Weekly Dish

I like Thanksgiving just fine — a holiday celebration that is all about food is one I can’t complain about too much. But, to be honest, I could do without it. Oh, yes, I love the food. But it’s rushed and harried and there’s never enough time to prepare and then it comes and it’s wonderful to share a nice meal with people you love, and then, whoosh!, it’s Monday again, and wow, are you tired. Especially when you live under the academic calendar, Thanksgiving holiday is just a big tease. The two weeks between Thanksgiving and Christmas breaks are perhaps my least favorite time to be in the college classroom — my students are stressed and tired, and all they really want is to be done. And I am also stressed and tired and all I really want is to be at home in my fuzzy slippers baking something. So, together, my students and I go through the motions of talking about the last book of the semester, but I can tell, our hearts aren’t really in it.

So, Thanksgiving? Take it or leave it, but I wish we could end the school calendar there. Because where my heart really is, come November, is not in turkey and dressing. It’s looking toward Christmas.

Because I love Christmas. I love it because, unlike so many other occasions, Christmas still warrants its own season, a building up to the actual day that brings weeks of festivity. For nearly a whole month, I get to actually prepare. Which, if I’m really honest, is where I do a lot of my celebrating: in the list-making, decorating, baking, partying, and, of course, shopping. Now, I am not the kind of girl who ordinarily loves to shop; in fact, when I’m shopping for myself (especially for clothes, bleh), I often loathe the experience.

Oh, but how I love to give gifts. I love all parts of it, from making my list of who to buy for, to thinking through what to buy for whom, to wrapping and ribbon-tying and card-writing. And so Christmas is the one time of year when I actually enjoy shopping. It’s purposeful and rewarding and brings me great joy. But I know there are those of you out there who do not share my zeal for holiday shopping. It can be a lot of pressure, especially if you’re trying to come up with just the right thing, and then there are the frenzied crowds, which can make shopping stressful. So, for those of you who do not share my love of gift-buying but need to do so anyway, just in case you have food-lovers to buy for, I thought I’d make you a little list.

For the culinary enthusiasts on your shopping list, here are some suggestions for how to make their holiday happy and bright:

Cute mixing bowls are always a good gift — useful for cooking and serving, the sets that come in a variety of sizes are particularly handy. (I would love to find some that have lids, but it seems that the sets I’ve found are more practical than attractive. If you find cute bowls with lids, please, leave a comment and tell me where!) Tie on a wooden spoon and a ribbon, and this gift is ready to give.

For the baker. I don’t have a cookie press, but I gave one as a gift to a co-worker who made cookies all the time, and she loved it. This one got pretty good reviews on Amazon (and my friend really liked it), but there are also stainless steel options (for a little more money). Cake decorating kits might also be a good choice for one inclined to make pretty baked goods.

For the hostess, versatile serving ware works well. Especially if you’re buying for someone whose taste you aren’t certain about, go with simple and white. These inexpensive pieces from Target would go with most anything, and for someone who entertains a lot, they would get a lot of use.

Kitchen tools make fun stocking stuffers or gift tie-ons for cooks, and these are some of my favorites. I use my microplane zester (a gift from my sister-in-law) all the time, for citrus, for cheese, for nutmeg; it’s a handy thing to have around. Heat-proof tongs also are an essential in my kitchen, and good silicone spatulas have been on my wish list for some time (and aren’t the glittery ones pretty?)

Cookbooks are such great gifts, but there are so many, how do you decide? Here are a few of my picks for different kinds of cooks:

