A lot of rhubarb

I am reliably fickle about rhubarb recipes. Every spring, I think, I am destined to fall for a different one. At this point in my life, if all goes well and life expectancy charts are accurate, I probably have about fifty springs left, which means fifty more rhubarb recipes to love. The fifty springs part is sort of depressing, but on the upside, it’s really quite a lot of rhubarb. I’m looking forward to it.



In the meantime, I am pleased to announce that this spring, my allegiance lies in a pot of roasted rhubarb with white wine and vanilla bean. Eaten cold, ideally.

This particular recipe was inspired by a series of seasonal recipe collections called Canal House Cooking, which I learned about from my friend Maria. Canal House Cooking is hard to describe, and I love that about it. Written, photographed, illustrated, and published by Christopher Hirsheimer and Melissa Hamilton, a founding editor of Saveur magazine and the former food editor of the same, respectively, it’s part magazine and part cookbook, published in three volumes a year: Summer, Fall & Holiday, and Winter & Spring. I bought a three-volume subscription when I first learned of it, and when the third volume arrived a few weeks ago, I renewed my subscription in under 24 hours. I think this makes me an official fan. I want to cook almost every recipe they print, and the books themselves are so inviting, so elegant but easygoing in tone, that I sort of want to carry one around with me everywhere, just to keep the good feeling going. I think this makes me an official creepy person.

Either way, in the most recent volume, the third one, Winter & Spring, there is a recipe for roasted rhubarb in red wine, and it caught my eye. So when I spotted some rhubarb at the farmers’ market last weekend, I bought a couple of pounds with this recipe in mind. As it happened, however, when I got home, I discovered that I didn’t have an open bottle of red wine lying around. It seemed wasteful to open a new one only to use a small portion, so I decided to use the open bottle of white wine that I did have lying around. I’m not sure how my white wine version compares to the original, and I may never find out, because now that I’ve made it this way, I feel no desire to make anything else, ever. Not before next spring. You understand.




Cooked rhubarb rarely wins beauty contests, and this recipe won’t change that record. But it’s delicious enough that I don’t care. It’s fresh rhubarb, cut into short lengths, tossed in a pot with wine and sugar and a vanilla bean, baked until it goes tender enough to slump juicily on the end of a fork. I’ve made a very similar recipe that called for water instead of wine and orange zest instead of vanilla, and it’s very good, too. But what’s outstanding about this is just that: the wine and the vanilla. Where water works fine, wine brings a flavor and fragrance of its own, an added dimension, a dose of sweetness and acidity that balance and complement the flavor of rhubarb. And though I do like rhubarb with orange in almost any incarnation, vanilla bean is subtler, able to bring out and underline the best in rhubarb without masking it. It’s not too sweet, and it’s not too tart, and though it would probably be nice with Greek yogurt or ice cream or a simple cake, I take mine straight, by which I mean straight out of the refrigerator. I don’t even need a plate.

P.S. See you out there!



Roasted Rhubarb
Inspired by Canal House Cooking, Volume 3

For the wine here, I used our house white at Delancey: Château de Pellehaut Harmonie de Gascogne, a blend of Ugni Blanc, Colombard, Gros Manseng, Chardonnay, and Sauvignon Blanc. It’s bright and crisp and citrusy.

2 lb. rhubarb, trimmed and cut into 3-inch lengths
½ cup sugar
½ cup crisp white wine
1 vanilla bean, split

Set a rack in the lower third of the oven, and preheat the oven to 350°F.

Put the rhubarb in a Dutch oven or other deep oven-safe pot. Add the sugar, wine, and vanilla bean, and stir to mix. Bake (uncovered) for about 30 minutes, or until very tender, giving the pot a gentle stir about midway through to ensure that the rhubarb cooks evenly.

Note: I like to eat this cold, though I imagine you could also serve it warm.

Yield: 4 to 6 servings, depending on how greedy you are.

Ours now

I don’t know how this could be possible, but according to the calendar, it’s been a year since my book first came out, a whole entire year that went by in what I could swear was only 45 minutes. And today, though I do sort of want that year back, I’m happy to report that the paperback edition has just been released. It’s leaner, it’s meaner: it’s the same book, but cheaper! I dare you to say that three times fast.

Over the past year, or 45 minutes, however you look at it, many of you have written to me to say that you’ve read the book, or that you’ve cooked or baked from it, and I cannot thank you enough for that. I’ve read and reread and re-reread your letters. I keep every one. Writing a book is a strange and sometimes lonely process, so to come out on the other side and find that there are people reading it, real people who write excellent letters and like banana bread as much as I do, is a tremendous feeling. This book is ours now, not just mine. I like that very much.

