Failing the Idealist Test

I had in mind to tell you about a family of wines I’ve recently discovered. They are from Spain and prepared from organic grapes. (I wonder why the wine does not have an organic label…must be something in the vintner’s process.)

But then. I realized that, as a Californian, I should not plump for a wine brought from thousands of miles away.

And as a conscientious greenswoman (is that a word yet?), I should not ditto.

Now I am the sort of obsessive who, when she passes the laundry room in my apartment building and someone has left the light on, I go back, stop, reach in, and turn it off. Who faithfully lifts the charger of her cell phone from the plug because of that commercial with the teenager who got caught NOT doing the same. Rather than drive, I walk and take the bus when I can. I buy as much as possible from the farmers’ market. I am deeply committed to combating global warming.

I was fascinated when I heard that Sir Paul McCartney refused Toyota’s gift of a Prius because it had been flown in (I suppose if someone had driven the car across Japan, caught a ferry to Shanghai, then driven across China and—the most direct route—Kazakhstan, Russia, Ukraine, Poland, and Germany to France, caught another ferry across the English Channel to London, Sir Paul would have accepted it).

OK. So in the middle of winter when Whole Foods offers luscious red grapes from Chile, I almost literally turn up my nose at them. Too much pollution dumped from the plane that brought them. But then, skulking about the deli section, I look over my shoulder left and right before snatching up a block of Parmigiano Reggiano…grabbing a block of Irish butter…scooping up Niçoise olives…

I remember when I first was aware that I was eating something fresh from a far-off land. I was nineteen, just arrived in Paris, and at the corner market bought a couple of blood oranges from Israel. I was agog. Until then in my sheltered life, I never gave a moment’s thought to where my food came from.

Ever snce, I am always thrilled when I savor honey from Hymettus…oats from Kildare…cheese from Cheshire, Seine-et-Marne, Parma… If I can’t be there in real time, I can close my eyes and be there in my senses.

I have read of Barbara Kingsolver’s year of eating only things she grew…of others who only ate food grown within a certain distance from their house. I am filled with admiration. Model deportment. I admire the Slow Food movement, although I confess I know little about it. (I will educate myself, I will, I will.)

But if the point is not to use black pepper from Tellicherry, Cassis from Burgundy, I would be very very sad.

Well, if I tell you about the wines, when I go to buy them, they might be gone. But what are friends for, if not to share? The name is Albero. I’m crazy about the white—it is sparkling and pleasantly dry, makes a lovely kir. There are two reds, one with red on the label, one with yellow—I prefer the red (you can tell I am not a sophisticated wine person), it's a Monastrell also known as Mourvedre. And there’s a rosé that is delightful. These are not elevated wines, but modestly priced and pleasing for every night.

Still they’re from Spain. How many tons of garbage are dumped on the planet to get them here?

Don’t want to think about it.

Five Stars for Häagen-Dazs five

Thursday afternoon in The New Yorker I saw an ad for Häagen-Dazs (boy! I’d never absorbed that it was spelled that way...sometimes when you have to write words out, they take on a new life) five ice cream. As a onetime copywriter (the credit is ancient, but still it was at Lord & Taylor under the gifted tutelage of Mary John Fly), I was impressed by the ad. A white on white photograph spread across the bottom of two pages, five words, each under an ingredient:
“Six [under an egg in its shell balanced on end]
ingredients [under a little geometric stand of white sugar cubes]
counting [tall skinny glass of—turns out to be non-fat—milk]
the [small bowl of swirled whipped cream]
spoon.” [jaggedly casual arrangement of chunks of milk chocolate]
I went out and bought milk chocolate five.
The most memorable ice cream I’ve ever eaten was from a shop near the temple at Paestum in Italy (how’s that for place dropping?)…it was hazelnut, and my husband nearly had to pick me up off the sidewalk.
I would say this ice cream is its match. It is not only pure, the texture is light, creamy, delicate, the flavors (to my palate) in exquisite balance.
Other fives being introduced are vanilla bean of course, then coffee, yum…brown sugar…passion fruit…ginger…mint.
This afternoon I bought the ginger.
I cannot imagine a fresher-tasting ice cream. And I’m one who keeps her ice cream maker bucket in the freezer, to be instantly at the ready.
I hope they’ll do something with lemon.
Ain’t it lovely when big business comes up with a product that’s not only the highest quality but fun and beautifully simple?
Häagen-Dazs could turn out to be the Mac of ice cream.