• Sara Foster’s Casual Cooking is perfect for the busy home cook. Her recipes are a little fancier than just your run-of-the-mill dinner, but the book is full of fast and easy preparations for weeknight meals. One thing I like about this book particularly is that it’s also inspirational; in addition to recipes, Foster gives you lists of possible variations on quesadillas, egg dishes, uses for sausage, etc. When I need a dinner idea, this is the book I turn to.
• I don’t have Dorie Greenspan’s Baking From My Home to Yours, but everyone I know who does swears by it. It’s been very popular among foodbloggers as well. If you know a baker, this book comes highly recommended by folks of the baking persuasion.
• Adam Roberts was one of the first foodbloggers I started reading before I started my own site. I have looked through his book (and read lots of reviews), and I think The Amateur Gourmet would be a great choice for anyone with a sense of humor (he’s hilarious), but also for people you know who are just getting into cooking.
• Shauna James Ahern is also a blogger I’ve been reading since before Weekly Dish, and when I first looked at her site, I thought, “Oh, this is about gluten-free cooking. The recipes won’t be useful for me.” I kept going back, though, first and foremost for the writing — I love her voice — and then for the food. I can’t wait to read the whole book, but from the reviews I’ve read (and from what I’ve learned on her site), Gluten-Free Girl is about living life joyfully by embracing the happiness food can bring; rather than focusing on what she can’t have, she makes the most of what she can, which translates into lots of creatively delicious ideas. This would be a great gift for anyone who’s struggled with food allergies, but I also think other food enthusiasts would find a welcome story in Shauna’s.

Often I want to buy kitchen gadgets for someone, but I don’t know what they have or don’t have. If that’s the case, then foodie t-shirts might be a good option. I like these from Cafe Press and this one from Threadless, but there are tons of options with food-related content. If you go with Cafe Press, some of the designs can also be printed on aprons. Which leads me to…

A girl who loves to be in the kitchen can never have enough aprons, and there are so many cute ones out there. I particularly like those with character; the one on the far left is made from a vintage tablecloth (the seller has a few of them available). Anthropologie has an adorable collection, and Jessie Steele’s super-girly ones are available at Amazon.
Coordinating kitchen towels and oven mitts are also available if you want to add something extra to this fashionable gift.

For the cook who has everything, get consumables. Package a bundle of vanilla beans (do a search on ebay; most folks like the ones from The Organic Vanilla Company) with a pretty bottle, some inexpensive vodka, and a print-out of Melissa’s instructions for making your own vanilla, and you’ll make some project-minded cook very happy. Salt may seem like a silly gift to many, many people. But for cooks who love to use the best ingredients, good salt is expensive and will be most appreciated (and used, which is the best part of giving a consumable gift.) Spices from Penzey’s will also be appreciated by cooks who like unique ingredients. Some suggestions: an assortment of different kinds of cinnamon, whole nutmeg with a tiny little grater, or a gift box with a variety of spices. And, of course, there’s chocolate. I am no chocolate expert, so if you want to buy nice chocolate for someone you love, here’s a look into the favorites of chocolate connoisseur, David Lebovitz.

For the philanthropist, donate in his name. Every year, food bloggers around the world collaborate to raise money for a good cause. This year, the proceeds will go towards a school food program in Lesotho, a tiny country entirely surrounded by the Republic of South Africa, where one out of twelve kids die before the age of five and 56% of the population live on less than $2 per day. You can buy a raffle ticket (or several) in the name of someone else, and if they win the prize, yay!, and if not, you’ve given money in their name towards a worthy cause. Check here on Monday, December 10, for more information about how to participate.

Well, clearly, I could go on and on (can you tell I like to think about what would make the perfect gift?), but that should be sufficient for now. Happy holiday preparations everyone!

Clearly, I have been cooking a lot of sweet potatoes lately. My love for the orange tubers has never been a secret on this site, but lately, it has gotten ridiculous. We tend to eat a lot of them anyway, but since Josie has started her first solid food in the last few weeks, it seems like there is always mashed sweet potato in the fridge.

Inspired by these pumpkin waffles and these whole wheat pumpkin pancakes, I made use of a leftover sweet potato in these whole wheat waffles last weekend. Coincidentally, it happened to be the day after I made the holiday cranberries, so that’s what went on top. With a side of sausage, it made a fabulous fall breakfast. So good, in fact, that I mixed up a batch of waffle batter to take with us on the road. If there happens to be leftover cranberry sauce, it will make a perfect post-Thanksgiving brunch, but if not, these are good with maple syrup too.

