something cool

heat here. followed by more of those lushly cloudy and still afternoons. proper stone fruit weather, cherries and plums and apricots abound. there's only so much jam a person can make. especially if they know it tends to sit in little gloriously jewel bright heaps in their cabinets without being scraped across enough toast. and a person can try in vain to eat all the paper bags full of cherries stationed on the counter and fish apricots out of the big baskets hoping to make a dent in the stock. and one can fail miserably at that, or at least their stomach can object mightily. so the latest is in, and, don't laugh, it's froyo. or is it fro-yo. it's yogurt and it's frozen and it's not pale or wimpy or a fierce let down. it's delightful and refreshing and it takes all of twenty minutes active work. so get after it. or get after someone who has, because you'll be pleased you did.

frozen yogurt, let us say, is different than ice cream. partially because yogurt typically has less free-floating fat, partially also because true frozen yogurt will have tang that can be offset or tempered with something sweet and spicy. or both, as is the case here. frozen yogurt also has the tendency to become slightly crystalline because, unlike the aforementioned milk fat, yogurt's bulk is mostly water. when frozen yogurt can have an unappealing stiffness, or the tendency to leap from the spoon, spin across the kitchen and make mysteriously sticky spots on the floors and counters that take weeks to discover and scrub off. luckily there are some solutions to all of these otherwise irritating drawbacks of frozen yogurt and some benefits to boot.

as you've likely seen, yogurt cultures, used for making yogurt at home, can be purchased freeze dried. this is a clue that the probiotics in yogurt, you knew it was coming, can withstand a stint in the freezer thus reblooming happily in your belly. this is great because cold milk protein is, notoriously, one of the hardest ways to digest milk, especially if a person is already prone to struggling with lactose, etc. nice yogurt (not dannon or yoplait, ahem,) also has an intriguing flavor profile and can be less stodgy at the end of a summer meal than the potentially-gloopy scoop of commercial vanilla ice cream.

and on to the troubleshooting with frozen yogurt. firstly, do yourself a favor for this, and from now on in general, and buy full fat yogurt. it is inevitably easier on your digestive system to eat milk protein with the fat that comes with it. the proteins and fat-soluble vitamins in milk are most efficiently broken down, used and flushed through the system with milk fat. indeed, de-fatted milk taxes your body by foraging for other fats that are less compatible in unravelling the proteins and making use of the healthful vitamins and other nutrients in milk. (this is true with any animal product.  eat chicken with the skin, eat the fine rind of pork on a pork chop, etc. etc. it's not that we don't seek to avoid saturated fats, its that we honor the animal by eating it in moderation, in tact, to be used by our bodies as we evolved to use them. just a thought.) the upshot of all of this is that the fat in the yogurt guards against the ice-cube like hardness that can crop up when making lowfat or fat-free frozen yogurt. it produces a velvety softness. the other strategy for avoiding hard frozen yogurt is to temper the custard with an egg white which adds to the nice texture. (if, like Liana Krissoff says, however, your immune system can't take it, omit the egg from the recipe below.)

so the recipe at last. this is adapted with love from Liana Krissoff's Canning for a New Generation. this book is vital for anyone seeking to put up food or scrabbling to make use of an over-large CSA share they were talked into going in on. essentially it is a recipe for jam (her recipe for plum cardamom jam is a delight,) cooked but pulled from the heat before the sugar can set it, folded into full fat yogurt and tipped into an ice cream maker for fifteen minutes.

for the fruit:

5 large plums, any variety, pitted and diced

2 cups coconut sugar

3 tablespoons lemon juice

1 tablespoon freshly ground cardamom seeds

1/2 teaspoon black pepper

1/4 teaspoon coriander

1/4 teaspoon freshly grated ginger

for the yogurt:

1 1/2 quarts whole milk, coconut, almond or soy yogurt.

