Soup Season: Come and Peel It Tonight

Dear Mouse,

I have fought a formidable enemy, and won.

 

                                                                                   You should see the other guy.

There's something about this season. Pots, pans, simmering, bowls of savory goodness. I'm fixating.

It's not just me. The Date has informed me twice in one week of exploits with carrots and ginger. I have a Stew dinner plan with a playwright friend. And I recently logged on to a social networking site that shall remain nameless and irritating, to find my friend Helena's status update:

And She said, "Let there be sexy vegetarian pumpkin chili"; and there was sexy vegetarian pumpkin chili. And She saw that the sexy vegetarian pumpkin chili was good; and then she roasted the sexy pumpkin seeds.

Mmmmmm. It is Fall, the Season of Soup. (/Stew/Chili).

On Saturday I found myself at home in Sunnyside, a whole rainy afternoon spread out before me, all signs pointing towards my recently-neglected kitchen.

The night before, lured by the status update, I'd gone up to Heavenly Small Town to visit Helena and her Roomies. As I've mentioned, our friendship began in the kitchen and we always cook/eat together. This time, the Household was preparing a Pumpkin Party Extraordinaire for Saturday night, and because I couldn't attend, I came to participate in Pumpkin Eve cooking. My task: mixing a batch of corn muffins with maple butter which H planned to serve with the Chili (recipe, I hope, forthcoming).

Roomie #1 was busy creating a tomato vinegar he found in an all-Vinegar Cookbook ("I got this for a dollar!"), and Roomie #2 was bravely attempting her first pie - double crust!! You would have been proud of me. I had already climbed into bed (foolish, foolish Boo) when R2 asked, "Do you think I should make the crust tonight? Any tips? Oh - No, I dont have a rolling pin. Why?" Bang - I'm in the kitchen in my PJs, up to my elbows in butter & flour, providing what I hope was sage advice such as "remain calm", and "yes, always READ the whole recipe to begin with, but I think we'll be fine without the shortening" (we were).

You know your friend has forgiven you for missing her party when she ends the evening of manual labor by drawing you a bath and handing you a glass of maker's mark.

So it was with these festive thoughts in my head that I came back to Sunnyside in the morning, looked in my fridge and realized I had the following, nearly all from the farmers market:

* 1 voluptuous butternut squash

* 2 yellow onions

* bag of cortland apples

* curry powder

* apple juice

* Recipe for "Butternut Squash and Apple soup" from Her Majesty Ina Garten

Now if I didn't know better I'd say there was a small conspiracy in the food world around this sunny root vegetable. WHY does no recipe EVER cop to the difficulty of peeling butternut squash? They all innocently begin "Peel and seed a butternut squash", without so much as an asterisked acknowledgement that the skin of this thing is so tightly welded to the fruit that it might as well be a coat of paint. I imagine home cooks everywhere, like myself, putting their peeler to this task and giving up.

Yes, I cut myself. But you don't have to. (Remain Calm). There IS a way to do this, and it's worth it. Because like a cheap date, once you get the outer layers off this baby, the rest is easy. (And warm and delicious.)

Take your skinny vegetable peeler in one hand. Look at it, shake your head, and throw it over your left shoulder.
Pick up your squash, and with a Big knife, cut it crosswise in half (or 3, if it's really big). Just plunge it on in and wrestle it through.
Then, holding a piece cut side down, just make slices down the sides with SMALLER knife, slicing off skin in big strips. It's ok if some flesh comes off with it. Better its than yours. Don't get crazy trying to skin it flawlessly.
Then, chop up squash into chunks, retrieve your skinny peeler and use it on the apples.

On a related note, the Peeling Issue came up at Helena's while R1 was struggling with his bag of tomatoes. The vegetable peeler was doing more harm than good and each tomato was a project unto itself (1 min or more). The solution: Boil a pot of water. Drop each tomato in, count to ten. Remove with a slotted spoon and, under cold running water, slide the skin off easily with your hands. Trust me on this.

Oh and the Pumpkin Party? From Helena:

missed you last night! corn muffins were devoured
Jesse put the maple butter into the gravy
around 11pm i was finishing the turkey with men 3 deep around the oven
turkey came out at 11:30 and disappeared completely-- people sucking on bones-- by midnight. this morning i made pumpkin pancakes and drenched them in maple butter. goodness. your food was put to good use. mwah!