I hope your Thanksgiving is filled with the blessings of good food and folks you love. That’s how we’re planning to spend ours, and I can’t wait. I’ll be back after the holiday!

Whole Wheat Sweet Potato Waffles

1 - 1 1/2 cups cooked, mashed sweet potato
1 cup buttermilk
3 eggs
1/2 t. vanilla
4 T. butter, melted
1 cup whole wheat flour
3/4 cup all-purpose flour
1 T. baking powder
1/4 t. baking soda
1 T. orange zest
1/2 t. grated nutmeg
2 T. brown sugar

Mix the mashed sweet potato, buttermilk, eggs, vanilla, and melted butter together in a small bowl. Sift together the dry ingredients in a separate bowl. Dump the wet ingredients into the center of the dry ones all at once and fold until just incorporated. Cook according to your waffle iron instructions and serve immediately. Makes 8-10 standard-sized waffles.

…just in case I forget. I tend to do that. Forget, I mean, about dinner.

It’s just that I get so wrapped up in the flurry of holiday cooking that sometimes I turn around at 6 pm and glance gleefully over the roasted butternut squash resting on the stove, the sweet potatoes that have just been pureed in the blender, the discs of pie dough awaiting refrigeration, and I realize: we’re going to have to eat take-out for dinner. Again. Which seems absurd, since it seems like I’ve spent the whole day in the kitchen.

So, tonight, and most likely for the rest of the week, we’ll be having this soup. If you happen to have some already-cooked sweet potato on hand, it comes together easily; the only trick is to think about it before 6 pm (unless you typically eat around 9, as we sometimes do), so it will have some time to simmer. If you don’t already have sweet potatoes cooked, you’ll need a bit more time, but since your oven is already set to 350 (you know, for all of those fabulous Thanksgiving baked goods you’re working on), you can throw in the potatoes and garlic at any time, and then, with the chop of an onion, it’s just a matter of assembly.

The soup is good, hearty comfort food, and, as an added bonus, it’s also packed with all sorts of good-for-you nutrients. Which, let’s face it, is even more important this week, as our bodies are gearing up for the holiday of excess. The best part about the soup is that the potatoes and garlic lend their creaminess to the texture, so no cream is actually needed. To cut out even more fat (and to make this a vegetarian soup), you could also omit the bacon and cook the onion in olive oil instead. Or, leave out the stock altogether, and use the potato mixture in enchiladas or burritos.

Or, make an entirely different soup, based on what you have that you could throw into a pot, or make pizza or pasta or a 5-course meal, but, please, whatever you do, don’t forget about dinner. Your body will thank you, come Thursday, for not having spent the week surviving on snatches of cake batter and take-out. At least I know, from painful past experiences, that mine will.

Smoky Sweet Potato Stew

The bacon, chipotle, and maple syrup pack this soup with flavor, so if you don’t have stock on hand, don’t worry, water will probably be just fine. Same goes for the corn — I had it, I liked the crunch it added, but it certainly isn’t essential.

4 smallish sweet potatoes, scrubbed (or 2 cups cooked, mashed potato)
Olive oil
1 head of garlic
4 slices thick-cut bacon, diced
1 medium yellow onion, small-diced
3 T. chipotle peppers in adobo sauce, finely minced (less if you are heat-sensitive)
2 T. maple syrup
1 T. coarse salt plus more to taste
1 can black beans
1/2 cup corn kernels, scraped from the cob or frozen
1 cup beer (preferably something dark)
2 cups stock, chicken or vegetable (or water if you don’t have stock, and more, if you want a thinner soup)

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Poke holes in the sweet potatoes, rub them lightly with olive oil, and bake them whole, on a foil-lined baking sheet, for about 2 hours. Set aside to cool.

When the potatoes have 30 minutes left, slice off the top of the garlic head, wrap in foil, drizzle with a little olive oil and sprinkle with salt. Roast for 30 minutes. Set aside to cool with the potatoes.

