garden lettuce
radishes
cantalope
red peppers
avacado
hard boiled eggs
dried cranberries
salt and pepper
Friday, September 26, 2008
Thursday, August 28, 2008
A Simple Yeast Bread
Yeast breads have always intimidated me, with their fickle tendency to rise too much or not enough, or to die straight away and sabotage my meager efforts at making bread. Tricky little yeast, flaunting its living power to create or destroy, bullying novice bakers, making irrefutable demands about its living conditions. Just a simple wheat bread, that's all I want!
Well, that might be a bit dramatic, a slight exaggeration of my reluctance to learn just how to get along with that wondrous fungus, baker's yeast. Reluctance is the wrong word. Fear would be more appropriate. And that fear has kept me from working with any kind of dough other than quick until now. Today, I broke out the yeast, mixed it with warm water to awaken it, fed it some sugar, then mixed it with a healthy amount of flour and a little salt and oil for the eating's sake. I let the yeast do the work for me today, for the first time, though undoubtedly not the last.
I haven't tasted the bread yet. It's cooling on wire racks as I write this small memory. I don't know if it will be delicious and tender and chewy in all the right ways. I don't know if this experiment will lead to an adequate wheat bread, but it certainly looks promising: classic loaf shape, attractive little slits along the top, a smattering of poppy seeds for visual and gustatory interest. My first bread certainly has all the right components to be that simple little yeast bread I'm after. Now it's just a matter of waiting that painful hour while it cools on the rack.
- - - - -
All is right in the world. That fresh bakery smell came out of my oven today: yeasty, delicious, homey. And the bread today lived up to its smell. I got my simple wheat bread, and I am pleased. I may have also acquired a new habit. This dough business is pretty gratifying, and, while I am still wary of yeast, I feel less bullied now, more able to meet its demands, ready for our next encounter.
I think Ed Brown, author of The Tassajara Bread Book, said it best: “If you have never made bread, your first batch is going to be better than nothing. After that, no comparison! Each batch is unique and full of your sincere effort. Offer it forth.”
And so, to the moon, with fresh bread in tow!
- - - - -
A note: "Today" was actually a bit over a week ago. It just takes me a minute to write and post, slacker that I am. Since then, I've made a second batch of bread, rye-oat bread, that turned out just as well. Making bread really is a habit-forming occupation. I recommend it.
Well, that might be a bit dramatic, a slight exaggeration of my reluctance to learn just how to get along with that wondrous fungus, baker's yeast. Reluctance is the wrong word. Fear would be more appropriate. And that fear has kept me from working with any kind of dough other than quick until now. Today, I broke out the yeast, mixed it with warm water to awaken it, fed it some sugar, then mixed it with a healthy amount of flour and a little salt and oil for the eating's sake. I let the yeast do the work for me today, for the first time, though undoubtedly not the last.
I haven't tasted the bread yet. It's cooling on wire racks as I write this small memory. I don't know if it will be delicious and tender and chewy in all the right ways. I don't know if this experiment will lead to an adequate wheat bread, but it certainly looks promising: classic loaf shape, attractive little slits along the top, a smattering of poppy seeds for visual and gustatory interest. My first bread certainly has all the right components to be that simple little yeast bread I'm after. Now it's just a matter of waiting that painful hour while it cools on the rack.
- - - - -
All is right in the world. That fresh bakery smell came out of my oven today: yeasty, delicious, homey. And the bread today lived up to its smell. I got my simple wheat bread, and I am pleased. I may have also acquired a new habit. This dough business is pretty gratifying, and, while I am still wary of yeast, I feel less bullied now, more able to meet its demands, ready for our next encounter.
I think Ed Brown, author of The Tassajara Bread Book, said it best: “If you have never made bread, your first batch is going to be better than nothing. After that, no comparison! Each batch is unique and full of your sincere effort. Offer it forth.”
And so, to the moon, with fresh bread in tow!
- - - - -
A note: "Today" was actually a bit over a week ago. It just takes me a minute to write and post, slacker that I am. Since then, I've made a second batch of bread, rye-oat bread, that turned out just as well. Making bread really is a habit-forming occupation. I recommend it.
Sunday, August 17, 2008
Slow Cooker Skepticism
I am engaging in a standoff with my crock-pot.