Love,

The Boo

PS I just found this picture online. Talk about seasonal!

We Be Jammin

Dear Boo,

You know what they say: When life gives you a graduate program with impossible amounts of reading, an emotionally and physically exhausting internship, three midterms, a role in a play that opens in a few weeks, a tutoring job, and that pesky need for sleep....make jam.

Specifically, Concord Grape and Habanero Jam.

Last Sunday, the Boyfriend and I packed up our Sunday Times, a few bell jars, a large pot, picked up some bagels and fixings from Murrays, and headed over to our friend Chef Josh and his lovely Lady Kate's apartment for some jam-making. It was a gorgeous day and the sun splashed cheerfully across the enormous mound of concord grapes that greeted us, nestled in a plastic tub that will soon be employed for a much cuter task, that of bathing Chefbabygirl, coming soon.

When the four of us plopped down on the floor to begin the job of separating the grape skins from the fleshy innards, I must say I felt a bit like Sisyphus facing the mountain. But, get a spicy glass of Bloody Mary, a bite of bagel with whitefish, and some great company, and the pinching and squeezing of a billion brilliant purple grapes takes on the feel of a group meditation. Or commune living. The sun was warm, the grapes smelled divine, and I couldn't have thought of a more pleasurable form of manual labor. Also, if a nine-month pregnant Lady Kate could sit on the floor for an hour of grape separating, I could do it.

There she is. Fastest skinner this side of the Mississippi.

Grape: two ways. Incidentally, dunk your hand in the peeled grapes. Unlike any sensation you've had.

pureeing the skins with a bit of sugar

From start to finish, the process really is a day-long event, but well worth it. You know of my recently-discovered fondness for jam-making, and this could not be simpler or more delicious. It really tastes nothing like what you'd buy off the supermarket shelves, and because you're doing it by hand, you can adjust the sweetness, the heat, the texture and viscosity to your liking. And like it you will.

simmering the skins and insides separately

The final mix before the last simmer

Bring brunch. You'll need the sustenance.

But more than anything, I can't begin to describe how after weeks of feeling like my only social contact has been in brief looks up at the Boyfriend's sweet face as I turn yet another page of my textbook, how lovely it was to sit quietly, working at a slow pace with great friends just for the pleasure of it. And the eight jars of royal purple gold are a beautiful addition to the apartment.

Yep, we filled em all.

Play your cards right and I'll set aside a jar for you. Boo: I'll be right over. A little crusty bread and butter and you'll be smacking your lips with delight. It's sweet but not too sweet, hot but not spicy. The habanero comes at you more like an afterthought to keep you on your toes. It's grape jam dressed up in its best pair of sassypants.

Love,

The Mouse

Concord Grape & Habanero Jam

Recipe courtesy Joshua Stokes of Grill-A-Chef - “Advice from Scratch”. You can find Joshua giving free cooking advice every Wednesday afternoon at the Union Square Greenmarket.

* 2 Qts Concord grapes, stemmed

3 Cups Sugar

* 1 Habanero Chili Pepper, lightly crushed

* Ingredients seasonally available at your neighborhood Greenmarket

Separate the pulp/seeds from the skins.

In a food processor, chop the skins with one cup of sugar. In a large pot simmer this mixture over low heat.

In a separate pot, simmer the pulp with the remaining sugar until completely broken down. About 20 minutes.

Strain out the seeds, pushing the pulp through with a ladle. Add the strained pulp to the skins.

Boil this mixture, stirring often, and carefully, until thick and jelly like.

Kill the heat and toss in the habanero to steep, it will quickly give off it’s great aroma and some of it’s heat. Lightly stir, monitoring the heat by tasting, remove the chili when the spice level is to your liking.

Tip: You can test the jam on a cold plate in the refrigerator. It gives you an idea of what the final product will be.

Malatesta-ing The Waters

Dear Mouse,

Dating. The final frontier. I'm giving it a shot. If I don't come back, you can have my ill-advised long sleeved romper from Free People. (Actually, it's been getting inexplicably rave reviews, but I digress.)

A friend of mine said recently that Google has killed the first date.. in other words, since two people interested in each other usually scramble for all basic stats on the internet prior to the actual ritual, gone is the 'So where did you grow up?' conversation of yesteryear. Or, if it happens, its kind of a flirtatious sham, since the research has already been done.