While the potatoes and garlic are cooling, cook the bacon in a large soup pot. When it’s done, remove with a slotted spoon and set aside. Pour off all but about a tablespoon of the fat, and add the onions. Cook the onions over medium heat, stirring frequently, until well-browned and very soft, about 15-20 minutes.

Turn the heat on the onions up to medium-high and add the syrup and the chipotle peppers in adobo. Stir and cook for a couple of minutes, then pour in the beer. Stir, scraping up any bits from the bottom of the pan, and cook for another 5 minutes, or until the liquid has reduced by half.

Meanwhile, peel the potatoes and squeeze the garlic cloves from the skin. Mash the flesh from the potatoes and garlic together, and add to the pot, stirring to combine. Stir in the black beans and corn and salt well. Add the stock and bring the soup to a boil. Reduce to a simmer, and let it cook for 10-15 minutes (or longer, depending on how hungry you are and how long it took you to remember about dinner). You may need to add more liquid to get the soup the consistency you like; ours was quite thick (and we liked it that way). Season to taste with salt. If you like, serve topped with a dollop of sour cream and a sprinkling of the bacon pieces. Will feed two hungry people for dinner at least 3 times (about 6 main dish servings).

Cranberry sauce has been one of my favorite parts of Thanksgiving dinner for as long as I can remember. And by “cranberry sauce,” I mean the dark burgundy, vibrantly tart-sweet condiment made by cooking fresh cranberries with sugar. I do not mean the lump of pink, wiggly, high-fructose corn syrup-saturated, nutritionally vacant, pale imitation of cranberry sauce that comes in a can. My mom always made fresh cranberry sauce for our Thanksgivings, so thankfully, my taste buds never acclimated to that cloyingly sweet jellied variety. Cranberry sauce, from this opinionated cook’s perspective, should be tart because cranberries are tart. Period.

My mom’s, as far as I remember anyway, is super simple — cranberries and sugar, and that’s about it. Which I love so much that I often served myself what some people might consider a condiment in side dish proportions (and can still be found guilty of eating it by itself). But when I started making my own a few years ago, I wanted to tinker a bit, to dress up the traditional just a smidgen. Not enough to interfere with the pronounced cranberry flavor — cinnamon and cloves, I found, were too strong for my taste, as was ginger — but enough to make cranberries that were decidedly my own. I found Scott Peacock and Edna Lewis’s version fit the bill (from the fabulous book, The Gift of Southern Cooking), so what you’ll find below is a slight adaptation of their recipe. There are many, many, many varieties of cranberry sauce out there, so find one that suits your taste. I like this one because it’s sweet enough, but true to the tart flavor of the berries, which are enhanced by the wine and orange zest but not overpowered.

If you’ve never made your own cranberry sauce, let me begin my saying how easy it is. Really. You put the berries, a little liquid, and a bit of sugar in a pot, and cook, stirring, until the berries begin to burst and the sugar dissolves. The natural pectin in the berries will give you the chunky, jam-like texture, and the whole process takes about 10 or 15 minutes. All that is required of you is to stir and taste to make sure you’ve achieved the sweet-sour ratio you like.

If you still need convincing, look at how pretty it is in a cut-glass dish. See? Don’t you want that on your table? Even if your dining companions just look at it, you’ll be glad you made it.

Holiday Cranberries
–Adapted from The Gift of Southern Cooking by Edna Lewis and Scott Peacock

The original recipe calls for port instead of marsala, and I tried that last year. To be honest, I made the substitution because I had marsala in my pantry (left over from this meal) and no port, but, as it turns out, I like it this way better. Marsala is a little sweeter, so I was able to reduce the sugar, and the wine’s subtle flavor slips under the berries quite nicely (the port is a little more robust). But, by all means, use what you have; I imagine any sweet fortified wine would do the trick.

