Happily Ever After

Oops, I did it again.

I went weeks, plural, without posting. Not that you noticed, probably (unless you’re the very loyal boyfriend sort of reader), because you had lovely, tipsy holiday parties to attend, gooey-sugary-chocolaty-nutty Christmas cookies to bake, and shimmery-shiny-comes-in-a-little-black-box presents to buy/stress out about.

I was at that place again, facilitating a lot of these activities—arranging cookie platters, dusting endless loaves of gingerbread and stollen, and wrapping them all up in oversize bows—and not getting a lot of sleep. Laid up as I am now, however, with the inevitable consequences of being overworked with lots of sniffly coworkers, I am 1) willing myself to feel better for a NYE weekend with college friends and boyfriend in NYC and 2) finally getting around to posting. So here goes.

Every blogger seems to need to have a “the-only-chocolate-chip-cookie-recipe-you’ll-ever-need” post.

I call it Brown Sugar No. 3

But folks, I have commitment problems when it comes to chocolate chip cookies. Maida Heatter’s Chocolate Chip Honey Cookies and I have been going steady for a while—they’re just so easy to make, and they fill the house with such a wonderful clover perfume. But I had a couple of dates with a Washington Post recipe a few years back, and I even had a one-batch-stand with the NYT’s self-titled Perfect Chocolate Chip cookies, engineered by Jacques Torres and rigorously tested by the discerning likes of the Dining Section.

Then there are the oatmeal-ed contestants. My first love will always be my grandmother’s take on the classic Tollhouse recipe (with Crisco, not butter!), which my father faithfully makes for office potlucks and on rainy days. Then, there are the chocolate-cherry-oatmeal cookies I adore, the confection of the mother of one of my dearest college friends. Jan’s cookies always have a wonderful chewy quality I’ve never been able to replicate in my own kitchen, though I’ve tried multiple times. Finally, there are the cookies that I sneak chunks of at the bakery—nutty, chewy little numbers that still manage to stay soft days after baking due to their unconscionable butter content (but they have whole wheat, which pretty much cancels out the butter, right?).

Amidst all these wonderful recipes, I can’t believe I’m about to tell you that I think I have finally found THE ONE. The cooky I can spend the rest of my days with. I want to crow from the rooftops that I have found a cooky with all the sweetness of mood enhancing chocolate, the faithfulness and staying power of oatmeal and whole wheat, the chewiness and pseudo-healthiness of raisins and the intoxicating spice of banana bread. Yup, this is one tough cookie to beat. You know it’s true, because the title has the word “badass” in it. Yes ma’am.

Lauren’s Badass Trailmix Cookies

From Anna Thomas’s Love Soup (Jules ftw, again)

Makes about 4 ½ dozen cookies

¾ c. unbleached white flour

1 c. whole wheat flour (this isn’t just a ploy at healthfulness—the nutty flavor and toothsomeness of the whole wheat really ratchets these cookies up a notch!)

¾ tsp. baking powder

¾ tsp. baking soda

½ tsp. cinnamon

½ tsp. nutmeg (freshly ground is always more delicious—and the actual nutmeg holds its flavor much better than the preground stuff)

½ tsp. salt

¼ c. white sugar

1 ½ c. packed brown sugar (I used a combination of light and dark)

2 large eggs

1 ripe banana, mashed

2 ½ tsp. vanilla extract

3 ½ c. rolled oats

1 c. raisins (or cranberries, or cherries, or apricots….)

¾ c. chopped walnuts (I used pecans, because I already had toasted, chopped ones lying around)

¾ c. (or more) bittersweet or semisweet chocolate chunks

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees F. Line 2 or 3 large baking sheets with parchment (This isn’t just baking fussiness—it makes your life easier, because the cookies won’t stick and the sheets won’t need washing, generally.)

Whisk together the flours, baking powder, baking soda, cinnamon, nutmeg and salt in a small bowl.

In a large bowl, beat the softened butter with the white and brown sugars until it looks fluffy, then beat in the eggs, mashed banana (you should have at least a ½ c.) and vanilla extract.

Stir or beat the flour mixture into the butter mixture until well combined, but do not overbeat. Stir in the oats, raisins, chopped nuts and chocolate, until everything is well mixed.