However, one early Fall evening recently, it so came to pass that The Date and I had each independently made a decision to forego the web when it came to each other. (A little sad, no? That this is revelatory?) "Right! I'll just ask you what I want to know", we practically said at exactly the same time over dinner at Malatesta. Which is what brings me to the focus of this post: Malatesta. Oh, and getting-to-know-you rituals, in-person, hands-on (hee hee), and, of course, via the magic of shared food.

Instructions for An Early Fall Date:

* 630PM - meet @18th St and 10th Ave, at the bottom of the stairs leading up to the Highline.
* Climb stairs. Ooh, the Highline looks awesome in the twilight. Oh look it just got dark and the lights came on. And the cityscape is all bright across the water. I guess we should just take a walk down to the end.
* Walk down to the end. Disembark @Gansevoort.
* Walk to Washington & Christopher. Oh look anItalian joint with outdoor and indoor seating, menus handwritten on cardboard (ok that always is a little too hipster for me), and reasonable prices. Note: Cash Only

*Order a bottle of Nero d'Avola. I chose it as a result of my patented, painstaking wine selection method --it was not the most or the least expensive, it was red, I recognized the word 'Nero' from somewhere in my past - and it is now my favorite. Mmmmm. Medium dry (I'm gonna say 'taut'), dark cherry and plum, medium body (someone said), dark and mysterious. Delicious. In order to save you from being the person drunkenly trying to surreptitiously take a picture of the bottle towards the end of the meal, I've transcribed the blurry image from my phone for you (not that I did that)

Pietragivana Monrrale Nero d'Avola

You're welcome.

I believe this is Italian for "one bottle of me and you will find yourself explaining the history of American Method Acting in what is probably a much too loud tone of voice". Charming.

* I think you will agree with me that, especially if it is your first time at Malatesta, there is no excuse at all for ordering anything other than The Steak Thing.

I found a picture of it on flickr. I was too busy eating to take one.

Honestly, I have eaten this every time I've been there, and I never remember the actual name - I can't read the menu scrawl. For your convenience, I have googled it (!) and it is Tagliata Al Casale.

It comes on what looks like a wooden cutting board with legs. Sliced, delicious steak in mouthful-size pieces, on a bed of wilted arugula, with thin, wide shavings of really good parmesan all over the top. I ordered it medium and it came medium rare, kinda red in places which turned out to be perfection. Salt crystals in the meat? I dont know; something is crunchy and delicate. Get meat and cheese and green on your fork, bite into soft charredness, make bedroom eyes.

Because it is kind of all too much for one person, allow me to suggest that you order both this and one pasta dish (gnocchi or rigatoni) and just reach into each others' plates. Hot. Trust me.

Dessert = Meh. I've never been into Italian desserts, honestly. But we got the creme caramel and it was creme-y and caramel-y. And it does allow some extra time for non-Google research; ie, conversation. Whatever you get, share it.

Love,

The Boo

RIP Gourmet!!

Dear Mouse,


It's the end of an era.

Oh, Ruth. Whither thou goest, I will go.


Remember this cake?
From the September 2007 issue. Coconut Rum Cake. You baked it for my birthday upon request.

Conde Nast, how could you? No More Gourmet Magazine????? Sure, to be truthful, I stopped subscribing a while ago. But I was a loyalist for YEARS and I still always read the issues lying around at the Mouse House. And while our food-obsessed family may have paved the way for my culinary enthusiasm, I have to say it was Gourmet that really started the ball rolling for me personally. Cast your mind back to a time (college and just after) when I did not cook. At. All. When I had roommates, I was always the one doing dishes or accidentally making butter when someone asked me to whip a bowl of cream (true story). In Los Angeles, in the late 90s, I was at the end of my tether. I was living alone in an awful apartment, my first band (and the rest of my personal life) had fallen apart, I hadn't been involved in theatre in 3 years!! and I was completely disillusioned with music and with Hollyweird. Somehow, an issue of Gourmet fell into my lap. In between bouts of angst and flip-flopping about leaving LALA behind, I somehow decided that cooking something might keep me calm and provide some reminder of my creative abilities.