12 ounces fresh cranberries (or about 3 cups)
1/2 cup marsala wine
2/3 cup sugar
zest from 1 large orange (about a tablespoon)

Rinse the berries, carefully picking through them and discarding any that have shriveled or burst. In a saucepan, bring the wine just to a boil over medium-high heat, and add the berries. Cook, stirring continuously, until the berries begin to pop (David loves this part), about 5 minutes. Pour in the sugar and orange zest, and continue to stir constantly until the sugar dissolves, about another 5 minutes. The mixture should be thick like jam. Remove from the heat until completely cool; cover and refrigerate. Before serving, allow the sauce to come to room temperature.

Is it Thanksgiving already? Are you sure? Well. I’d better get busy. It’s the first Thanksgiving for the little one, and I’d hate for her to look back through the Weekly Dish archives the year of her birth and see that I posted not one holiday recipe for her first food-obsessed holiday. Not that I’ll be cooking for her exactly, as her repertoire of food experiences includes only avocado, sweet potato, and banana so far. But I am planning to make a butternut squash pudding, reserving some of the roasted flesh for her to sample, so that counts for something. Her first Thanksgiving vegetable perhaps.

I guess with a baby around, it’s inevitable that a person becomes obsessed with firsts. Nearly everything is a first for Josie — just in the last month, she’s grown her first teeth, sat up by herself for the first time, tasted her first solid food. I know, I know, all of you who don’t have a baby are rolling your eyes right now. I know because I used to do the same thing — who wants to hear about someone else’s baby’s first teeth, anyway? It happens. Babies get teeth. And they have to sit up some time, so there inevitably must be a first time. Yawn. I swore I wouldn’t be one of those moms who oohed and aahed over her kid’s various universal — and therefore terribly mundane — developmental accomplishments to folks who could care less, so I won’t bore you with the details.

And yet. I have to just say that it is incredibly amazing to watch a tiny little person discover something utterly new. Do you remember the last time you discovered something really, truly new to you? It doesn’t happen that often in our adult lives, but for infants, virtually everything is a miraculous introduction to the world from a new vantage point. Even just the sound of her own voice takes on monumentally delightful proportions when she learns how to vary the pitch, volume, or use of spit to make new squeals, sputters, or growls.

Partly because of the sheer delight she takes in all things new and partly because I am particularly fond of the holidays, I am trying to make a special effort to establish celebratory traditions for our family this year. And, of course, a good deal of what makes a celebratory tradition in my definition of the term is food.

I know my posting this last year has been sporadic, but over the coming week, I hope to share with you the food I am making for Thanksgiving. (Maybe even every day, but I won’t make any promises.) Some recipes will be old, some will be new, some will be a combination. We are traveling to Mississippi to celebrate the holiday with our family, so I have plans to spend the next several days preparing my culinary contributions, recording them here as I go.

As I get my Thanksgiving dishes ready, of course I’ll need something to snack on as I cook. I’ve made this dip for a couple of years now around this time of year, and for whatever reason, I’m just now getting around to sharing it. Probably because it’s one of those things I seem to make at the last minute, when we need an appetizer to take to a Halloween party or a neighborhood art show or to a last-minute fall dinner with friends, and I never quite seem to get proportions written down or photos taken. Finally, though, I’ve tinkered with the recipe and taken exact measurements (and even a photo!). If you are buying canned pumpkin for a pie or some other Thanksgiving dish, I highly recommend saving one for this snack — it’s easy, tasty, and looks pretty on the table. Plus, it’s nicely suited to stand up equally well to a platter of carrot sticks and radish slices as it is just plain-Jane crackers. Or, if you’re feeling especially holiday-decadent, David likes it with the hottest variety of Zapp’s potato chips (but don’t you dare take that shiny metallic chip bag to Thanksgiving dinner; I do not want to be blamed for treading on what may be the most sacrosant of all food-related occasions, at least in this country. Turkey every, single year? That, my friends, is one heck of a stubborn tradition.)

So, here we go, kicking off Josie’s first-ever week-before Thanksgiving cooking extravaganza. She may not understand exactly what’s going on, and experts say that she won’t really remember. But just in case, I want the scents and sounds and sights of the holidays to be forever tinted with a joyful flurry of kitchen activity. From the very beginning.

