dough.

These cookies are good on the first day, but they’re best with a little age, after at least a day or two. Store in an airtight container at room temperature for up to a month.

Yield: about 48 cookies