Lovely Easy Bar Cookies for Picnics

My apartment kitchen is excellent, I am happy with it, however it has a half-hearted oven… earnest, well-intentioned, but unreliable (don’t we all know people—let’s get closer to the bone—have friends like that?). So even though I am back to baking bread (I suppose I will plunge in and try something again soon with La Silverton’s organic-grape-based sourdough starter, humming away to itself in the fridge), I am reluctant to use my oven (I, who love to bake). It’s not just because I can’t trust the darn thing but also because it is a cavernous storage bin…all my baking sheets, large skillets, pot lids, pressure cooker, wok, are stored inside, and every time I want to use the oven, I have to pull out the contents…

Last Tuesday, I was going with my friend to the Hollywood Bowl, it was my turn to bring the picnic, and I was seized with the desire to make cookies. I was surprised at myself (haven’t made cookies in a very long time), but there it was. I looked through my books and found what seemed to be the perfect picnic cookie…easy, adaptable, rough and tumble. It was the recipe, “Sweetmeats,” in “The Silver Palate Cookbook,” a work I admire not only for its cheerful resourcefulness, but eminently flavorful and useful recipes.

The cookies have a shortbread foundation…I added a layer of jam (one can never have too much jam)…then a topping of nuts and coconut. Don’t fret that there are three parts—it all goes easily and the beauty part is that you can use whatever you have on hand, any jam and any nuts and even skip the coconut. The “SPC” recipe calls for walnuts but I—who snatch up hazelnuts at the holidays and hoard them like a squirrel—used hazelnuts. I’m sure almonds would be lovely, too. I added a layer of raspberry jam because I don’t think there’s a cookie in the world that doesn’t profit from a tetch of raspberry…but you could use cherry or apricot or any marmalade… I also added cinnamon, same principle as with raspberry jam… The cookies have a delicious European sensibility. (I have the feeling I will be tempted to drop in a bit of chocolate at some point.)

I packed eight for our picnic, but they proved to be rich and we each only ate two—my friend took the extras home. The rest I tucked into a storage container and put in the fridge. They are as fresh today, a long week later, as when I made them. I’m sure they would freeze well. What I love about these cookies is that, around midnight, when I’ve a nagging need for something sweet, I dip into the box and bring out a cookie—OK Sylvia, be honest, you bring out two—and my sweet tooth is happily satisfied.

NB: For the brown sugar, you can use the traditional sugar that’s measured firmly packed, or brown sugar that comes in loose crystals. And be sure to toast the nuts in the microwave—about 2 minutes—until crisp.

Heat the oven to 350^o, adjust the rack to the middle. Butter a 10 by 10-inch or 9 by 12-inch baking pan.

For the shortbread, in a food processor, pulse 8 ounces (2 sticks) unsalted butter at room temperature with 1-2/3 cups light brown sugar until fluffy. Add 1-2/3 cups unbleached all-purpose flour and ¼ teaspoon cinnamon and pulse just until blended. Smooth into the baking pan and use a fork to press even. Bake for 20 minutes. Remove from the oven and let cool slightly.

Meanwhile for the topping, in a medium-size bowl, whisk 4 large eggs at room temperature until yolks and whites are blended, then add 1 cup light brown sugar and whisk until blended. Blend in 2 tablespoons unbleached all-purpose flour, ¼ teaspoon cinnamon, and a pinch of kosher salt. Add 2 cups coarsely chopped toasted hazelnuts, walnuts, or almonds and 1 cup shredded coconut and use a fork to blend in.

Spoon about 2/3 cup raspberry or other jam (at room temperature) over the shortbread then gently spread it evenly. Now smooth the topping over the jam. Bake until the pastry is lightly brown around the edges and a cake tester (toothpick, straw) comes out clean in the center, 35 to 40 minutes. Cool in the pan then cut into squares (36 in the 10 by 10 pan, 30 in the 9 by 12 pan). Store in the refrigerator between layers of waxed paper in a tightly covered container.