Since I missed posting on her first Halloween, here’s a photo to make up for it. She was a happy pink leopard who growled at all the other trick-or-treaters. And we took this dip to the Gatewoods’, our dear friends, for a pre-trick-or-treating cook out. It was almost as big a hit as the pink leopard.

Spiced Pumpkin Dip

This is a highly adaptable recipe, one in which the proportions can be varied widely. I have made it with twice as much cream cheese and half as much pumpkin, and vice versa, mostly depending on how much leftover pumpkin I had on hand. After several tries, this is my favorite ratio, both for flavor and texture, but if you have a crowd to feed with this dip, you can certainly increase the cream cheese to use a whole package. I also like it to have quite a punch in terms of spices, but if the amounts of paprika and cumin seem like a lot to you, start with one teaspoon of each and add as you see fit.

1 head of garlic
olive oil
1 15-ounce can pumpkin puree
4 ounces cream cheese
2 t. ground cumin
2 t. Hungarian paprika
1/4 t. cayenne pepper
2 t. coarse salt

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees and set your cream cheese on the counter to soften. Slice off the top of the garlic head and remove the loosest layers of the papery skin (you don’t need to peel it entirely — just get rid of the stuff that comes off easily). Place the whole head on a square of aluminum foil and bring the edges up all around to make a little pouch. Before twisting the top to seal it closed, drizzle the garlic with a little olive oil (about a teaspoon). Roast for 30 minutes. Remove from the oven and open the foil pouch to let the garlic cool.

When cool enough to handle, squeeze the cloves from their skins into the bowl of a food processor. Add the remaining ingredients and process until very smooth. Taste for salt and spice — you may need to add a little extra. Sprinkle the finished dip with extra paprika for garnish. Serve with crudites, pita chips, or crackers. Or, if you’re feeling especially indulgent, Zapp’s potato chips.

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.

Finally, air I can breathe.

This has been a cool week for September in Louisiana: nothing drastic, mind you, but a hint, an ever-so-slight breeze, whispering the promise of seasonal change. And a hint is all I need to breathe deeply on my walks through campus, filling my lungs with air that is lightened by the chill it carries, leaving behind that old, saggy heaviness of late, damp summer. At least for a time, and a time I plan to enjoy.

That’s the thing I both love and hate about weather in the Deep South: it is always likely to change. People around here often say that if you don’t like the weather today, just wait around for a week or so. That seems especially apt advice during this in-between season, the space in the calendar when summer can’t really decide whether she’s ready to give up her time yet, and autumn is gently edging her way in, one tiny, cool breath at a time, as if waking slowly from a long, sweet dream. For the next several weeks, it will likely be hot, hot, and then cooler in the mornings, rainy some afternoons, hot again, and then cooler still, until, one morning, I’ll wake up, and there will be leaves covering my front walk, and I’ll grab a jacket on my way out the door.

Perhaps it’s because of the seasons that change comes so slow to this part of the world, this sometimes-sleepy bastion of a certain staunch resistance to tomorrow looking too different from today. Autumn had best ease her way in without too much fuss; otherwise, folks might start to get nervous. There are good and bad things about this quality, of course, but being a person who thrives in the middle ground — I may be labeled many things, but an extremist is not likely to be one of them — I particularly like the gradual approach of a new season. It gives me time to anticipate, time to say goodbye to the last of the long, hot days, time to reflect on just how lovely it is to feel that extra spring in my step that a cool nip in the air brings with it.

It also gives me time to make the most of the last of the summer harvest, little signals to remind me that the produce at the market will come in different hues and shapes in the coming weeks, and I’d better enjoy what’s here now, while it lasts.

Some people, I know, have that exact complaint against eating locally and seasonally: because we, in this country especially, are so used to having what we want when we want it, we don’t much care for being told that we can’t have tomatoes in January. And so, our supermarkets ship in tasteless, mealy, pinkish shadows of fruit to meet their consumer demand, losing any connection to the rhythms of an earth that produces in cycles, that figures time in spirals, rather than in one, straight continuous line.