Scoop up rounded tablespoons of the dough and use a second spoon to push them off onto the parchment-lined baking sheets. (Or scoop the dough and shape it into a ball with damp fingers.) Leave at least two inches space between cookies. Bake the cookies for 16-18 minutes, or until lightly browned around the edges—reverse the position of the pans halfway through.

Transfer the cookies to a rack while they are still warm and allow them to cool.

P.S. I apologize for the lack of finished cookie pictures. I couldn't get one that did them justice, and I didn't want you to think any less of these beauties for my lack of photographical prowess.

Alone in the Kitchen with a Brisket

What’s that you say? Thanksgiving has come and gone, and Chanukkah’s nearly done…and I haven’t posted a gosh darn thing? A holiday that’s entirely about eating, and a Jewish holiday (it would be redundant to say here “that’s entirely about eating”) and I have no recipes to show for it?

I’m ever so sorry. As it turns out, that place where I said I’d be—well I was there pretty much straight through Thanksgiving week. And then the brother was home Thursday through Saturday—which precludes the possibility of any activity not involving him, as he blows through the house like the most charming of whirlwinds, whipping everyone into his whirlwind agenda.

And then Sunday morning, the house was silent.

 Not a creature was stirring, or something like that.

In the hours between 4:30AM and 8:30AM on November 28, our house went from a population of six to a population of one (maybe two, if you count the dog).

And it stayed that way. Until 8PM on this past Sunday night.

Amazing though, how much homeowner-type-stuff there is to do, even when there is only one in the home. There was critter-walking, critter-feeding, and critter-bathing to do. There was the laundry and the dishes that six people leave behind after a holiday weekend. There were adjustments to thermostats to be made, as December blustered in.

Of course I still messed around in the kitchen (despite being left solo with six people’s worth of Thanksgiving leftovers). I baked finals-stress-level supporting cookies (recipe coming soon) and Christmas cookies (ditto). And finally, when there was the promise of other people being around (i.e. my parents coming home), I made real food.

But with all those homeownery things to do, I couldn’t find time to write about these exploits. But now, the rents are home again, and my father is back to turning all the thermostats down to 58 degrees and mom is back to feeding and walking and doting on the critter (who has since forgotten that I was her lifeline for a week, and doesn’t even acknowledge my presence now that the alpha dogs are home). And so it is finally time to post.

Did you notice how there was no “recipe coming soon” bit after I referred to the real food I made for my parents? That’s because that’s what’s coming now.

My family is a family of habit and ritual, to put it mildly. Whenever we go to the beach, we have to hit all the same restaurants, buy all the same beach toys (to lose, one by one), stay at the same house. Similarly, whenever we throw our annual Chanukkah party, the featured dishes are always the same (this isn’t to say we don’t mess around with the side dishes and get creative in other ways—we are, after all, a family of experimental foodies who never follow directions and therefore can never EXACTLY recreated dishes).

This year, due to the timing of Chanukkah and certain vacations to Mexico, a Chanukkah party wasn’t in the cards. But I was damned if I was gonna miss Sauerbraten a la Nathan and Latkes with Homemade Applesauce.

So when my parents came home on Sunday night, that’s what was waiting for them—with a side of green beans, and a dessert of newcomer Cranberry Walnut tart. (Like I said, tradition and experimentation aren’t mutually exclusive. Life lessons coming to you live, from HowNowChowChow, imbued with all the sagacity of a 22 year old.)

Sauerbraten a la Nathan
Joan Nathan’s Jewish Holiday Kitchen

I LOVE this brisket. The meat is lovely—and I like making brisket, because meat makes me nervous, and brisket is pretty foolproof—but the marinade is stupendous. Sure, the marinade is great served with the brisket—but it’s also phenomenal poured into a soupbowl with some cooked rice or egg noodles. Seriously. It the most warming, savory broth. I just drooled a little on my keyboard.

One 5-lb. brisket of beef, shoulder roast of beef, chuck roast, or end of steak
2 tsp. salt
3 tbsp. brown sugar
1 c. chili sauce (I used a 12 oz. jar of Heinz)
1 ½ c. white vinegar (running low on white, I swapped in some apple cider)
1 c. chopped celery leaves (left this out)
2 onions, sliced
4 carrots, sliced
2 c. water

Mix salt, brown sugar, chili sauce and vinegar together. Pour over meat and let stand overnight in the refrigerator. (Or your porch, if it’s colder than a witch’s you-know-what outside.)