The first thing I made on my own from Gourmet: Harira, a Moroccan soup:

It was a step forward. Flavorful, interesting, and risky, yet simple and inviting to the home cook just starting to get her hands dirty. While stirring, I entertained myself reading the more complex and tricky recipes I would never try, the articles about faraway hotels, and the moving, close-to-home cooking/life epiphanies. I still remember this great article about a woman traveling through Appalachia with her husband's clothes after his death, on her way to have them made into a quilt. Along the way, she ate tomato soup in a diner which the waitress freely admitted was Campbell's with some butter and cream, and fruit cobbler with ice cream for breakfast (apparently common in that part of the country). Her quip, "The cuisine of grief: High in fat, low in pretension", has stayed with me. It wasn't "about" the food, but the food painted a picture of her life at that moment. It was the first time I realized that writing about food was a way to write about life, a shortcut to the heart of experience. I went on from that to Peter Mayle's novel "A Year in Provence". I also went on from interesting soup to interesting cakes and breads, and the rest is history.

Well, thanks to you Mouse, I'll always have the big yellow cookbook with so many of the great recipes. I JUST made the turkey meatloaf YESTERDAY. And Ruth Reichl's autobiographical books, which are truly precious. And I have my Bon Appetit subscription. But I couldn't let this bit of news go by without raising a metaphorical glass.

I'll leave you with this, which was really my very first tiny tentative food experiment in that same California kitchen, also from Gourmet: Vanilla Sugar. I remember the sense of wonder and fun at this simple trick. Try it - it involves NO effort and it's magic. Just last week, in an Indian grocery on the lower east side, I impulsively picked up one long fragrant vanilla bean, in a small plastic bag. I must, somehow, have known.

Love,

The Boo

True Crime

Dear Boo,

I'm going to make this quick, because let's face it, I'm already behind in my reading for school, and I give myself another three hours before I start nodding out from my day of chasing 6th and 7th graders through the halls, trying to quell the urge to scream like a banshee and drag them by their hair back to class.

BUT in the name of justice, I couldn't possibly let another day go by without writing to you about what the Boyfriend says might be the best thing I've ever made (frankly I'm a little hurt being that it's like the simplest thing ever and I can't take any credit for the recipe). These slow roasted tomatoes are quite simply the essence of all that is lovely about a tomato and I am totally enamored by them. They've made their way through the blogosphere (kill me if I ever use that word again), originating with an article in Bon Appetit by Molly, the author of Orangette, so I'm sure you've come across them at some point, but it is a CRIME that I haven't yet shared it here. I'm doubly guilty because I'm passing it on now, when the season of plum tomatoes is but days longer, and while the recipe claims you can use good quality canned tomatoes (which I will inevitably stoop to, since I can't possibly wait another whole YEAR before I make these again) it's really best with fresh, ripe, warm from the sun, tomatoes.
And so, I urge you, not just to absolve me somewhat of my guilt, to get thee to the farmers market, find some plum tomatoes, grab a baguette and some soft aged goat cheese, and slow roast like you've never slow roasted before. You will SO not be sorry.

Come to think of it, while you're at it you might as well do a whole farewell to summer vegetables feast (and invite me over). For the Boyfriend's recent birthday, before going to see ARETHA freakin FRANKLIN at radio city, we had a little tapas-style early dinner featuring some of the queens of summer. It made for a gorgeous celebration and lined our stomachs for the late night tacos and beer that followed.
There was: corn with feta and mint butter (I think I ate half that bowl), guacamole and chips, shrimp with homemade cocktail sauce, 'pimentos de padron' blistered in a pan with salt and lemon juice (one in ten is hot, so it's a fun game of russian roulette), a nice piece of gouda, and the onion jam I canned earlier in the summer. Oh, and a peach and blackberry cobbler. The birthday boy's gotta have something to wish on...

But, as always, it all came down to the tomatoes. So go. Now. Make these. And just try to tell me life isn't a leeeettle bit better for it. I rest my case.

Cafe Lago's/Orangette/Bon Appetit's
Pomodori Al Forno...

1 cup olive oil
2 lbs plum tomatoes halved lengthwise and seeded
1 1/2 teaspoons dried oregano
3/4 teaspoon sugar
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 or 2 garlic cloves, minced
2 teaspoons minced fresh Italian parsley (I like a little more)
1 Baguette
Aged goat cheese

Preheat oven to 250. Pour 1/2 cup oil into a 13x9x2 inch glass or ceramic baking dish. Arrange tomatoes in dish, cut side up. Drizzle with remaining 1/2 cup oil. Sprinkle with oregano, sugar, and salt. Bake 1 hour. Using tongs, turn tomatoes over. Bake 1 hour longer. Turn tomatoes over again. Bake until deep red and very tender, transferring tomatoes to plate when soft (time will vary, depending on ripeness of tomatoes), about 15 to 45 minutes longer.