1 egg separated

1/4 cup coconut sugar

2 teaspoons vanilla

2 teaspoons bourbon whiskey

1/2 teaspoon salt

1/4 teaspoon cream of tartar

in a small pot combine all ingredients for the fruit and bring to a boil, reduce to low and simmer about ten minutes, or until fruit is tender. remember that the fruit needs to be strongly flavored so as not to get lost in the yogurt. when slightly cool slowly whisk in the egg yolk. cool to room temperature and freeze until completely cold. overdo this step. chill it a while longer than you think, you and the ice cream maker will be happy you did.

beat the egg white with the cream of tartar and salt until soft peaks form. add the sugar and continue beating until stiff peaks evolve. (omit this step if you're not into the raw egg bit. omit also the salt, cream of tartar and remaining 1/4 cup sugar.)

in a large bowl whisk the yogurt until homogenous and then fold in the plum mixture. deftly fold in the egg white, pour into ice cream maker and churn according to instructions. 

alternately, lacking an ice cream machine, pour the mixture in a wide, shallow pan (a roasting one works well.) leave in the freezer and take out after twenty minutes. scoop the crystallized edges in towards the runny middle and spread the runny middle out to the edges. repeat every twenty minutes to half an hour until  the middle no longer runs. then leave until completely frozen.

high summer

Summer is here. It took its time.

We are getting rain and wind all the time, which stuns us. We look up and squint and put our noses into the breezes, we extend our palms upwards, cupped, to feel in disbelief  for the wet weight of thunderstorms. It is gloriously green and unusual. And the markets have fruit. Fruit! Not just the nine dollar a pint raspberries but heaps of apricots and cherries. This is a shock, usually the season for those is a blink and a start and is over.

Of course, when one has fruit to use, one must make cake. One must make cake as if it is one's only purpose in life and one must also eat the cake on shaded patios, with the basil and cornflowers blowing softly and the hummingbirds tangling with one another in the trees.

This cake was adapted from the sprouted kitchen's most recent and lovely idea. The novelty of almond flour has yet to escape me as a replacement for grain flours. While the above recipe was put together to make muffins I knew that, too often, muffins sit swathed in parchment, folded into ziplock bags, and left to fur over with mold in despair. There's something unromantic about fishing a slightly gelatinous-topped muffin from a bag and wishing it had retained its former lofty, somewhat crusty and fragrant glory when first turned from a muffin tin.

So, on the other hand, there is tea cake. Read: muffin batter baked in a loaf pan. Tea cake is seductive, it sits low slung and dark in a loaf pan and beckons knives and fingers to shave it down until only crumbs remain. With coffee or after dinner or in the middle of the day in bare feet at the countertop after one has recovered from miles trekked in the mountains and returned home ravenous. (Or maybe this person goes on treks into the mountains with the sole idea of using the alluring tea cake as a magnet for the return trip, imagining bits toasted with sweet cream butter with every step until the car comes back into view. Just maybe.)


Blueberry, Apricot and Almond Teacake

1/2 cup almond meal (pre-ground or make your own using whole raw almonds whizzed in your food processor)
1/2 cup cornmeal
1 cup 50/50 whole wheat-white flour (or any combination of other grain flours)
1/4 cup oats
1 heaping tablespoon hemp seeds
1 rounded teaspoon flaxseeds
1/2 teaspoon cinnamon
1/4 teaspoon ground or grated ginger
3/4 teaspoon baking soda
1/4 teaspoon baking powder
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/3 cup coconut sugar or other thoughtful sweetener
2 eggs
3 tablespoons coconut or olive oil or butter
1/4 cup plain yogurt

2 tablespoons raw honey

1 teaspoon vanilla extract

1 cup fresh or frozen blueberries

2 fresh apricots diced 

(*fancy option: crack one of the apricot stones open, fish out the fragrant soft inner kernel, dice up finely and add to the batter. The inner kernel is faintly reticent of roasted almonds and can impart a mysterious herbal note to recipes that call for apricot. Beware however as too many can overpower anything with a fierce bitterness.)

 

 

Preheat the oven to 350. Combine the dry ingredients (including the sugar) and set aside. Combine the remaining ingredients except for the fruit and whisk vigorously to aerate. This batter is somewhat dense and benefits immensely from a good swish about with a whisk before incorporating the dry ingredients. Add the dry ingredients to the wet ingredients and fold until about 75% combined, tip in the fruit and finish folding everything together. Use a gentle hand here now that the grains and the eggs are in the same bowl, an overly thorough mixing is grounds for a touch cake. Smooth into a loaf pan which you've buttered and papered and put into the oven for 35-50 minutes. Test with the blade of a knife for doneness. If the knife comes out with more than a crumb or two give it another 5 minutes and check again. Cool thoroughly before slicing: the cornmeal will remain somewhat firm and will crumble if cut before its had a chance to firm up and cool.