I am as guilty of this mentality as anyone else when it comes to certain things; I’d have to make some serious adjustments to my cooking if I had to do without, say, lemons, or avocados for any extended period of time. But when it comes to what’s available at my local farmer’s market, I’m pretty committed to buying what’s in season while it lasts and then going without until its season returns. If this sounds like a big sacrifice, it really isn’t: after feasting on summer-ripe tomatoes, my tastebuds would refuse the supermarket variety anyway — seasonal, local principles or no.

One of my favorite things to savor while it makes its brief appearance at the market are sweet, fresh figs. For me, figs are one of those lovely seasonal surprises: when the heat around here becomes nearly too much to bear, on those Saturday mornings when I look out at the already-blazing sun and hesitate to venture out for our weekly market trip, I remember those baskets piled high with luscious fruit that only comes around once a year. Most of the time, I ration them throughout the week, slicing up a few here and there to eat with only a tiny dribble of cream, or to top a simple salad with arugula, pecans and blue cheese, and I time myself to run out just as Saturday rolls around again. But, for the last batch or two, as the summer tinges towards twilight and the light begins to carry flecks of autumn’s amber hues, I treat my figs just a little more decadently.

This time around, the lovely Ivonne at Cream Puffs in Venice called for fig desserts just as the last of the fresh figs were appearing at my market, giving me ample reason to cloak these late summer jewels in a heady syrup of balsamic vinegar and sweet vermouth. To balance their deep, dark flavor, I whipped up a feathery pile of mascarpone cheese lightly scented with vanilla and honey. This recipe makes just enough for two, and since I am the only fig-lover in our house, I savored the whole batch, right down to the last drop of syrup (not in one sitting, of course).

Savor is also what I plan to do with these in-between days: Josie and I are enjoying late afternoons in the hammock, mornings in the swing, and midday walks around the neighborhood. The best and worst thing about these days — like the figs I love so much — is that they won’t last forever, so there’s nothing to do but drink in as much of the blue, blue expanse of twilight before it fades to night. The best news of all, though, is that if you miss your chance to dwell in the in-between, to savor the last of the seasonal fruit before its time is up, the season will return.

If figs are any indication, it will taste sweeter for the waiting.

This simple little dessert is my entry for this month’s Sugar High Friday, hosted by my fellow fig-lover, Ivonne.

Glazed Figs with Honey-Vanilla Mascarpone

This is the perfect dessert to serve after dinner: whip up the mascarpone and cook the figs and syrup before you serve the meal, and by the time you’re ready for something sweet, the figs will have cooled and the syrup will have thickened considerably. You can serve this hot, but I liked it better at room temperature.

10-12 figs, stemmed and halved
1 T. butter
1/4 cup brown sugar
2 T. balsamic vinegar
1/4 cup vermouth, port, or other sweet wine
1/4 cup mascarpone cheese
1/2 t. vanilla extract
1/2 t. honey

In a heavy-bottomed skillet, melt the butter over medium heat until it bubbles (but don’t let it brown). Add the figs, cut side down, and sprinkle with the sugar. Let it cook for a minute or two, shaking the pan to evenly distribute the sugar. Take care not to agitate the figs too much to make sure they keep their shape. Pour the vinegar and wine on top and cook for 7-10 minutes more, swirling the pan often, until the mixture is reduced by half. Remove from the heat and let the figs and syrup rest (the mixture will continue to thicken as it sits).

Meanwhile, mix the mascarpone, vanilla, and honey in a small bowl until thoroughly incorporated. To serve, place a scoop of the mascarpone in the center of a plate. Surround with figs and syrup. Serves 2.

–Adapted from Sara Foster, Fresh Every Day.

Oh, the tricks of September in Louisiana.

I tell you, I am a schoolgirl at heart. Which is probably why I have only spent a few years of my life not in school. I love the idea of it: the allure of a pretty blank notebook, the possibility imbued in the perfectly sharp point of an unused pencil, the excitement of new students milling around campus. Ideally, the start of school should usher in a new season, too, and Fall ranks as one of my favorites — mellowing the scorching summer sun, blowing a breeze across the damp summer humidity, killing off the clouds of mosquitoes.

