Weekly Dish

I love the idea of fancy breakfast food. Using my culinary prowess to whip up something innovative and delicious first thing in the morning sounds like something I would love — trading pajamas for an apron and wielding a wooden spoon to whip up a luxurious first meal, beginning the day with a jolt to both my creativity and my palate. A fabulous idea, in theory. Here in my real life, however, the one where mornings revolve around a hungry baby, on the days I am home, I am lucky to get a shower and dress before David leaves for the day; on the days I teach, I do well to make it out the door with two of the same shoes on my feet. For all of these reasons, during our harried weekdays, David is usually the one in charge of finding morning fare for us to eat. Don’t get me wrong, David is great with eggs: scrambled or fried, he knows how to treat them. He also makes fabulous homemade biscuits on occasion. Our standard weekday meals, however, include oatmeal or plain yogurt, jam, and granola. All of these options serve the purpose of kick-starting our metabolisms with fairly healthy calories; utilitarian, perhaps, but these meals taste good and give us fuel to dive into the day. Breakfast does its daily job.

But sometimes I crave more decadent breakfast food, the stuff of brunch menus and country inns. It’s the lack of variety, I think, that gets to me: we eat the same three or four combinations of foods every, single day, and occasionally, I long for something different. Something dressier. Something I might serve if I were to have guests over at 11 in the morning. To satisfy those cravings, we’ve sort of fallen into the tradition of having more brunch-ish food for lunch on Sundays. We still eat our regular oatmeal or yogurt before church, but for when we get home, I usually plan more exciting breakfast food to fix for our midday meal.

Lately, I’ve been on a savory kick; I love French toast, waffles, and pancakes as much as the next breakfast lush, but recently, I’ve liked my Sunday brunch to fall on the saltier side of sweet. Eggs have a constant presence, usually fried because David does them so well, and their runny yolks add a layer of rich creaminess to whatever they land atop. Last week, it was potato pancakes and some boiled shrimp we had leftover in the fridge. A good combination, to be sure, but it needed something more to fulfill my fanciful brunch demands. Something to dress up the plate a little bit, to bind the disparate elements together. Something like Hollandaise sauce.

Hollandaise sauce is, of course, the key ingredient in the king of brunch food, Eggs Benedict, and is often served over asparagus and sometimes fish. Traditionally, it’s made in a double-boiler, and whisked constantly for proper emulsification. On this particular Sunday in my house, however, it came together quickly in the blender while David fried the eggs and the pancakes finished cooking, a necessary adjustment to prevent one cook smashing the other with his elbows or the unwelcome hurling of expletives as we both crowded over a small stove in a small space. Plus, Josie loves the sound of the blender, and she was sitting on the kitchen counter happily observing while our brunch lunch came together; making the sauce this way helped keep her entertained. The texture of the blender Hollandaise is not quite as thick as that prepared the traditional way, especially immediately after it’s made. But it thickens as it sits, and the flavor is the same tangy, buttery one I had hoped would cloak our potato pancakes and shrimp with its velvety yellow vibrancy.

Yes, it’s a lot of butter, and yes, it takes egg yolks to thicken it; yes, it’s rich and full of fat and calories. But it’s sauce, an accoutrement, an extra, almost a garnish, so it’s not like we eat a lot at one time. Plus, it’s not like we eat it every day. It’s not like it’s breakfast. Which is precisely why it tastes so good and why I like our little Sunday brunch tradition: breakfast is food to get us through the day; brunch, on the other hand, is food to savor, food to make an occasion out of a day set aside to be a break from the weekday routine. Food that deserves a special sauce once in a while, especially when that sauce almost just happens with a whirl of the blender.

In my humble, breakfast-loving opinion, you could put this sauce on nearly any savory breakfast dish and have yourself a celebration on a plate. Just don’t remind me how easy it is, or I might just whip some up on a Tuesday morning. And then I would have to call it breakfast, which it most certainly is not.

Blender Hollandaise Sauce

1 stick (1/2 cup) butter
3 egg yolks
Juice of 1 large lemon (about 2 T.)
1/4 t. coarse salt
1/8 t. cayenne pepper

Melt the butter in a glass measuring cup in the microwave, and have it handy. In the blender, combine the other ingredients until well-combined. With the motor running, pour in the melted butter slowly (as you would oil for mayonnaise), to emulsify (to bind the oil and the acid, in other words). Pour into a serving dish and let it stand for a few minutes. Drizzle as your heart desires.
The sauce will keep in the refrigerator for a few days; just rewarm gently before serving. This recipe makes about a cup of sauce.

–From Southern Sideboards, Junior League of Jackson, Mississippi

In college, I lived in the dorm all four years with the same group of girls, who, now, ten years later are still my best friends. Our lives have taken different paths over the years, but we gather periodically for weddings, baby showers, and holidays, and we try to take a trip together once a year, although that has proven more difficult than we would like. My friend, Mica, a part of that group of college girlfriends (and the one in the center above), was the first of us to really exhibit any domestic skills. She was always in charge of food for parties, and when four of us lived together in an apartment one summer, Mica was really the only one who knew how to cook.