Preheat oven to 325 degrees F. Place the meat in an ovenproof casserole, pouring marinade over meat. Cover with vegetables and water.

Cover and bake for about 2 hours, basting often with marinade. Remove cover for 1 more hour. (Allow approximately ½ hour per pound for roasting.)

*This dish is best prepared in advance so that the fat can be easily skimmed from the surface (and to let the flavors deepend).

When ready to serve, slice and reheat in the strained pan marinade.

**Alternative roasting instructions: For a more tender roast, put all ingredients in covered casserole and bake in a 200 degree oven overnight, for about 9 hours (and be fully perplexed by the smell of vinegar, chili sauce, and beef with your morning coffee). My parents generally use this method, but everyone else was nervous enough about me taking care of the house for a week that I didn’t want to prove them all right by burning the house down.

Cranberry Walnut Tart
Joan Nathan’s Jewish Holiday Baker

I usually make Nathan’s Mexican Banana Cake from this book—it’s phenomenal, and though specifically for Chanukkah, is delicious and quite pretty at any time of year. I decided to branch out with  this guy—it’s sort of like Shoo-Fly Pie with a hint of tart sophistication from the cranberries and some depth from the toasted walnuts. The recipe creator—Andra Tunick Karnofsky—likes the recipe for Chanukkah because the red flecks of cranberries “remind her of the flames of the menorah candles.” I’ll let you decide whether that holds true, but regardless, it’s an elegant looking thing and very easy to make, especially with the help of a food processor.

Crust:
1 ¾ c. all-purpose flour
¼ c. granulated sugar
½ c. unsalted butter
3 tbsp. vegetable shortening
¼ c. ice water

Filling:
2/3 c. light corn syrup (take that, Michael Pollan!)
2/3 c. light brown sugar
3 large eggs
1 tsp. vanilla extract
4 tbsp. unsalted butter, melted
1 ½ c. coarsely chopped fresh cranberries
1 c. coarsely chopped walnuts, toasted lightly

Put the flour, sugar, butter and vegetable shortening in a food processor fitted with the steel blade. Pulse until crumbly. Gradually add the ice water, processing until the dough forms a ball (this never ceases to strike me as magic). Wrap the dough and refrigerate for at least one hour.

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Remove dough from fridge, and, on a floured surface (I often use floured waxed paper, to decrease risk of dough stuck to counter), roll it into a circle 13 inches wide. Line a 10- or 11-inch tart pan with a removable bottom (optional) with the dough, trimming off the excess. Prick the dough with a fork.

Line the dough with baking parchment, and fill the baking parchment with the pie weights of your choice (I use beans). Bake for 10-12 minutes, or until the dough just begins to brown (my took FORever, so don’t be alarmed if yours does too). Remove pie weights and parchment and allow crust to cool. Keep oven at 350 degrees.

Blend corn syrup and light-brown sugar in a mixing bowl until smooth. Beat in eggs, 1 at a time, then the vanilla and melted butter. Stir in chopped cranberries and walnuts. Pour the mixture into the partially baked and cooled tart crust. Bake for 40-50 minutes, or until a knife inserted in the center of the pie comes out clean. Serve with Grand Marnier Whipped Cream.

Grand Marnier Whipped Cream
HowNow, I guess?

¾ c. heavy whipping cream
1 tsp. superfine sugar
1 tsp. Grand Marnier

Chill beaters and bowl for whipping in freezer for at least 30 minutes. Pour whipping cream into chilled bowl, and whip with chilled beaters, until the cream starts to thicken. Add sugar and Grand Marnier. Continue whipping to desired consistency. Dollop alongside tart (and clean the rest of the bowl using instrument of choice, including fingers).

Do you, or does someone you love, suffer from CSA anxiety?

Again, I've been absent for a while. In case you were wondering (you probably weren't) why I'm a tardy poster, or why in the name of all that is holy, I'm not posting Thanksgiving recipes, this is why/where I am.