Only, I live in southern Louisiana, where the start of school coincides with the hottest of hot days. My trek across campus from the parking lot to my office should, in my perfect September, involve the wind blowing the rustling leaves across my path and gently tousling my hair; instead, I arrive in front of my office door sticky with sweat, out of breath, with my hair plastered across my forehead. Of course, part of that is because my starting-school memories hearken back to the days when Labor Day was the last of the summer holidays, not the first of the fall ones. But still, down here, summer reaches her tentacles deep into the “fall” semester every year, yet I am still properly offended by the thick, hot air when I open my front door to head to school on the very first day.

The end of such days doesn’t make a body gravitate towards a hot stove, that’s for sure, even if one is no less hungry.

Thankfully, the stage of my program I’m currently in, I only have to go to campus twice a week; other days, my reading, writing, and research can happen within the confines of my air-conditioned living room.

And dinner can happen gradually, as my study-breaks and baby-care allow. Pizza is one meal that appreciates a gradual treatment — happy to come together when I have a few minutes, rather than demanding my attention for a concentrated block of time. For that reason, pizza fits our lifestyle pretty well, and we eat it on a pretty regular basis.

This recipe is one of the best pizzas we’ve eaten in a while, and like many other meals that happen in my kitchen, it was a bit of an accident. I meant to make apple and Havarti quesadillas, but when I made my salad at lunch, I realized that we didn’t have tortillas. Or Havarti cheese. So I started some dough in the mixer and decided we’d have apple pizza instead.

The resulting concoction — sweet and rich with caramelized onions and apples, smoky and salty with the bacon, gooey with melted cheddar — tasted almost good enough to make me forget that it is closer to 100 degrees outside than to any respectable autumnal temperature. That is, of course, until I put on my flip-flops and tank top the next morning and scratched at my mosquito bites. Oh, well, at least at this rate I’ll feel really grateful for the slightest cool in the air. And for good meals spent indoors: another Louisiana September, with pizza, I think I can endure.

Apple-Bacon Pizza

This recipe is particularly conducive to the cook-when-you-can strategy; the apples and onions can caramelize for 10 minutes over medium heat, or you can turn the heat way down and let them cook for much longer (just make sure to stir every once in a while).

I’ve been meaning to experiment with crust recipes, but this one is so reliable (and I have the recipe memorized) that I haven’t gotten around to it yet. I’d imagine this topping would go nicely with a nutty whole-wheat crust too, but feel free to substitute your favorite crust (or even use store-bought!)

The amount of cheese, also, is open to tweaking: I used what I had, but I think I would have liked more or could have done with less.

4 slices thick-cut bacon, diced
1/2 a red onion, very thinly sliced
1 green apple, very thinly sliced
3 cloves garlic, thinly sliced
2 T. cider vinegar
1 T. brown sugar
1/4 t. cayenne pepper
4 oz. white cheddar cheese, sliced
Half of one recipe pizza dough (or other dough of your choice)

Preheat the oven to 475 degrees.

Cook the bacon in a heavy skillet until crisp. Remove with a slotted spoon to a plate; drain off all but about a tablespoon of the drippings. Add the onion and apple slices and cook over medium-high heat until soft and beginning to brown (6-8 minutes); add the garlic. Cook for several minutes more, until the garlic is very soft, and the onions and apple are well-caramelized. Sprinkle the brown sugar and cayenne pepper into the skillet; douse with the vinegar. Cook and stir for a few minutes, or until the liquid has reduced to a golden-brown syrup.

While the topping is cooking, roll out the dough onto a baking sheet, prick all over with a fork, and cook in the preheated oven for 5-7 minutes, or until it is lightly golden. Spread the crust with the apple-onion mixture, sprinkle with the reserved cooked bacon, and top with slices of cheddar cheese. Return to the oven to cook for another 5-7 minutes, or until the cheese is well-melted. Serve immediately.