Actually, it’s not my crock-pot (I’ve never owned, or even used one), but here I am at 11:30pm on a Friday night and I still haven’t started to prepare the pork shoulder that I’m supposed to serve at Farmer’s market tomorrow morning. My employer has a booth there and has asked me to prepare samples of their product: hormone-free, grass-fed meat. And of course (for reasons we shall delve into later), I’ve chosen the recipe that takes 4 hours to make, first simmering on the stove-top in a bath of chicken broth, onions, salsa verde and spices, then baking in the oven to brown and intensify flavor. I look at the clock, then back at this creature hovering on my counter top. 11:31pm. Shit. As much as I love to cook, I love to sleep even more, and so I’ve decided to let this borrowed appliance do all the work for me, overnight.
However, I am deeply suspicious.
Some part of me can’t seem to wrap my mind around how this dish could turn out as amazing in a slow cooker as it would if I gave each step of the recipe my full attention, showing tender love and care for each detail. And I didn’t come from a crock-pot family; I’m not even sure if I’ve ever been in the same room with one before. More so than how it works, I’m skeptical of the fact that such a thing could be plugged in for 9 hours, braising meat, without somehow managing to burn my house down. My slight fear of electrical fires and penchant for doing things the hard way must have been inherited from my mother, who once made her own phyllo dough from scratch, rolling out paper thin sheets for hours and hours. She’s also the same woman who, when I was a kid, constantly asked both me and herself, "Did I remember to unplug the coffee pot?" There was always a slight panic in her voice, which resulted in me forever thinking that, if left plugged in, coffee pots–and other household appliances–could burn your house down to mere ashes while away at work.
But it’s too late to go back now, I either go with the slow-cooker or show up at Farmer’s market tomorrow with nothing. It’s time to pop my crock-pot cherry.
To start, I decide to reverse the order of the recipe and bake the pork shoulder first. While it bakes, I combine chicken stock, salsa verde, onions, oregano, and cumin and coriander seeds on the stove, bringing it to a boil. When the pork shoulder comes out of the oven, I transfer it to the crock-pot, pouring my salsa verde mixture over the top. I turn the dial to High, plug it in and step away.
That’s it? I stand there a while, staring at it. I’m not sure what I’m waiting for, but I stare a little longer, arms crossed, belly out. Finally, I step away and sit down at my computer, leering into the kitchen, nervously. Even though many people have assured me that crock-pots were designed to be left alone for hours and hours, I have not been able to fully let go of my skepticism. Part of the problem, I’m sure, stems from my obsessive compulsive need to follow recipes step-by-step. My friend Elena J. Scribbles and I sometimes butt heads over this; her cooking style is very much "use whatever is in the cupboard and make it up as you go" while I tend to be weary of not using exact measurements or adding something to a dish when it’s not in the directions. I of course don’t want to be this way and I am getting better. Coaxed by Elena J. Scribbles’ assurances that "if you use quality ingredients, how could it be bad?" I am learning to eyeball measurements of spices in the palm of my hand and fashion recipes based on what I have in my fridge. So, this is a very big step for me: opting for the easier means of cooking this pork shoulder over the 4 hours worth of steps that Sunset magazine has painstakingly laid out for me.
Quietly assuring myself that I’ve "done good," I finally give in and slink off to bed.
I sleep fitfully. The aroma of braising pork infiltrates my sleep and I dream of inferior food and fire, all night long. When I wake, the crock-pot looks like it did when I left it, and I lift the lid to find the pork shoulder beautifully golden and tender, shredding effortlessly under my fork.
At market, I hand out bite-sized samples of this shredded 4-pound roast, and the whole thing is gone in an hour, delightfully well received by customers. We sell out of pork shoulders, which never happens. Strangers ask for both my name and my recipe, and I am giddy about my success. Still, at the end of the day after I’ve washed my borrowed crock-pot and returned it to its rightful owner, I am not envious that this device belongs to her and not me. As appealing as it sounds to load a slow cooker with ingredients before work and return home in the evening to a dinner that’s ready to eat, I find that I still don’t want one. Not until I conquer my neuroses, which may take a few years. For now I’m still the girl who leaves my house in the morning, drives halfway to work and then has to turn around because I start to question...
Did I remember to unplug the coffee pot?