On another note the beginning of July marked some beautiful loops come full circle. It's important to have love move through you, the fierce kind, no matter what kind or where it comes from.

        \

on pizzi (a loose, visual recipe)

sometimes we make pizzi. it is a stretched out effort made all the easier by doing it slowly, with good company and a few bottles of beer.

we particularly like this recipe for the dough (but, be warned, it needs to sit overnight or the scant helping of yeast can't be coaxed into a billowy crust.) on days when we haven't had enough foresight we use this recipe to an equally delicious if more swift effect.

I think half of this company likes pizza because it enables us to use the grill in the winter time. (Crank it  to upwards of 500, or as hot as it will go, add the bread stone, let it sit for a while...)

And also because we can reenact the college job of throwing pizzas while in our new, less poverty-stricken and Scandinavian-mega-store-furnished nest.

 

And then the best part. Crowding the counter with any manner of things to put on top of the pizza. (Plus a sauce of whole tomatoes, a glug of olive oil and a smashed garlic clove let sit to sputter and melt into the sauce. Simple and light.)

we are frequently inclined to use cheese we make ourselves, but just as soon not. 

and we get in a frenzy, and we burn our tongues instead of waiting for three minutes for the cheese to solidify instead of swooping off the end of a slice, or we get confused about what pizza has just come off and when we need to dash out and put a new one on...



and in the end all of it is good medicine.

and. so. the point is that you can venture onto the deck in your muck boots to peel pizzi on and off the hearthstone just as easily as in the summer, and it is always rather exciting to find such a novelty as summer-fare on the table when the frost is blowing sidelong and you're already (!) beginning to ache for green buds to appear.

donut option

even when you make a goal to put only luminous and whole things into your body, you sometimes need to eat things that are only silly, only gratifying and only impractical. and in such situations it seems  sensible to seek out the very best of these things- to honor the break in the routine.

and so, perusing here i found these! and saturday morning frivolity commenced.

crisps

i was recently give something most exciting, sitting at a high bar counter and slugging am oversized ice cube around and around in my glass of whiskey. it was a board and some cheese. these are exciting on their own of course, but what was really exciting were the snapping and fiercely crunchy rye crisps that came with them. formidable in texture (seedy, dense, molasses stricken and deeply brown) and at the same time ethereally light and fragile. because they were so thin. rye and sesame and millet winking around in a bowl at a bar? (true it was this most excellent bar) but something both startlingly delicious and truly nourishing rarely happen to a lady with whiskey when she's out of the house.  i am quite certain they were these little things, which i can say with certainty i have never tasted before nor ever thought about purchasing because of their outrageous price tag (9.99??) but as it turned out, perhaps i had been missing out. big time.

it seems though that a good many folks have yearned to fill up their pockets with these but have been equally hindered. and since the internet trumps kinds of poorness, recipes for these things abound!
and so i undertook to recreate them and i think it was a good thing. all in all.

seed crisps

(adapted from all the above sources but mostly from here)

1 cup whole wheat flour
1 cup apf/bread flour
2 teaspoons of baking soda
½ teaspoon salt
2 cups buttermilk (I amended one cup of whole milk with one cup of yogurt)
2 tablespoons brown sugar or rapadura
2 1/2 teaspoons honey
2 1/2 teaspoons molasses
1/2 cup apricots, currants and sour cherries, soaked 20 minutes and then chopped
1 cup mixed seeds, nuts or grains (i used chia, hemp, steel cut oats, buckwheat groats, sunflower seeds, pumpkin seeds, sesame seeds and millet)

preheat the oven to 350

sift the dry ingredients together with the seeds. shake the buttermilk or milk and yogurt with the molasses, honey and sugar. stir until just combined and then stir in the fruit.

divide the batter into papered and/or greased loaf pans. (a mini loaf pan will render more manageable sized crackers. a full-sized loaf pan may need to be cut into smaller pieces once baked.)