I had the good luck to get to do a book tour last spring, to come meet some of you in your cities, and I feel even luckier to get to do it again this spring. I have another recipe to share here before I head out, but I wanted to go ahead and give you the list of dates and cities and whatnot. (I wish it could be longer, but it’s not really up to me.) I said this same thing a year ago, and I want to say it again: please come out and say hello, and let me shake your hand and thank you in person. I’ll be looking for you.


Seattle, WA
March 25, 7:00 pm
Talk + Booksigning
University Book Store
Free event, open to the public

Corte Madera, CA
March 29, 7:00 pm
Talk + Booksigning
Book Passage
Free event, open to the public

Los Angeles, CA
March 30, 7:30 pm
Talk + Booksigning
Skylight Books
Free event, open to the public

Tulsa, OK
April 1, 7:00 pm
Talk + Booksigning
Community Food Bank of Eastern Oklahoma (through Book Smart Tulsa)
Free event, open to the public

Brookline, MA
April 5, 7:00 pm
Talk + Booksigning
Brookline Booksmith
Free event, open to the public

New York, NY
April 6, 7:00 pm
Talk + Booksigning
Posman Books at Chelsea Market
Free event, open to the public

Orcas Island, WA
April 12, 3:30 pm
Talk + Booksigning
Emmanuel Parish Hall
Free event, open to the public

UPDATE! Please note that the date of this event has changed:
Seattle, WA
May 10, 6:30 pm
Talk + Booksigning
Ballard Branch, Seattle Public Library
Free event, open to the public

Not a likely love

Well, would you look at that! Yesterday was Saint Patrick’s Day, and how fitting, I’m writing about scones! Which are Irish, of course - and, well, also Scottish, and English, and generally British, but anyway, they’re Thatapproximatepartoftheworldish, at least. I should quit while I’m ahead.



When I was growing up, my elementary school was near a health food store called the Earth. It was not a large place, nor was it fancy. It was not Whole Foods. It was small and low-ceilinged, lit with fluorescent tubes and lined with vitamins in brown bottles and beeswax chapstick and sesame bars in plastic wrappers, and it smelled like lentil soup. There was a cafe at one end where they served sandwiches and baked goods, and sometimes, after my mother picked me up from school, she would take me there for a snack. It was pretty forward-thinking of her, I now realize; Oklahoma City didn’t, and still doesn’t, have a lot of places like the Earth, places where you could buy natural cheeses or soy milk or jojoba shampoo. Not that I cared so much about that stuff; what I cared about was the carob brownie they sold at the cafe, and the bottle of lemon-flavored Crystal Geyser sparkling water I was allowed to wash it down with. (This was the early 80s, and the world had only just gotten flavored sparkling water. It was a heady time.) My mother, for her part, would get something similarly fine: a whole wheat scone with dried apricots. For me, it was not a likely love - there was no carob, no sparkle, no fizz - but as I got older, I had to admit that my mother was onto something. She knew what was what. I still think about that scone today.

That’s right: I’m celebrating Saint Patrick’s Day with a health-food-store scone from central Oklahoma. Cheers!



You’re going to like them. I swear. The Earth brought them in from a place called Lovelight Bakery in the nearby town of Norman, and my mother liked them so much that she would sometimes special-order them, a dozen at a time, and stash them away in the freezer to be meted out over a number of weeks. Unlike some whole wheat pastries, they weren’t paperweights masquerading as food: they did taste delicately of wheat, but they were tender, fine-crumbed, even heading toward flaky, studded with tangy apricots. I haven’t had an Earth/Lovelight whole wheat scone in probably twenty years, but a couple of weeks ago, I was sitting in a meeting when I had a sudden vision of none other. (Some people get their ideas in the shower; apparently, I get mine while zoning out in meetings. In fact, the idea for this book came to me in a weekly staff meeting at my previous job. What looked like dutiful note-taking, tra la la la la, was actually a rough sketch of the table of contents.) Clearly, I needed to make a whole wheat scone. So when I got home, I e-mailed my mother to see, by chance, if she had the recipe, and when she didn’t, I decided to work up my own.

I started from the scone recipe in my book, because it’s my favorite basic scone. For my first go, I decided to replace the entirety of the recipe’s usual white flour with whole wheat pastry flour, and let me tell you, in case you ever considered such an idea, do not do that. The dough was so heavy that it could hardly rise in the oven, and texture- and flavor-wise, it was a stunning approximation of particle board. Actually, if I’d been trying to develop some sort of a mix for instant homemade particle board, it would have been a real sensation. As it was, though, when I gave one to Brandon and asked if there was anything redeeming about it, he took a single bite and, before even swallowing, mouthed, and I quote, “No.” So I tried again, and this time, I used a mixture of flours: 50% white, and 50% whole wheat pastry. I also added an additional tablespoon of sugar, because I find that the dark, savory qualities of whole wheat flour can tend to drown out sweetness. Anyway, IT WORKED! The scones are sturdy but light, biscuit-like but not as rich, and they taste just enough of whole wheat to feel hearty, warming, right. I don’t know what the Irish would say, or the Scottish, or the English, but I think it’s my new scone.


