Recipes & Cooking: October 2005 Archives

So Todd brings me food from exotic locales when he goes on business trips, which is often fun. This time he brought back a set of preserves: lingonberry, cloudberry and cranberry. Turns out the cranberry fits in perfectly with the other two. Lingonberries are tiny little reddish berries that are really, really tart. Todd said he was serves lingonberry preserves and a traditional Lapland restaurant alongside a meat dish, like turkey and cranberries. I remembered Marcus Samuelsson's recipes for whipped lingonberry cream with his Swedish pancakes, so I used some of my preserves in a pale approximation, over good-old U.S. pancakes with sweetened whipped cream. it was OK but I think I want to try some more authentic uses for them, like meatballs with lingonberries or Samuelsson's more crepelike pancakes with a mixed cream.

I picked up a copy of Weekend, a new magazine that seems geared toward a kind of casually upscale lifestyle (everyone in it seems to have a second home). The brownies have malt powder and malt balls (not sure I liked these in there, either - the candy kind of melted and got really crunchy, and the chocolate coating was kind of waxy after baking). The brownie part was rich and intensely chocolate, though, and worth a second try.

I made a half-recipe. Sifted together 1/2 cup each flour and malted milk powder (I used chocolate malt Ovaltine, which may have added to the rich chocolate flavor but kept me from tasting the malt), 2 tablespoons cocoa powder, 1/8 teaspoon baking powder and 1/4 teaspoon salt. Melt 1/2 cup butter and 4 ounces unsweetened chocolate in a large saucepan, then add 1/2 cup each dark brown sugar and regular sugar. Add 1/2 teaspoon vanilla and 2 eggs. Stir in flour then 3/4 cup maltballs. Bake in 9-inch square pan in 300 degree oven for 45 minutes.

I thought of making this when we had some leftover flat beer from a big bottle Todd bought Cooperstown. We made chili instead, but I still think this would be good with some beer in it, maybe subbed in for some of the water.

This starts with 1/4 cup butter melted in a Dutch oven (auspicious beginning, no?). Then you sprinkle 1/2 cup flour over it and stir that together until all the butter is absorbed and you have a paste. Take that out and set aside, then add 5 cups water, a head's worth of broccoli florets (I don't have time to cut up broccoli anymore so I bought mine this way), bouillon for 5 cups of stock, salt and pepper. Simmer than for about 1/2 hour, then whisk the flour mixture back in a little bit at a time and simmer for a few minutes to thicken. Then stir in some half-and-half, a couple cups of shredded Cheddar and a few gratings of nutmeg.

Yesterday was such a beautiful fall day that I had to pull out my corduroys, mull some cider and bake a spice cake. I've been racing against time to use up a backlog of dairy products that are nearing expiration, so this was a recipe off the Dannon web site that used plain yogurt. It got that weird, shiny, craterish top, but the cake underneath was moist and cakey. I think I'd add more spice, though. Maybe a little dry mustard or some pepper. The cinnamon I bought from Zingerman's has a subtle undercurrent of heat that would've added some zing in a higher dose, too.

I creamed a stick of butter (1/2 cup), then added a cup of packed brown sugar and creamed it until it was fluffy. Then added an egg and a teaspoon of vanilla, mixed, then a cup of plain yogurt. Mixed again, then stirred in a combination of 2 1/2 cups flour, 1 teaspoon each cinnamon, freshly grated nutmeg and baking soda and 1/4 teaspoon ground cloves. The recipe called for a cup of raisins, but all I had were mixed dried fruit bits (dates, raisins, dried cranberries, dried apples, etc) so I substituted that, which was a popular choice for my raisin-hating husband (I think I liked it better, too). Baked in a 350 degree oven for almost 50 minutes.

I've been examining my relationship to food a little too much lately, I think. What does it mean that it gives me a warm, fuzzy feeling to return from a bundled-up walk to the spicy smell of baked goods or to sip hot cider while giving my baby a taste of his first cake?

Yesterday was such a beautiful fall day that I had to pull out my corduroys, mull some cider and bake a spice cake. I've been racing against time to use up a backlog of dairy products that are nearing expiration, so this was a recipe off the Dannon web site that used plain yogurt. It got that weird, shiny, craterish top, but the cake underneath was moist and cakey. I think I'd add more spice, though. Maybe a little dry mustard or some pepper. The cinnamon I bought from Zingerman's has a subtle undercurrent of heat that would've added some zing in a higher dose, too.

I creamed a stick of butter (1/2 cup), then added a cup of packed brown sugar and creamed it until it was fluffy. Then added an egg and a teaspoon of vanilla, mixed, then a cup of plain yogurt. Mixed again, then stirred in a combination of 2 1/2 cups flour, 1 teaspoon each cinnamon, freshly grated nutmeg and baking soda and 1/4 teaspoon ground cloves. The recipe called for a cup of raisins, but all I had were mixed dried fruit bits (dates, raisins, dried cranberries, dried apples, etc) so I substituted that, which was a popular choice for my raisin-hating husband (I think I liked it better, too). Baked in a 350 degree oven for almost 50 minutes.

I've been examining my relationship to food a little too much lately, I think. What does it mean that it gives me a warm, fuzzy feeling to return from a bundled-up walk to the spicy smell of baked goods or to sip hot cider while giving my baby a taste of his first cake?