bake for 30 - 40 minutes until a toothpick inserted into the loaves comes out clean.

let the loaves cool (speed this up by freezing) and slice very thinly.

return the sliced loaves to the oven for a second time at 325 for 10 minutes. flip these and finish them for another 15 minutes, or until deeply brown.

let cool completely before storing to ensure these stay crisp. if you can resist eating them long enough to have any extras.

heart snipping

autumn is here; winter is coming; we all need warmth and complexity. challenges and hoar frost and plans for resolution. so i bought a rabbit. 

i think it stems from a part of me wanting something to rise up and meet me in the ritual of eating an animal. something with a different grain and more difficulty than simply wrapping whole chickens up in brown paper or unfurling the waxed tissue that the little shrimps come twisted up in. a rabbit comes whole (at least to me he did), sheathed in plastic in the self same seated position he may have been in right before his life was snuffed out. (sad, truly. but you cannot deny it is an animal when you snip away the packaging jacket and see him resting on the cutting board. he is an animal, here are his small feet, the nub of his tail, the force and fastness of the muscles that shot him through the grass. and it is a tender thing, i think, to apply yourself to dressing him.) and so i set out to butcher him in the most respectful way i could. laying aside his luminous heart as a marker on the cutting board: this little bundle of muscle propelled a living thing! and i divided him at his joints, using a sharp and swift knife, a little pot of burning sage and tobacco for thanks, and a plan to use all of him.

 

i saved the back bone and put it up with the chicken backs we freeze for stock. (rabbit and chicken have a similar flavor and a natural affinity for one another when mixed.)  then snipped the little organs from the cupped palms of the rabbit's ribs and made them into stock with onion, rosemary, bay and peppercorns.

then i browned him in butter and olive oil, tucked him into the le creuset with more onions, castelveldrano olives and so on to feed our little house while the cold crept in.

Rabbit Braised with Olives
(adapted from here, gotta love Mr. Bittman)

1 generous glug of olive oil
a thick curl off the end of a stick of butter with a small knife
1 rabbit, whole, about 2 1/2 pounds
2 sprigs fresh rosemary or a rounded teaspoon dried
6 garlic cloves, minced
1 small onion chopped
1/2 cup dry white wine, vermouth, sherry or marsala (marsala will make a decidedly different kind of dish, so if you decide on marsala adjust the rest of spices accordingly)
 2 to 3 cups chicken or rich vegetable stock (i used the rabbit stock above)
3 small chopped tomatoes or half a can of tinned tomatoes, diced (not pureed!)
two bay leaves
barest whiff of cinnamon or scratch across a whole nutmeg
fistful oil cured olives, green or black, chopped or whole depending on what you like to find happily speared on the end of your fork.
1 pound dried pasta ribbons, something substantial. i used tagliatelli but anything long will do

preheat the oven to 350.

warm the oil and float the butter in the bottom of a heavy bottomed and deep casserole or saucepan (or the dreamy le creuset) over medium heat. more oil for a bigger rabbit, less for a smaller one. brown the pieces of rabbit in batches if they will not all fit comfortably in the pan- crowd it too much and the meat will steam instead of sear.

remove the rabbit and set aside. add to the warm rabbit-seasoned oil the garlic and salt immediately to keep from burning. add the onions once the garlic has softened but before it's taken on color- about 3 minutes. season with rosemary, salt and pepper and stir until the onion is translucent, about 5 minutes more.

remove the aromatics from the pan, raise the heat to medium high, and deglaze with the wine, stirring constantly to lift up anything that's stuck to the pan. when the wine has reduced to the consistency of runny honey (a matter of a few minutes) add the aromatics and the rabbit and stir. tip in the tomatoes, the olives, 2 and half cups of the stock, the bay leaves and the secret cinnamon or nutmeg. stir to distribute evenly.