Whole Wheat Apricot Scones

I used whole wheat pastry flour in this recipe, and I love how it works. Whole wheat pastry flour is more finely ground and lower in protein than regular whole wheat flour, and it yields a product very similar in texture to my usual all-purpose flour scones. I considered using white whole wheat flour, which I’ve also used occasionally in baking, but I really do prefer whole wheat pastry flour. White whole wheat flour, while more delicate than regular whole wheat, is still too coarsely ground, and it’s tougher, less delicate.

You can make these scones with any kind of dried fruit you want, but I like them best with dried apricots. My favorites are from Trader Joe’s, labeled “California Slab Apricots, Blenheim Variety.” They’re soft and have a very true apricot flavor, sweet and also quite tart. (They’re sulfured, which some people avoid, but I prefer the flavor.)

1 cup all-purpose flour
1 cup whole wheat pastry flour
2 tsp. baking powder
½ tsp. table salt
4 Tbsp. (½ stick) cold unsalted butter, cut into ½-inch cubes
¼ cup sugar
½ cup diced dried apricots
½ cup half-and-half, plus more for glazing
1 large egg

Preheat the oven to 425°F. Line a baking sheet with parchment paper.

In a large bowl, whisk together the flours, baking powder, and salt. Using your hands, rub the butter into the flour mixture, squeezing and pinching with your fingertips until there are no butter lumps bigger than a large pea. Add the sugar and dried apricots, and whisk to incorporate.

Pour the half-and-half into a small bowl, and add the egg. Beat with a fork to mix well. Pour the wet ingredients into the flour mixture, and stir (with the fork; it works fine) to just combine. The dough will look shaggy and rough, and there may be some unincorporated flour at the bottom of the bowl. Don’t worry about that. Using your hands, gently press and shape the dough, so that it holds together in a messy clump. Turn the dough and any excess flour out onto a board or countertop, and press and gather and knead it until it just comes together. Ideally, do not knead more than 12 times. As soon as the dough holds together, pat it into a rough circle about 1 ½ inches thick. Cut the circle into 8 wedges.

Put the wedges on the prepared baking sheet. Pour a splash of half-and-half into a small bowl. Using a pastry brush, brush the tops of the scones with a thin coat to glaze. Bake for about 15 minutes, or until pale golden. Transfer to a wire rack to cool slightly. Serve warm - with butter, if that’s your style. (My mother used to split the Earth/Lovelight ones in half and toast them, and then smear them with butter. Very good.)

Note: If you plan to eat them within a day or two, store the scones in an airtight container at room temperature. For longer storage, seal them in a heavy plastic bag or container, and freeze them. Before serving, bring them to room temperature. Either way, reheat them briefly in a 300°F oven. They’re best served warm.

Yield: 8 small scones

A reasonable question

I have been, for quite some time, intimidated by polenta. I don’t like saying that out loud, because it makes me sound like a total cream puff, but in the spirit of keeping it real, I’m saying it. I’m willing to own it. I will also say, however, that as of a few days ago, I am not intimidated by polenta anymore. And I have Judy Rodgers to thank for that.


I don’t know where it got its start, this idea that polenta is so tricky to make, but it’s the common line. It’s what I was always told. They say you have to sprinkle the cornmeal into boiling water in a particular way, like a rain shower, and that you have to stir constantly. Rumor has it, if you put down your spoon and step away, or if you try to do anything that is not constant stirring, your polenta will go lumpy, irretrievably lumpy, to spite you. I remember my mother making polenta once, sometime in the late 80s. She had eaten it in a restaurant, served soft with sauteed mushrooms on top, and she decided to try it at home. She studied up in all the right places, and then she did as she was told: she stood at the stove and stirred, and stirred, and stirred, for over an hour. She was intense. She was devoted. And it was beautiful: the pure flavor of corn, only softer and richer, more deeply satisfying. But I don’t remember her ever making it again.

I tried making polenta once, in college. I didn’t know that the possibility of lumps in one’s corn gruel could cause a person real anxiety, but it did for me. It’s not that making polenta is actually difficult; it’s just that, because of all the dos and don’ts that come with it, I was sure that I was doing something wrong. I felt like my dinner and I were teetering on the edge of some precipice, a precipice over an abyss of lumps, and I didn’t know if we were ultimately going to fall, or how I could tell if we were falling, or how long I was going to have to stand there, teetering, by which I mean stirring, before we were rescued. (I’m prone to nightmares.)