Layer tomatoes in medium bowl, sprinkling garlic and parsley over each layer; reserve oil in baking dish. Drizzle tomatoes with reserved oil, adding more if necessary to cover. Let stand at room temperature 2 hours. DO AHEAD: Cover, chill up to 5 days. Bring to room temperature before serving.

Would also be delicious over pasta, or pizza, or chicken, or an old shoe.

Love,

The Mouse

Turnover the Season

Dear Mouse,

Happy Fall!!!

This was quite the feasting weekend. Friday and Saturday I went to TWO separate Rosh Hashanah dinners at two very food-savvy homes (my friend EKT, who did a Persian-themed menu, and our family's.) Now, while I did eat like a Queen, I feel we have already rhapsodized at length in this blog about our family's seasonal showstoppers. It's beyond the reach of my pen to describe them further. So, I will just say this: leftover cold beef brisket on a toasted English muffin spread with Nervous Nellie's tomato chutney. You're welcome.

For this post, I will instead turn to the other holiday meal that rounded out a weekend of seasonal reflection and munching: the Fall Equinox dinner that I always host at my place. It usually involves a roast chicken and something with apples. I based the dinner on that idea and on what was at the local Sunnyside Farmer's Market*.

from left: kale w/chopped bacon* & red wine vinegar, chicken baked in a bag w/mushrooms & thyme, roasted new potatoes w/pesto*, cheddar & apple* turnovers w/walnuts & dried cranberries.

Let's just revisit that last one.
from the exciting, apple-centric Fall issue of Bon Appetit
(Thanks for the subscription, Mouse!)

I am not exaggerating when I say I HAD to make them, because I read the recipe and couldn't stop thinking about them for a week. Sharp cheddar and golden delicious apples? With dried cranberries & walnuts, encased in flaky puff pastry? Also, it started a lively FaceBook debate, a first:

The Boo, via iPhone: Is phyllo the same as puff pastry?
#1: yes :-)
#2: Yep. Just a fancy schmancy way of saying it! :)
#3: It's the Greek version.
#4:you can get some handmade premade phyllo in the freezer section of the greek bakery on 9th and 45th
#5: Actually, unfortunately that's not true. They are different recipes and different handling procedures. Puff pastry is infinitely easier and less temperamental. Phyllo dough is a nightmare to work with. But yes, you can get frozen versions of both at the supermarket.
#6: Yeah, they're actually not the same thing at all. You can sometimes substitute one for the other, but not automatically.Both are basically ways of producing multiple layers of dough with butter in between, but that effect is achieved differently. Phyllo comes in individual paper-thin sheets, and you assemble multiple layers of it, brushing each sheet with melted butter and stacking them. Puff pastry starts as a relatively thick layer of dough topped with a layer of softened butter. These are folded (usually in threes) and then rolled out; the process is repeated and you eventually end up with multiple layers of dough and softened butter. When you buy puff pastry at the store, it is thus essentially "pre-assembled," whereas with phyllo you generally must do the layering yourself....
#5 again: Yes, and also, Phyllo doesn't "puff", hence the naming distinction.

Thanks guys! I think we all learned something here. In the end, I spent like $11 on a fancy kind of PP at Whole Foods when I KNOW (because Ina Garten told me) that Pepperidge Farm makes it for like half that. But I had a turnover schedule to keep. It was golden delicious all right -- puffy, flaky, very, very rich. A Fall Equinox croissant in savory clothing. I'd like to try a phyllo version next and see how that goes. They are very easy and good. I will say that I like more filling than the recipe yields. It's supposedly enough for 8 turnovers, and I made four with almost all the filling. But to each his own.