put a top on the vessel and put into the oven for about an hour, checking to see if more moisture is necessary, if so use the reserved half cup stock or the juice from the tomato tin. it should be bubbling merrily but not furiously, adjust the oven for a happy medium if you need. when done the rabbit will be tender to the point of a knife and separate from the bone easily. it should not be falling off the bone of its own accord, this much cooking will dry the rabbit out. remove the larger pieces of rabbit from the vessel and remove the meat from the bones. shred slightly with a fork.  discard bones and tendons and stir meat back into the broth and tomatoes. (rabbit bones are no good for dog stomachs, too small and brittle. the abundant tendons and chewier bits are great however, so be generous in doling these out should you have any extra mouths that are interested.)

a half an hour before the rabbit is done, boil the water for pasta and cook the ribbons. drain the pasta most of the way, leaving a fair amount of pasta water clinging to the ribbons. toss the pasta directly in the vessel, tumble out on to plates and snow over with a fine drift of hard cheese.

this will taste slightly minerally and briny - in a good way. no dangerous gamey tastes with a gently cooked rabbit. the olives will cling nicely to the fork tines which is also quite pleasant.

lemon glut

with an abundance of lemons in the last week a kind of citrus panic set in. likely because it seems like lemons are never cheap. in the desert. we will pay 99 cents for a sad, dried fist of a lemon. California dwellers and those in the Mediterranean must balk at this. having themselves a glut of lemons, sometimes growing over into storm drains and onto neighbor's lawns. but here, there is something festive about 39 cents for a lemon. someone somewhere had a magical moment where every lemon picked left three more on the tree! lemons galore! fill your shopping trolley and then heave and squeak it out into your car. drive home with the car body scrapping the tires with weight and then wheelbarrow them into your tiny house.

and then?

that's the panicky part. what to do with so many lemons? they cannot be pureed and dried, or juiced with any real sense of goodness. (lemonade in october?) but they can be pickled and preserved! they can be persuaded into marmalade and they can be baked. and thank goodness for that. (more on preserving lemons later.)

this is a gem of a lemon tart recipe. and thank goodness for being smitten. thank goodness further for making use of a whole lemon! a few of them! not peeling and zesting. not cutting away flesh and pith. simply slicing into fine wheels, pitting and ending up with a lemon tart that convinces even non-dessert eaters, and those who do not believe in sweets, to sneakily place ever widening wedges of it onto their plates until the gleam of the tart pan's base shows and we must begin again. lordy.

et voila. and the rest happened so fast (bake, cool, slice, eat, repeat, wash tart pan.) that those pictures must wait, alas, for another day.

walks. soup.

with fall coming a new light approaches. a damp light, heavy and dense. when the dogs and i walk the land we cut through wind and light to make our way to high places. sometimes the feat is so great not even the warmth of the sun can settle our flapping breath or warm those places chilled and fearful from the work of simply putting one foot in front of the other. but there is certainly beauty abound.

the patina of a dying year. good for keeping secrets, planning adventures and conjuring up fierce hungers.
and when we are cold we go in for something hot.

this is potassium broth. a medley of many skins. roots, leaves. the protective and nourishing barriers between the earth and the things that nestle and thrive there. ayurvedic practitioners ask us to drink broths to restore the salt and water of our bodies. a kind of ocean kindling for our own secret seas. the most bolstering part of such mugfuls is perhaps that they come from such stoic and simple beginnings. and to nourish yourself on the minerally jackets of soil dwelling creatures seems the best way to part the veil of the year and enter in the decaying magic that autumn winks at us from our windows.

more scientifically, potassium broth (so called from the concoction of mineral-rich plant matter,) is a good and real source of electrolytes. frequently prescribed to the sick, the recovering, or those on the verge, potassium broth is a very bio-available way of replacing lost salts and fluids. those who are prone to cold would benefit from a knob of ginger here and perhaps a very small section of chili. parsnips and rutabagas add a sweetness for those in bitter places like heartbreak and overwork. and for the already overheated, serve this less than piping hot with something astringent and mild atop such as cilantro or mint leaves.

potassium broth (some percentages)
25% potato peelings
25% carrot peelings and whole chopped beets (with tails, not greens)
50% dark leafy greens (the tougher the better. think kale and turnip greens, not spinach. although this is fine and certainly better than lettuce.)
one leaf kombu or arame
sprinkling of celery seeds or Maine dulse sprinkles

cover all with water just to the chin, bring to a boil, turn down to low and simmer until the house swells and sighs and you can wait no longer for a cupful.