So I started buying polenta in tubes, a simplified situation that requires only slicing. But it was never very good, and certainly not as good as freshly cooked soft polenta. After a while, I stopped eating much polenta at all, except in restaurants. But you don’t find it much on menus anymore - or not as often as you did in the 80s, when it had its big break - so, basically, what I’m trying to say is that I have been living a life devoid of polenta for quite some time. Whether or not that counts as a life is a reasonable question.



Anyway, I’d been thinking about that a lot lately, and then I saw, in the New York Times, that Mark Bittman was writing about polenta. I decided that the time had come. I gathered up a few recipes, including Bittman’s, and I compared them: some had you fuss until Forever, some promised that it was quick and easy, and some even used an oven method that requires no human intervention at all. What I decided on was something in between, the polenta from The Zuni Café Cookbook, by Judy Rodgers.

If I haven’t made this clear, I’m going to say it now: I totally love this book. It might actually be my favorite cookbook, and those are big words to throw around. I had been ignoring its polenta recipe for reasons cited above, but I should have had more faith, because it is brilliant. BRILLIANT.

Zuni has had polenta on its menu for a long time, and it’s perfect: served soft, with Parmesan, mascarpone, or nothing. I always wondered how they made it in a restaurant setting, where each cook is working on a thousand things at once, and how they served it so quickly, without any kind of wait or delay or allowance for stirring time. The answer, it turns out, is two-fold.

First, Judy Rodgers doesn’t(!) adhere(!) to the constant stirring rule. I love her. You need to stir often enough, she says, to keep the polenta from sticking or scorching, but you don’t need to hover over it. Using a heavy-bottomed saucepan is important, and you want to keep the heat gentle, so that the polenta bubbles only occasionally, slowly, like lava. If you stir every five minutes or so, you should be fine. Second, and this is the brilliant part, brilliant brilliant brilliant: after the polenta has cooked, you hold it in a double boiler, or in some sort of contraption over simmering water, for anywhere between thirty minutes and a few hours. Judy Rodgers says that this holding period is key, that it allows the cornmeal to swell and soften even more, making it especially creamy. And it does. Not only does it make for a better, more tender, lighter polenta, but it’s also so sensible. So humane. So handy! It means that, if you want to, you can make your polenta, your brilliant polenta, a couple of hours ahead and keep it hot until you want it.

If I were you, I would make it immediately, for breakfast, lunch, or dinner. Whichever comes first.


Zuni Café Polenta
Adapted from The Zuni Café Cookbook, by Judy Rodgers

I use Bob’s Red Mill brand corn grits polenta, which is not fancy, but it works fine.

5 cups water
1 cup coarsely ground polenta
About 2 tsp. kosher salt, or to taste
Unsalted butter, to taste
Parmigiano-Reggiano, for serving (optional)

Bring the water to a simmer in a 2-quart saucepan. Whisk or stir in the polenta, then stir until the water returns to a simmer. [I did this step, and the steps that follow, with a whisk.] Reduce the heat until the polenta only bubbles and sputters occasionally, and cook, uncovered, for about 1 hour, stirring as needed, until thick but still fluid. If the polenta becomes stiff, add a trickle of water. Taste. Add salt and a generous dose of butter. [I used 2 teaspoons of kosher salt and about 2 tablespoons of butter.]

Transfer the polenta to a double boiler set over simmering water. Wrap the lid tightly in plastic wrap (*see note) and cover the polenta. Allow the polenta to rest that way for at least 30 minutes – or up to a few hours, depending on your schedule. If you don’t have a double boiler, you can make a close approximation by setting the saucepan containing the polenta on a small, ovenproof ramekin centered inside a wider, deeper pot, and surrounding it with barely simmering water. Cover the pan as directed above.

Serve hot. If you want, grate some Parmigiano-Reggiano on top, though I like mine plain.

Note: The plastic wrap doesn’t seem like great idea to me, but I’m not sure. Heating plastic can cause it to release chemicals, but since this plastic wrap isn’t actually touching the food, is it safe? I followed the recipe as directed, but I wanted to raise the question. If you’re worried, maybe skip the plastic wrap? Or instead, try placing a sheet of parchment over the saucepan, under the lid?

Another note: This polenta would also be delicious with a spoonful of tomato sauce or meat sauce, or with some sliced sausage. You could also serve it with some sort of braised beef or pork. I had polenta topped with duck ragu and a fried egg at Flour + Water in San Francisco, and it was out. of. control.

The last note: If you have leftover polenta, spread it about 1 inch deep in a lightly oiled baking dish. Allow it to cool, and then refrigerate until you’re ready to roast, grill, or fry it.