Mica’s culinary adventures that summer went something like this: after her summer school classes, she would come home and whip up all kinds of things — yellow cake mix cookies, brownies, and a divine key lime pie that I have particularly fond memories of — and then, without ever even sampling what she’d made, she would go work out for a couple of hours, come home, and make dinner, which was sometimes, but not often, just a little healthier than the sweets she left lying around. In retrospect, the three roommates who consumed all of this food — Lydia, Patty, and me — decided that Mica’s plan to stay skinny that summer was twofold: first, exercise all the time and eat very little; second, make the three of us fat so that she appeared even skinnier by comparison. Perhaps this plan was not exactly a consciously thought-out one, but I know of no other way to explain the image I have in my head of Mica in her work-out gear nibbling at a hardly-dressed bowl of iceberg lettuce while the rest of us feasted on fried pork chops, some sort of casserole, mashed potatoes, and whatever there was for dessert (for, there was always, always dessert).

Despite the number of calories consumed, living in an apartment with our own kitchen was a most-welcome change from our college cafeteria, and Mica was one of the first of my peers that I remember appearing comfortable in a kitchen; she and I have shared a love of cooking ever since. So, recently, when she asked if I had a recipe for chicken marsala that I liked, I started thinking about how our lives — and thus, our cooking habits, — have changed since our college days. Mica married a boy named Micah (I know, what are the odds?), moved to a small town, and is expecting their second child in just a few months. She now spends her days selling real estate and chasing after her two-year-old, so she’s as interested in good food that requires minimal effort as I am. With her in mind, I developed this recipe for what may not be the prettiest food I’ve ever made, but it is definitely tasty and easy to put together. And while it is certainly not the caloric equivalent of something as light as, say, undressed iceberg lettuce, for a recipe with a cream-based sauce, it could be much worse. I do hope that my dear friend Mica is eating the food she cooks these days and that she, along with the rest of you busy cooks out there, finds this recipe useful. I have made it for a couple of special occasions — an anniversary dinner or two — but it is also simple enough for a nice weeknight meal as well.

I am not claiming authenticity here; rather, I was interested creating a version of this traditional Italian recipe that would make quick work of what could seem like a labor-intensive or complicated dish. A heavy, oven-proof skillet (preferably cast iron) is the only pot you need, which makes clean-up a little less work as well. I served the chicken and its sauce over grits thickened with a little butter and some grated Romano cheese, but wide noodles, rice, or a mound of risotto would also make a nice bed for this dish. A simple green salad was all we needed for a side; next time, I’ll wilt some spinach with plenty of garlic for a warm green side dish.

Chicken Marsala with Oven-Roasted Shallots and Mushrooms

2 ounces bacon, diced
4 boneless, skinless chicken breast halves
2 T. flour
4 large shallots, quartered
1 small red onion, cut into large chunks
8 ounces cremini mushrooms, sliced
2 T. balsamic vinegar
1/2 cup Marsala wine
1/2 cup half and half
2 T. Dijon mustard
Kosher salt

Preheat the oven to 400 degrees.

In a large, oven-proof skillet, cook the bacon over medium heat until crispy. Remove the bacon pieces and set aside.

While the bacon is cooking, prepare the chicken breasts. First, place the breasts between two pieces of wax paper or plastic wrap and pound with the bottom of a heavy skillet. You’re looking for a uniform thickness for all 4 pieces of chicken. Then, dust the chicken with the flour on both sides and sprinkle with salt. After you’ve removed the bacon, add the chicken pieces to the skillet and cook, over medium-high heat, without disturbing for about 2-3 minutes on each side, or until nicely browned. Remove the chicken to the plate with the bacon.

Add the vegetables to the skillet — mushrooms, onions and shallots — and pour in the vinegar and mustard, stirring to combine. Sprinkle the vegetables with salt. Put the whole skillet into the oven and roast the vegetables for 30 minutes. During this 30 minutes, you can fix the side dishes (or have your husband do it and you feed your baby and put her to bed).

Return the skillet to the stove, and turn the heat to medium-high. Add the chicken breasts and bacon pieces back to the skillet. Pour in the wine, and deglaze the pan: stir, scraping the bottom of the skillet and letting the chicken and vegetables absorb the liquid. When the wine has reduced by half, after a couple of minutes, pour in the cream. Add a bit of salt to taste and stir, until the sauce is thickened and brown and the breasts are cooked all the way through, another couple of minutes. Serve immediately.

That’s about the extent of what I had on hand one day last week when I set about trying to rustle up some sort of afternoon snack to tide me over until dinner.

It had been one of those proverbial days. Starting at about 3 a.m., Josie had decided to have a little party in her crib. She does this occasionally — wakes up happy and talking and usually puts herself back to sleep — and this particular middle-of-the-night affair sounded like it would be no different. But, what began with sweet-sounding coos gradually escalated to all-out screams. Not crying screams, mind you; the child was still gleefully happy. But we live in a very small two-bedroom house, and at 3 in the morning, that kind of volume carries quite an eye-opening kick. I was convinced that I would find at least two or three more babies in the bed with her contributing to the noise level when I walked into her room. Whatever she was so delighted about she was determined to share with her parents, and it took a joint effort of feeding, rocking, and walking around from the two of us to calm her down and get her to go back to sleep, only to be awakened by her again by 5:30. At this point, it was clear she was ready to be up for good.