Actually, it’s not my crock-pot (I’ve never owned, or even used one), but here I am at 11:30pm on a Friday night and I still haven’t started to prepare the pork shoulder that I’m supposed to serve at Farmer’s market tomorrow morning. My employer has a booth there and has asked me to prepare samples of their product: hormone-free, grass-fed meat. And of course (for reasons we shall delve into later), I’ve chosen the recipe that takes 4 hours to make, first simmering on the stove-top in a bath of chicken broth, onions, salsa verde and spices, then baking in the oven to brown and intensify flavor. I look at the clock, then back at this creature hovering on my counter top. 11:31pm. Shit. As much as I love to cook, I love to sleep even more, and so I’ve decided to let this borrowed appliance do all the work for me, overnight.
However, I am deeply suspicious.
Some part of me can’t seem to wrap my mind around how this dish could turn out as amazing in a slow cooker as it would if I gave each step of the recipe my full attention, showing tender love and care for each detail. And I didn’t come from a crock-pot family; I’m not even sure if I’ve ever been in the same room with one before. More so than how it works, I’m skeptical of the fact that such a thing could be plugged in for 9 hours, braising meat, without somehow managing to burn my house down. My slight fear of electrical fires and penchant for doing things the hard way must have been inherited from my mother, who once made her own phyllo dough from scratch, rolling out paper thin sheets for hours and hours. She’s also the same woman who, when I was a kid, constantly asked both me and herself, "Did I remember to unplug the coffee pot?" There was always a slight panic in her voice, which resulted in me forever thinking that, if left plugged in, coffee pots–and other household appliances–could burn your house down to mere ashes while away at work.
But it’s too late to go back now, I either go with the slow-cooker or show up at Farmer’s market tomorrow with nothing. It’s time to pop my crock-pot cherry.
To start, I decide to reverse the order of the recipe and bake the pork shoulder first. While it bakes, I combine chicken stock, salsa verde, onions, oregano, and cumin and coriander seeds on the stove, bringing it to a boil. When the pork shoulder comes out of the oven, I transfer it to the crock-pot, pouring my salsa verde mixture over the top. I turn the dial to High, plug it in and step away.
That’s it? I stand there a while, staring at it. I’m not sure what I’m waiting for, but I stare a little longer, arms crossed, belly out. Finally, I step away and sit down at my computer, leering into the kitchen, nervously. Even though many people have assured me that crock-pots were designed to be left alone for hours and hours, I have not been able to fully let go of my skepticism. Part of the problem, I’m sure, stems from my obsessive compulsive need to follow recipes step-by-step. My friend Elena J. Scribbles and I sometimes butt heads over this; her cooking style is very much "use whatever is in the cupboard and make it up as you go" while I tend to be weary of not using exact measurements or adding something to a dish when it’s not in the directions. I of course don’t want to be this way and I am getting better. Coaxed by Elena J. Scribbles’ assurances that "if you use quality ingredients, how could it be bad?" I am learning to eyeball measurements of spices in the palm of my hand and fashion recipes based on what I have in my fridge. So, this is a very big step for me: opting for the easier means of cooking this pork shoulder over the 4 hours worth of steps that Sunset magazine has painstakingly laid out for me.
Quietly assuring myself that I’ve "done good," I finally give in and slink off to bed.
I sleep fitfully. The aroma of braising pork infiltrates my sleep and I dream of inferior food and fire, all night long. When I wake, the crock-pot looks like it did when I left it, and I lift the lid to find the pork shoulder beautifully golden and tender, shredding effortlessly under my fork.
At market, I hand out bite-sized samples of this shredded 4-pound roast, and the whole thing is gone in an hour, delightfully well received by customers. We sell out of pork shoulders, which never happens. Strangers ask for both my name and my recipe, and I am giddy about my success. Still, at the end of the day after I’ve washed my borrowed crock-pot and returned it to its rightful owner, I am not envious that this device belongs to her and not me. As appealing as it sounds to load a slow cooker with ingredients before work and return home in the evening to a dinner that’s ready to eat, I find that I still don’t want one. Not until I conquer my neuroses, which may take a few years. For now I’m still the girl who leaves my house in the morning, drives halfway to work and then has to turn around because I start to question...
Did I remember to unplug the coffee pot?
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