Yield: 4 to 8 servings

We ate this cake

About a million years ago, by which I mean last Thanksgiving, I mentioned on Twitter that my cousins had made an olive oil cake for our mothers’ birthday dinner. Our mothers are identical twins, born in the third week of November, which means that our family’s Thanksgiving comes with an extra bonus meal: The Twins’ Birthday. Anyway, I mentioned this cake, and someone - maybe one of you reading today? - asked if I might share the recipe. I said that I would do my best to get it from my cousin Katie, its keeper, which I did, and after bringing it home and accidentally burying it in a stack of papers on my desk for three months, which I’m told promotes ripening, or something, I am elated to bring it to you today. It’s a wonderful cake.



I first tasted it last May at another family birthday meal, this time in honor of Katie. It was her 30th birthday, and in our family, 30th birthdays require a lot of festivities - mine involved a surprise weekend in San Francisco with Brandon, my cousins, The Twins, and friends, ending with a baggage handler stealing my mother’s gift out of my suitcase and me crying myself to sleep; memories! - so a bunch of us decided to plan a whopper for Katie. She’s usually a planner of surprises and does not receive them very easily, but I think we did alright. Nine of us took her to a family friend’s home in the very small town of Boonville, California, for a weekend of eating and wine-tasting. One night, we dressed up and went to the Boonville Hotel for dinner, and that’s where we ate this cake.




We had called ahead to request a special dessert, because one member of our party is dairy intolerant, and so the chef made a recipe from his mother, an orange, almond, and olive oil cake. As birthday cakes go, it was unassuming, even rustic: a single layer, pale gold and coarse-crumbed, dusted with powdered sugar. But its flavor was something else: big, gutsy, rich with toasted nuts, and saturated, absolutely saturated, with the perfume of citrus. We liked it so much that my aunt asked for the recipe. We made it last November, and then I made it again a few days ago, for you. (But I forgot the powdered sugar on top. I’m so sorry. Please use your imagination.)

In the days since I rescued the recipe from its untimely burial on my desk, I’ve done a little looking around, and it seems that it may have originally been published in The Boston Globe, although I can’t find the date or the article. There’s also a similar cake in the book Breakfast Lunch Tea, by Rose Carrarini. Wherever it comes from, the concept is weird and brilliant: you start with whole citrus fruits - the original recipe calls for two small oranges and one lemon, but I prefer the flavor when I use one small to medium orange and one lemon - and you boil them in water for thirty minutes, until they’re soft. Then you remove the seeds from the orange, if there are any, and discard the pulp from the lemon, and you whizz the rest - the lemon rind and the entire orange - in the food processor. Not only does this process yield a coarse paste that infuses the cake with both moisture and flavor, but it also makes your house smell like you’ve spent tons of money on designer air freshener. You mix this paste into a base of eggs and sugar and flour and leavening, and then you stir in ground toasted almonds and olive oil, which add even more fragrance and flavor, if that’s even possible, and aside from the baking part, you’re done.



I’d never had a cake like this one before, either in flavor or in method, and though I don’t sit around and keep score on this kind of stuff, it might be the most sophisticated everyday cake I know. Privately, I think of it as a marmalade cake, and that’s what I’ve decided to call it. I know I’m supposed to call it an orange, almond, and olive oil cake, but then everyone gets excited about the olive oil angle, and honestly, if you’re looking for an olive oil cake, this is not its purest incarnation. This cake is about citrus, all-out, the kick and spice and gentle bitterness you find in a jar of good marmalade. Its ingredients lean toward Italy, but in my mind, it’s more like something Jeeves might bring, what ho!, with your afternoon tea. Either way, I should tell you, too, that it keeps amazingly. It even tastes better with age. You could steal slices from it for an entire week, and I strongly advise you to do so.


Marmalade Cake
Adapted from the Boonville Hotel

You could make this cake with store-bought roasted almonds, but I like to buy them raw and toast them myself. That way, I can control how deeply they’re toasted, and they also taste fresher. If you’re short on time, you can toast them a day or two ahead. You might also want to plan ahead for preparing the citrus fruits, since boiling and cooling them takes time. (And remember to use organic oranges and lemons, since you’ll be eating the rind.) Once you’ve got the nuts and fruits ready, this cake is quick to make.

1 small to medium orange
1 lemon
6 ounces raw almonds
1 cup all-purpose flour
1 Tbsp. baking powder
4 large eggs, ideally at room temperature
½ tsp. table salt
1 ½ cups sugar
2/3 cup olive oil
Confectioners’ sugar, for serving

First, get to work on the citrus. Put the orange and the lemon in a saucepan, and cover with water. (They’ll want to float. Don’t worry about it.) Bring to a boil over medium-high heat; then reduce the heat to medium and simmer for 30 minutes. Drain, and cool.

Meanwhile, toast the almonds. Preheat the oven to 325°F, and set a rack in the middle position. Put the almonds on an ungreased sheet pan, and bake until they look golden and smell warm and toasty, 10 to 15 minutes. (I tend to get nervous about burning them, and consequently, I always try to pull them out of the oven too soon. Don’t do that. Let them really toast.) Set aside to cool completely. When the almonds are cool, pulse them in a food processor until finely ground, the texture of coarse sand. Set aside.