From there, the day tumbled into the sort of managed chaos that life with an infant sometimes is: it happened to be Wednesday, when David is gone from 10 in the morning until 10 at night; Josie, after her early-morning performance spent the rest of the day in and out of the exhausted fussing that always follows an out-of-the-ordinary night; and I spent the entire day grading one student’s paper. Josie took no naps to speak of, and when I finally put a grade at the end of the essay response I had been composing since 7 that morning, it felt like quite an accomplishment.

By the time the late afternoon rolled around, she and I were both tired and cranky, and, since she had needed more attention than usual, I could barely remember what I’d had to eat and was starving. The prospect of waiting until David returned for dinner seemed unimaginable, but I still needed something to get me through the next few hours until Josie would (hopefully) go to bed.

When it comes to dinner, I am good at planning, mostly because I’ve been in the habit for so long now. As those of you who remember my marker board posts know, I make a meal plan on Saturday mornings after we get home from the Farmer’s Market, we go to the grocery store for whatever else we need, and the marker board on the side of the fridge tells me what to make every night for the rest of the week. Before I had Josie, the rest of our eating just sort of happened; I kept cereal or oatmeal for breakfast, and we’d either have leftovers or grab something on campus for lunch. Snacks weren’t on my radar at all, save a piece of fruit here and there or the occasional bag of potato chips David would sometimes bring home.

Providing all of the nutrients for a whole other being has, predictably, changed my appetite, and if I thought I was hungry when I was pregnant, that was nothing compared to what my body demands now that I am nursing. It’s not that I eat that much more, in terms of quantity, but I certainly have to eat more often, which translates into having more food choices on hand. Some weeks I do better about remembering to think about snacks than others, but we’re in a seasonal fruit lull right now, which is my usual between-meal sustenance when there’s nothing else. I am also, of course, trying to be conscious of the nutritive value of everything I consume; making the most of my calorie intake was obviously important when I was growing Josie inside my body, but now that I can actually watch her little body become healthy and strong, I am even more aware of how significant the food I take in really is. That may sound stressful, but it isn’t something I spend a lot of time worrying about, I just try to make good food decisions.

On the particular day I found that can of beans in my pantry, though, I have to tell you that I think I might have consumed almost anything I had found that was readily available to be eaten. We are not in the habit of buying pre-packaged junk food, and it’s a good thing, because if, somewhere in the depths of my kitchen shelves, I’d stumbled across a box of Hostess cupcakes, I might well have eaten the whole box in one sitting.

Instead, Josie and I marched out the back door, gathered enough basil for a quick batch of pesto, and I made some semblance of this bean dip, tossing a few other ingredients into the food processor in the precious few moments I had between feedings, diaper changes, and entertaining an off-schedule, fussy baby. Perhaps it was the sheer force of my growling stomach, or maybe it was the fact that Josie sat happily in her little green seat outside for a full 30 minutes while I ate and relaxed for the first time all day, or it’s possible that I was so grateful for a stretch of time to actually savor, rather than inhale, my food. Whatever the reason, if you’d asked me at that specific moment, I would have told you this dip was the best snack I’d ever tasted.

Since that day, I’ve made the dip twice more, taking the time to actually measure the quantities and photograph it, and, although, I can’t say that it tasted quite as good as it did on that first day (thankfully, I haven’t had another one of those days!) it’s provided many an afternoon of a healthful, filling snack, smeared on whole wheat crackers, or as a dip for carrots or radishes. We’ve also spread it on our sandwiches and used it as a quesadilla filling. I love the fact that it’s creaminess comes from something healthful and protein-laden, and I can see endless possibilities for what you could use to flavor the white bean base. For now, though, I’m planning to stick with my original impulse, at least until the basil sends out its last fragrant green leaves of the season.

This recipe certainly is not earth-shattering in its inventiveness, and I’m sure it’s not terribly original, but these are days of creative utilitarianism around our house, and in the capacity of healthy, hearty snack food, this is a dip that does its job.

At the end of the day this dip first made its way out of the pantry and into my stomach, Josie went peacefully to sleep, dinner somehow got made, and I eventually got to climb into my bed and close my eyes. And, as a happy surprise, when I laid my head on the pillow and asked myself the question all mothers of small children must ask at the end of harrowing days — “Now, what, exactly did I do today?” — this bean dip came to mind. A small victory, yes, but a tasty one. And just in case one of those days happens along your path in the near future, a victory I gladly pass along.

White Bean Pesto Dip

1 15-ounce can cannelini beans, drained
2 cloves garlic
2 T. prepared basil pesto
1 T. olive oil
Juice of half a lemon
1/2 t. sea salt

Pulse the garlic in the bowl of a food processor fitted with a steel blade. Add everything else and process until well-mixed but still chunky.