When I was a senior in college, I had, hands-down, the best job ever. I worked as a farmer’s market vendor for Narragansett Creamery, recently of “dinner-for-Obama-in-Rhode-Island-fame-even-though-he-only-stayed-for-15-minutes” fame, and of continuing world champion ricotta fame. For a couple of hours each Wednesday, I bundled up and trundled out to one of Brown’s greens to smile and offer samples and talk about cheese. At the end of the market, I took home $20 worth of cheese—or bartered some of it for fresh vegetables and fruit from other vendors. Seven Stars Bakery, a perennial favorite at Brown’s Farmer’s Market, had a policy were any goods sent to market were not to return to the bakery—so I frequently came home with not only a bounty of fresh mozz, beautiful ricotta, and queso fresco, but also eggplants, the last of fall’s tomatoes, and wonderful crusty baguettes and country loaves. (Ok, also usually some scones and biscotti and brownies, but those didn’t always technically make it home, per se.)

Needless to say, Wednesdays were my—and probably my housemates’, as I could never polish all this off on my own—favorite day of the week. However, by about Saturday, CSA anxiety set in. CSA anxiety is a well documented condition wherein an overabundance of perishable goods—fruits, vegetables, dairy—results in such symptoms as wakefulness at night (because you’re trying to figure out how to use up the contents of your refrigerator), shortened attention span (because you’re trying to figure out how to use up the contents of your refrigerator), antisocialness/avoidance of meals out with friends (because you’re getting frantic and you NEED to use up the contents of your refrigerator), and binge eating kale (because the bunches and bunches you have of it simply will…not…disappear).

So I got creative about ways to use up LOTS of fresh produce, and LOTS of dairy. (Did you ever think about how far $20 would take you in cheese-land? Granted, some shmancy creameries, particularly if they  do lots of hard cheese, will charge you this much for a pound of cheese, but Narrangansett is not so shmancy fancy pantsy.) Boyfriend is of good Italian heritage, so this recipe became a quick go-to—sort of like a pasta-less lasagna. (Also good for a girlfriend who would also rather reserve her carb calories for sweet things.) It comes together fairly quickly, and makes stupendous leftovers.

Eggplant-Ricotta-Bucket-o-Vegetables-Bake

A How Now original

Note: I didn’t have any award-winning Narrangansett Creamery ricotta around—in fact, I didn’t have any at all. I recalled from a recent Cook’s Illustrated spin on stuffed shells that cottage cheese (even low fat!) pureed with an egg could be substituted for ricotta to retain both the tang and creamy texture of ricotta. I used this substitution and was pleased with the results—so if you have no ricotta around, or don’t feel like running out and adding ANOTHER ingredient to your refrigerator, this is a good option. Just toss the cottage cheese and egg in the blender or food processor, and whirrrrrr them together for a few seconds.

1 large globe eggplant, or 3 small ones (about 1 lb. eggplant), sliced ¼” thick

3-4 cloves garlic, minced

1 medium onion, diced

3-4 small zucchini, sliced (half moons)

1 bell pepper (any color), diced

1 15 oz. jar tomato sauce

Basil (fresh or dried), to taste

Oregano, to taste

Salt

Pepper

8 oz fresh mozzarella, sliced or 1-2 c. shredded

1/2-1 c ricotta (see note)

1 c. parmesan, grated

Preheat oven to 400 degrees F.

Lay eggplant slices on a rimmed baking sheet (sprayed, if you like, with olive oil or canola oil spray). Drizzle with olive oil, sprinkle with salt and pepper (lightly). Roast until mostly  tender (remember, they’re going to cook more in the casserole), about 15 minutes.

Meanwhile, heat ~1 tbsp olive oil in large skillet over medium-low heat. When shimmering, add onions and garlic, sprinkling with  salt (I put salt in with all raw vegetables, as much as a “sweating” mechanism to shrink and caramelize the vegetables as a spice.) and pepper. When the onions are translucent (about 5 mins), add peppers, zucchini, oregano, and basil (about 1 tsp if using dried, a fistful of chopped, if using fresh). Coat vegetables with oil/onion mixture, and cook until just slightly tender, about 3 minutes. Turn oven down to 350 degrees F.

Add jar sauce. (No shame in this game, I grew up on Classico, and I loved it.) Bring sauce to a boil; then turn heat down, and allow sauce to simmer (it will thin, and then thicken again) for about 15 minutes.