Set the oven to 350°F, and grease a 9-inch round springform pan.

When the citrus is cool, cut the lemon in half, and scoop out and discard the pulp and seeds. Cut the orange in half, and discard the seeds. Put the lemon rind and orange halves in the food processor – there’s no need to wash it after grinding the almonds – and process to chop finely, almost to a coarse paste.

In a small bowl, whisk together the flour and baking powder.

Combine the eggs and salt in a mixing bowl. Beat until foamy. Gradually beat in the sugar. Fold in the flour mixture. Add the citrus, almonds, and olive oil, and beat on low speed to just incorporate. Do not overmix. Pour the batter into the prepared pan, and bake for about 1 hour, or until a toothpick inserted in the center comes out clean. Cool the cake in its pan on a wire rack. Remove the sides of the pan. Before serving, dust the cake with confectioners’ sugar.

Note: This cake tastes even better on the second - or even third - day, as the flavors meld and mellow. Store it at room temperature, covered with plastic wrap.

Yield: 8 to 10 servings

The very definition

I am bad at weekend mornings. I hear that some people, maybe even a lot of people, have weekend mornings that involve a hot breakfast, hot coffee, the Sunday Times, and hours that pass slowly, quietly, as though on tiptoe, but I am not familiar with that kind of weekend morning. I like mornings a lot, but I am not good at planned relaxation, and I married someone who is similarly impaired. We went to visit his grandparents in Florida over New Year’s, and we were very tired and verging on sick, but instead of reading books, lying on the beach, or whatever one does on vacation in Florida, we wound up kayaking in the Everglades. With alligators. (To be fair, it was my father-in-law’s idea. Relaxation impairment is a genetic trait.)



Anyway, my weekend mornings are, by and large, identical to my weekday mornings. They involve cold cereal, a glass of water, and hours that pass quickly, unceremoniously, while I am busy doing whatever I happen to be doing. I know that this is just how I am, but I don’t like it. I feel somehow that it is deeply wrong. I want to do better. I want to make more oatmeal pancakes.



I first ate these particular oatmeal pancakes when I was seven, I want to say, when one of my uncles got married in Doylestown, Pennsylvania. We stayed at the Inn at Fordhook Farm, a hotel on the private property of the Burpee family, of the Burpee Seed Company. I remember little of the wedding, except for the fact that my uncle’s fiancée was an incredible woman, beautiful, a Presbyterian minister with poufy blond hair and a great laugh, and that her sister was beautiful too, and that they fascinated me. I thought they were perfect in every way. My uncle’s fiancée, the woman who became my aunt, passed away about a dozen years later, and when I think of her, I remember her just like that, like she was at her wedding. I also remember that the Inn at Fordhood Farm served oatmeal pancakes for breakfast, and that my entire family went crazy for them.

My mother must have asked for the recipe, because somehow we came home with a copy of it, and my mother isn’t the stealing type. She made them a couple of times, but I was unmoved. I liked them at the inn, but at home, I wanted our usual family pancake, by which I mean Bisquick. I was a kid, you know? But a couple of years ago, I thought of them again, and I asked her for the recipe. I made them, and I liked them quite a bit, although, to be dead honest, I found them a little bland. They also had what can only be described as an odd amount of cinnamon: not enough to bring a real flavor, but too much to ignore. Anyway, I was not sold. But, a month ago, on a whim and I don’t know why, I decided to try AGAIN. This time, I left out the cinnamon, doubled the salt, and lo and behold, I too am now crazy. (For the pancakes.) (Just to clarify.)

In the weekends since, I’ve already made these pancakes three times. I also made coffee! We even had a friend over to eat with us, which is the very definition of Fine Weekend Morning, even though that particular friend, our friend Ryan, happened to be staying in our basement at the time, so we didn’t exactly have him over, but still. I’m tempted to say that I’m on a weekend morning roll. Though that might be optimistic.



Either way, these pancakes have won a spot in my repertoire. Not only do I like to eat them, but I love the process of making them. It starts the night before, when you measure out some oats, pile them into a bowl, and then pour a decent amount of buttermilk on top. This mixture sits in the fridge overnight, during which time the oats plump and swell and go soft, the perfect base for a winter pancake. (This overnight step means that you do have to plan ahead, which takes spontaneity out of the equation, but if you’re me, it’s nice, because once you’ve got your oats soaking, you’re locked in, and you won’t wake up lazy and eat cereal instead.) To the soaked oats you add melted butter and a couple of beaten eggs, and then you stir in some flour, leavening, a little sugar, and salt, and what you get is a great, great pancake: gently sweet the way oats are, impossibly moist, hearty but not heavy, not light but not leaden, lovely. They fry up to a handsome shade of gold, and fresh out of the pan, their outer edges have a thin, lacy crunch that dissipates in a matter of minutes, so get on it.