The Fall Equinox is a harvest festival, known in some traditions as Second Harvest (first being Aug 1), also known as the Wine Harvest. After the 'grain harvest' of August (which is all about home-baked bread), the focus turns to the last of the fruit crops before the winter...ie, apple mania. We had some great dinner conversation about this, the idea of the Harvest in our lives. Looking back over the year, what did we gather, both good and bad? Can we be thankful for both, and use both? As a wise woman once put it, "Poo is also Fertilizer". Oh, right, that was you. :-)

I like to think we can take our, ahem, 'fertilizer' (our mistakes, our misfortunes) and from them draw richness of experience and new beginnings. Take, for example, the truly terrible quinoa salad I made last week. I didn't let it cool before mixing the black beans, corn, and lime juice dressing into it, and it was a soggy, bewildering mess. BUT it made great burrito filling!! One package of tortillas later, I had a week's lunch in my freezer.

Happy composting,

The Boo

The Gift of Food

Dear Boo,

This past Monday evening, at a meeting for my theater company, my friend, MB, greeted me with a hug, and in a conspiratorial tone, whispered, "I have a gift for you". You see, MB, a food enthusiast himself, (and proud member of the Park Slope Co-op) has taken to bringing me a small sample of produce, knowing I may be one of the few people he's met who will appreciate a fresh spring onion slipped into my purse at a bar, or a tiny, perfectly ripe, dusty-looking, mottled plum, tucked into the palm of my hand. What MB couldn't have known at that moment, on that Monday night, was just how significant, how special, how perfectly appropriate that small gift was.

It would be a grand understatement to say that the past few weeks have been challenging at best and downright rough with a capital R at worst. And while on the surface, with so much going on, food seems like an afterthought, a minor diversion to be relegated to subsistence-level in the face of bigger and heavier issues, I've found that my mind and heart keep coming back to it as a sort of touchstone. And in that moment, when a small, smooth plum was dropped into my hand, I could not think of any other gesture, large or tiny, that could have been more comforting or more perfect.

What MB didn't know was that the day before the plum, we had to say goodbye to a certain orange, fluffy, four-legged member of our family. Ollie was a gentleman among dogs, a proud, gentle, and dare I say eccentric, fellow whose silky golden plume of a tail waved as majestically as any flag. We watched as, in recent years, that tail tucked itself under him, almost immobile with arthritis, and his jaunty aristocratic gait transformed into a stiff shuffle. While the doggie diapers were cute, for a proud old guy, you could just sense the humiliation. I think I finally faced just how old our poor friend was getting when I learned that he could no longer snack on scraps from the table, little squares of cheddar, a scrambled egg yolk or two, or leftover giblets from the roast chicken, set aside just for him. I think the thought of a life deprived of anything but special dry dietary dog food sounded just too unbearably cruel.

We give gifts of food often when there are no words that will suffice. Casseroles dropped off at a home where a loved one has passed away, an ice cream cone after a tough day at fifth grade when there's no way to explain that sometimes, people are just mean, breaking bread when the argument has run its course and its better to pass the peas than say "I'm sorry" (remember that incredible last scene in Big Night when Stanley Tucci makes an omelet for his brother, and you just know they've forgiven each other without a single word?). When I started grad school a couple of weeks ago, one of my biggest fears was that I wouldn't have the time or energy to cook. But I've found myself, amidst the chaos of all that's happened in the past months and days, returning again and again to my kitchen. I spent a few minutes feeling guilty for cooking when I should have been reading, but I quickly realized how crucial it is (and will be) that I give myself this gift. A quiet moment alone in the kitchen, watching my hands create something real, something nourishing, something that doesn't require words or analysis or explanations, is more than a gift. It's a necessity.

The "elephant heart" plum. Even more gorgeous after a bite.

On my last walk with Ollie, we stopped off at the deli on the corner and bought a quarter pound of roast beef and a little tin foil pouch full of crispy bacon. There is no easy way to say goodbye to a dog who has given you unconditional love for the past 15 years. And there are certainly no words that can provide him any comfort. But there is no question that the best gift you can give, aside from love, of course, is all the bacon he can eat. As he tripped along after the scent of my greasy fingers in his stiff, loping gait, I caught a glimpse of the excited young puppy who wandered into our lives, nuzzling our laps with his big black nose, and reminding us that every morsel is a gift.

Love,

The Mouse

P.S. If you feel so inclined, give the gift of food to some needy dogs...
Click here to help people feed their pets during difficult economic times....
Every click on this website means a donation of food and shelter to animal rescue.

The Ghost of Muffins Past

Or, what happens when you are preparing a 'Xmas Carol' audition and baking at the same time; A Short Play.