The Romeo-and-Juliets of Flavor

In another lifetime, I wrote an article about Serbian cuisine, and one of my discoveries was kaymak with ajvar. Kaymak (says Wiki) “is a creamy dairy product, similar to clotted cream.” At my Serbian editor’s suggestion, I suggested using cream cheese. Ajvar—if you haven’t discovered it at Trader Joe’s or another international grocery—is a heavenly relish of sweet red peppers and eggplant.
As I spread cream cheese on my odd sourdough whole wheat bread, then spooned ajvar over the top, I thought about other classic combinations…in which one element not only enhances the other, but the sum of the parts emerges as greater than the whole—true of the best marriages. It’s a jolly list…won’t you add to it? For starters:
Chocolate and orange…chocolate and lemon is almost even better.
Chocolate and raspberry (raspberry jam as a little kick buried in chocolate pastries).
Chocolate and cherries.
Chocolate and mint.
Chocolate and anything.
Apples and cinnamon…cardamom…nutmeg.
Apples and cheese.
Muskmelon and ginger.
Rhubarb and strawberries.
Peaches and cream.
Tomatoes and sweet basil…oregano...rosemary.
Carrots and thyme.
Black beans and cilantro.
Onions and dill.
Cucumbers and dill.
Potatoes and dill.
Salmon and dill.
Any fish and lemon.
Any fish and tartar sauce.
Lamb and rosemary.
Liver and onions….bacon.
Ham and cheese.
Macaroni and cheese.
Hard-cooked eggs and mayonnaise.
Popcorn and butter.
Bread and butter.
Anything and butter.
Anything…well almost…and garlic.
To be continued...

Wrinkles...and a tasty disappointment

Watching the new Harry Potter movie, I was struck again—remembered what I felt last time—by Maggie Smith’s marvelous face. All those wrinkles! Rivulets. No face lift job for our Maggie. Do we all remember the gorgeous young redhead in The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie? And now Dame Maggie—she’s been knighted, right?—presents her beautiful self to the world as the forces of nature and her own inner being have shaped her. I bless her for that.

I have friends who have had their faces tucked, bucked up, lifted (probably more than I realize!). I understand and empathize with their reasons for wanting/needing to look younger. I looked younger once. When my husband of 46 years died 8 years ago, I was still relatively unwrinkled. But time and flesh seem to have caught up with me and for a wonder—especially since I lost 13 pounds (The Flat Belly Diet)—the extra globules in the interstices melted away and up popped a purer me…molto wrinkled (what’s the Italian word for “wrinkled?” I’ll bet it’s prettier).

I hadn’t seen my wrinkles for the most part. Didn’t ignore them, just hadn’t noticed. But then for a photography class a couple of years ago, I had to take a self-portrait. Whoa. Wake up call! Big shock (photo attached).

Too, from my father’s side of the family, I inherited bags under the eyes. Not attractive. But there they are. I remember so well Betty Friedan’s face. Heaven help us, that was a real face, a true face, an honest face. In this world, in this society, one is well advised to look as young as is credible. Still the writer in me wants to say to the world, Look. I’m not a movie star. My face is not my fortune. What is the wonderful line, something about, The face you have is the face you’ve earned.

Dame Maggie is a movie star. And she lets her face be her face.

She has given the rest of us the courage to be our own true selves.

Huzzah for Maggie Smith!

And, yes, I loved the movie.

Oh. The sourdough wheat bread. Didn’t work. Pity. It came out flat, slices resembling biscotti. Crunchy on both sides, nice spread with cream cheese and ajvar. Which is a notion for my next entry…

Son of Making Sourdough Whole Wheat Bread

Midnight, Saturday/Sunday.

At 1:30 yesterday afternoon, I punched down the dough--it had doubled in size, no yeast! It was very sticky—very—and I turned it onto a board with some flour, kneaded it a bit to get control over the stickiness, then turned it into one of my wonderful very deep very heavy blue Vermont (Bennington Potters) bowls. Brushed the top lightly with oil (olive), covered the bowl with film and a dampish cloth, and set it in the fridge. Went off to take a couple of granddaughters to the new Harry Potter movie.

One thing led to another and it was midnight by the time I got home. The dough had risen about 2/3-3/4 of doubleness. I poured myself a glass of wine (more of that anon) and checked what was going on with “Saturday Night Live.” Nothing to my interest. So I decided to punch down the chilled dough, form it into a loaf, let it rise while I slept.

I floured my round basket—banneton—with the white whole wheat flour, punched down the dough, shaped the loaf, and turned it into the basket. Covered it with film, a dampish cloth, left it on the counter, and Cakes and I went to bed.

Cakes is my boon companion, a bichon frise/poodle mix that I rescued four months ago—I rescued her and she rescued me.

More of the bread when I wake up.

Making bread

Starting again with Nancy Silverton's starter born of organic grapes. Trying to make whole wheat bread (from Trader Joe's white whole wheat flour) as good as the demi-miche I buy at TJ's. After three days of feeding the starter (Silverton is demanding), the dough is rising...I didn't follow her recipe, just added flour and salt to the starter. I've been baking bread for, uh, over 50 years, and up till now have best liked Silverton's bread and Poilane's Peasant Bread from my friend Bernard Clayton's book on French breads. We shall see!