Oatmeal Pancakes
Adapted from the Inn at Fordhook Farm

If you want to add blueberries here, you can use fresh or frozen. (And if you’re using frozen, there’s no need to thaw them. The hot pan will do that for you.) I don’t like to stir the berries into the batter, because then you wind up with weird purple streaks, so I press them into the individual pancakes as they cook. You can use however many berries you want, but be sure to add them after the pancakes have cooked on their first side for a minute or two, so that the batter has time to start to set. When you flip the pancakes, the heat of the pan will make the berries sizzle and soften nicely.

Also, if you find yourself with any leftover pancakes, as I often do, know that they are delicious. This past Saturday, I had three left over, so I put them in a plastic bag on the kitchen counter, and I ate them cold that night, after going out for a drink, a completely undrinkable drink, with a girlfriend. I love gin, and I love Lillet, and I have nothing against Scotch, but apparently I do not care for the union of gin, Lillet, and Scotch. Cold pancakes saved the day.

2 cups rolled oats
2 cups buttermilk
½ cup all-purpose flour
2 Tbsp. sugar
1 tsp. baking powder
1 tsp. baking soda
½ tsp. table salt
2 large eggs, lightly beaten
½ cup (1 stick) unsalted butter, melted but not hot
Vegetable oil or spray, for greasing the pan
Maple syrup, for serving

The night before:
Combine the oats and buttermilk in a medium bowl. Stir to mix. Cover with plastic wrap, and refrigerate overnight.

The morning of:
Take the bowl of buttermilk and oats out of the fridge. Set aside.

In another medium bowl, whisk together the flour, sugar, baking powder, baking soda, and salt. Set aside.

Add the eggs and melted butter to the oat mixture, and stir well. Add the flour mixture, and stir to blend. The batter will be very thick.

Warm a large nonstick skillet or griddle over medium-high heat, and brush (or spray) with vegetable oil. To make sure it’s hot enough, wet your fingers under the tap and sprinkle a few droplets of water onto the pan. If they sizzle, it’s ready. Scoop the batter, about a scant ¼ cup at a time, onto the pan, taking care not to crowd them. When the underside is nicely browned and the top looks set around the edges, flip the pancakes. Cook until the second side has browned.

Re-grease the skillet, and repeat with more batter. If you find that the pancakes are browning too quickly, dial the heat back to medium.

Serve hot, with maple syrup.

Yield: about 12 pancakes, or 3 to 4 servings

A nasty habit

I have many important things to tell you.

1. I’m doing a podcast! I intended to tell you about this a week ago, but there’s been an illness in my family, and I’ve been away, and it hasn’t been a lot of fun, so, you know, let’s talk about that podcast. It’s called Spilled Milk, and I co-host it with my friend Matthew Amster-Burton. Every time we record an episode, Matthew makes me laugh until I snort, cry, hyperventilate, and/or hoot like an owl, and I hope our show does the same for you. The first episode is on the topic of fried eggs, and you can listen or download it – free! – through the Spilled Milk website, or through iTunes. The second episode, on winter squash, will be released a week from today, on January 21.

2. Yes! That’s a new banner up there! It had been the same for three years, and those orangettes were stale. So, in honor of winter, I give you a head of cabbage instead. When spring comes, we can switch to artichokes, I’m thinking, or asparagus. Maybe rhubarb. It’s going to be exciting.

3. I love this chocolate mousse. Loved it, rather.


I seem to have a nasty habit of writing about rich foods in January, right on the heels of the holidays. I’m sorry about that. Even I don’t want to hear about chocolate mousse right now. But I love this recipe, so I’m going to write about it anyway, and even if you are totally chocolated-out, or desserted-out, or avoiding sweets as a New Year’s resolution, or whatever, I strongly recommend that you bookmark it for future use. It’s my go-to chocolate mousse. I think everyone should have a go-to chocolate mousse. It’s not hip, nor has it been for about a million years, but it never goes out of style, either. It’s the Audrey Hepburn of desserts. Only fatter. Or fattier? You know what I mean.