Dear Mouse,

With my apologies and assurances that this is the last post involving either Maine or Muffins.

Scene: a tiny cheerful kitchen in Queens. The Boo is at her computer, surrounded by baking implements and open cookbooks. She stares at the screen, clicking furiously.

A sudden flash of white light - no, a rolling, salty fog - fills the apartment.

An apparition appears in the window. It looks like, I dont know, a bag of chocolate chips holding a lobster roll.

The Boo: "Are you the spirit whose coming was foretold to me?"
Spirit: "I am."

Boo: "Well, who and what are you then? What are you doing here? And can I have some of that lobster roll?"

MP: "No. I am the Ghost of Muffins Past."

Boo: "Oo, great! So do YOU have the recipe I'm looking for? I made these amazing chocolate chip muffins one night in Maine, from a recipe in a little cookbook that was in our kitchen at the house, and I can't remember the name, it was something like "Maine Attractions", and I've been googling it and there's just nothing out there. I even took a picture of the recipe with my phone and I seem to have erased it. They were soooo good! They had this kind of crackly top and the texture was much more sturdy/substantial and cake/bready than the kind of wimpy, fluffy, 'ooh they're so tender, I just ate ten of them and I'm still not full' version so many people seem to think they like better. But EVERYone loved these. They were like the Dunkin Donuts kind, but smaller and more wholesome. Damnit. I can't believe it."

GMP: "I do not have the recipe, nor the title of the book. Sorry."

Boo: "Well, thanks a lot. On what business have you come then?"

GMP: "Business? Your welfare, your education, your kitchen cred."

Boo: "Spirit, I am too old. I cannot change. I have always worked with recipes when it comes to baking. I just can't believe I can make this work from memory."

GMP: "Shut me out at your peril! You will probably never find this cookbook again. The time has come - again - to trust your own instincts. Come and walk with me, into your past. What do you remember?"

Boo: "Well ... I remember that there were 3 eggs, which seemed like a lot ... and that we were out of regular sugar so I used a mix of Sugar in the Raw we had in the cabinet, and some brown sugar... and just hoped for the best."

GMP: "I see.. so the raw sugar was YOUR idea. And do you remember the title of this recipe?"

Boo: "Let me go, Spirit, I have seen enough!"

GMP: "The title!"

Boo: "Ah -it was - No - Yes - 'Maine Blueberry Muffins".

GMP: "Aha! So it was not even a chocolate chip muffin recipe at all! The chocolate chips were YOUR idea as well."

Boo: "What are you driving at, spirit?"

GMP: "Take heed! You need no recipe book. You remember! You can recreate it yourself! Just find a basic muffin recipe and make it with 3 eggs and raw sugar. "

Boo: "Spirit, I am not the Boo I was! I'll do it!"

GMP: "Good. Just remember to trust your senses. When your kitchen smells amazing and the muffins are brown at the edges, take them out. Don't sit there counting the minutes just because the recipe says to; you'll burn the bottoms."

Boo: "God bless us, every one. "

GMP: "So, what do I, take the 7 to get out of here ? Ok, right, bye."

The Boo's Raw-Sugar Chocolate Chip Muffins:

1 C raw sugar, or mix of raw & brown
3 eggs
2 C flour
1 C chocolate chips
2 tsp baking powder
1 stick butter (1/2 C)
1/4 tsp salt
1/2 C milk.

Preheat oven to 375. Grease a muffin pan. With your hands, mash butter & sugar together in bowl til basically creamy; dont really 'cream' it. it's ok if there are some lumps, really. Add eggs one at a time and mix. (ok, you can use a spoon for that part.) In another bowl: flour, baking powder, salt. Mix with (clean) hand. Ok, NOW you can use a large spoon as you add flour mixture and milk alternately to butter/sugar bowl, mixing just enough to blend between additions. Fill each muffin cup 3/4 full. Stick in oven until kitchen smells divine, muffins are golden, puffed, and brown at edges, and fork stuck in one comes out clean. I'm gonna say 20 min but mine were done a bit faster. And the bottoms were black because I didn't believe it. Dont let this happen to you.

Love,
The Boo
10-20-09 Ok, my beautiful friend Helena ordered me the cookbook which is called Maine Ingredients, and is pretty much out of print. And it turns out that also part of the magic is in the use of half-and-half instead of milk; I'd forgotten that.