I can’t remember how or where I was introduced to chocolate mousse, but I remember eating an alarming amount of it when my parents took me to Paris as a kid. There was a restaurant called Claude Sainlouis, I think, around the corner from our hotel, and though we were only in town for ten days, we went there twice, mainly because I was obsessed with their chocolate mousse. The first night, the host sat us in the back dining room, hidden behind a partition. The main dining room bustled, but ours was empty, quiet as a church. I remember my parents saying that we’d been put there because we were foreigners: we’d been sniffed out, ghettoized, hurried away from the French-speaking diners. It was a terrible feeling. I’m not sure why we went back, but I must have begged convincingly for the mousse, because we did. And the second night, miracle of miracles, the host smiled at us, a tiny smile of recognition. He showed us to a table in the main dining room. My father beamed. It was a great night. I ate steak frites and mousse au chocolat. I don’t know that the mousse was anything special, but I loved it. I was 10 years old, and my feelings about chocolate mousse were much like my feelings about ice cream: good or bad, it was AWESOME. The restaurant is still there, I think, although I haven’t been back. I looked it up on Google Street View, and the awning looks much classier than I remember. Who knows.



Anyway, I do love chocolate mousse. And this year, when we were planning a Christmas Eve dinner with a few friends, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I’ve tried a few chocolate mousse recipes over the years, some better and some worse, and this time, I decided to use one that had been skulking around my clippings folder untried, a recipe from Cook’s Illustrated. (I also made Dorie Greenspan’s extraordinary lemon tart, because I am apparently into total excess, and because it really is extraordinary.)

The thing about this mousse recipe, to put it simply, is that it’s perfect. Some mousses are dense and sticky, like a ganache truffle. Others are foamy, almost frothy, with the mouthfeel of a marshmallow. This one sits squarely, happily, in the middle. It’s soft and creamy, light but substantial. It’s also not too sweet. It’s deep and dark and complex, spiked with enough coffee and booze to complement the chocolate, but not compete with it. As I recently heard Brandon’s aunt say of her son’s new girlfriend, I think it’s The One. It’s a keeper.



Just a single caution: see this teacup? It’s a standard size, as teacups go, but people, that was a LOT of mousse. Do not fill your teacups like I filled my teacups. Do not. The amount of whipped cream on top, however, was spot-on.


Chocolate Mousse
Adapted from Cook’s Illustrated, 2006

The original recipe calls for brandy, not whiskey, but I never seem to have brandy around. We’re whiskey people. You can use whichever you want.

About the chocolate: the good people at Cook’s Illustrated use Ghirardelli bittersweet (60% cacao) chocolate for this recipe, and I do too. You could use a fancier brand, if you want, but whatever you use, it should contain about 60% cacao. Chocolates with a higher cacao percentage have less sugar and a starchier consistency, and they won’t work well in this recipe.

Also, about serving size: chocolate mousse is, by definition, serious stuff. I am pretty much a total pig about dessert, but I recommend that you offer this in small servings. The recipe makes six to eight servings, and I lean in favor of eight. Especially since I like to serve it with a whack of whipped cream on top.


8 oz. bittersweet chocolate, ideally 60% cacao, finely chopped
2 Tbsp. Dutch-processed cocoa powder
1 tsp. instant espresso powder
5 Tbsp. water
1 Tbsp. whiskey or brandy
2 large eggs, separated
1 Tbsp. sugar, divided
1/8 tsp. salt
1 cup plus 2 Tbsp. cold heavy cream

For serving:
Very lightly sweetened whipped cream

Combine the chocolate, cocoa powder, espresso powder, water, and whiskey in a medium heatproof bowl. Place over a saucepan filled with 1 inch of gently simmering water, and stir frequently until the chocolate is melted and the mixture is smooth. Remove from the heat.

In another medium bowl, combine the egg yolks, 1 ½ teaspoons sugar, and salt. Whisk until the mixture lightens to a pale yellow color and thickens slightly, about 30 seconds. Pour the melted chocolate mixture into the egg mixture, and whisk until combined. Set aside for about 5 minutes, until just warmer than room temperature.

In the bowl of a stand mixer fitted with the whisk attachment, beat the egg whites on medium-low speed until frothy. Add the remaining 1 ½ teaspoons sugar, increase the mixer speed to medium-high, and beat until soft peaks form when the whisk is lifted. Detach the whisk and bowl from the mixer, and whisk the last few strokes by hand, making sure to scrape up any unbeaten whites from the bottom of the bowl. Using the whisk, stir about ¼ of the beaten egg whites into the chocolate mixture, to lighten it. Then, using a rubber spatula, gently fold in the remaining egg whites until only a few white streaks remain.

In the now-empty mixer bowl, whip the heavy cream at medium speed until it begins to thicken. Increase the speed to high, and whip until soft peaks form when the whisk is lifted. Using a rubber spatula, fold the whipped cream into the mousse until no white streaks remain. Spoon into 6 to 8 individual serving dishes - I like to use teacups - or, if you’re feeling casual, mound it up in a single serving bowl. Cover with plastic wrap, and refrigerate until firm, at least 2 hours and up to 24 hours.

For best texture, let the mousse sit at room temperature for 10 minutes before serving. Serve with very lightly sweetened whipped cream.

Yield: 6 to 8 servings