Assemble casserole like you would a lasagna: Spoon about 1/3 of sauce on the bottom of a 2 ½- 3 qt. casserole. Place one layer of roast eggplant on top. Cover eggplant with another 1/3 of the sauce; then on top of sauce, dollop half of the ricotta and sprinkle (or layer, of you’re using fresh) half of the mozzarella and parmesan. Repeat eggplant, sauce, and cheese once more, covering the top of the casserole generously with cheese (use more parm, if you need). Bake in 350 degree oven until sauce is bubbling, about 20 minutes.

Trade(ing) Secrets

I think I’m a pretty good employee, on most days. I work hard at doing my part to keep the bakery's storefront pretty—the bread and drinks stocked, the coffee carafes and sugar canister filled. I (usually) bite my tongue when incredibly fit mothers reprimand their 8-year-olds for desiring such indulgences as white bread and brownies. I diplomatically field questions like “What do you think of the fat-free fruit muffins?” (Obviously, when you put that much dried fruit in anything, and pretend that applesauce is the same as eggs and butter, it tastes like cardboard.)

But one day, I was not the best employee. A sunny mother approached the counter with a large bag of our granola. I smiled, and went to bag it for her. I also blurted out “youknowit’sreallyeasytomakegranolandit’salotcheapertoo.”

Now, our granola isn’t outrageously expensive: it comes in at $4.75 for a 12 oz bag (compare that to Baked! of Brooklyn’s $8.50 for the same bag). And it’s pretty good—if you like sesame (a relatively cheap ingredient). And a good employee would have smiled, charged her the $4.75 and let her walk out (as we do with most of our customers) believing that what she just bought was the product of some magic, irreproducible process.

(Apparently, most of our customers think breadmaking is magic. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve explained that there can be no such thing as sugar-free vegan bread, because the poor yeast beasties need something to eat. They generally find this disappointingly scientific, and prefer their spontaneous generation theory with regard to carbon dioxide formation in bread.)

But granola baking, like bread baking (see post 1), is no magical process.* In fact, it’s one of the easiest and cheapest recipes in the proverbial book. The flavor is infinitely flexible, and, when poured into prettily decorated mason jars, it makes a lovely and affordable gift. To encourage experimentation according to your own tastes (and those of your loved ones), I’m posting a general formula in addition to a specific recipe that I particularly enjoy. Happy granola baking—to you and to your wallet!

Sweet, Tangy Gingery Granola

Go ahead! Play with spices! 

An amalgam of Melissa Clark’s recipe in The New York Times and a few blogs, plus my own touches

3 c. old-fashioned thick rolled oats (NOT instant)

1 c. slivered almonds

1 c. pistachios

½ c. granulated sugar

½ tsp. ground ginger

1 tsp. cinnamon

1 tsp. salt

1/2- 1 tsp. ground cardamom

1/3 c. olive oil

½ c. maple syrup (preferably Grade B)

¼ c. pomegranate molasses

½ c. dried apricots, diced

½ c. dried tart cherries

1/4. diced candied (not crystallized, though I'm sure you could use it without consequence) ginger

Preheat oven to 300 degrees F.

Combine all ingredients, except dried fruit, in a large mixing bowl. Turn out onto large, rimmed baking sheet. Bake for ~45 mins, or until oats are nicely browned, checking/stirring granola every 15 mins.

Allow granola to cool FOR NO MORE THAN 5 MINUTES (otherwise it’ll stick like the devil to the pan, and you’ll waste granola and time washing dishes) on the pan. Spoon/scrape granola into large bowl, and incorporate dried fruits. Allow to cool to room temperature, and store in airtight container(s).

 Granola, Generally

An easy Sunday morning recipe. Coffee not included. 

3 c. old-fashioned thick rolled oats

2 c. nuts

½ c. granulated sugar

¾ c. liquid sugar (honey, molasses, maple syrup)

1/3 c. liquid fat (melted butter, olive oil, neutral oil)

spices (extracts, such as almond and vanilla, are also nice)

1 tsp salt

1 c. dried fruit

Preheat oven to 300 degrees F

Combine oats, nuts, sweeteners, fat and spices/extracts in large mixing bowl. . Turn out onto large, rimmed baking sheet. Bake for ~45 mins, or until oats are nicely browned, checking/stirring granola every 15 mins.

Allow granola to cool slightly on the pan (if using any honey or molasses, watch carefully for sticking). Spoon/scrape granola into large bowl, and incorporate dried fruits. Allow to cool to room temperature, and store in airtight container(s).

*This news spread like wildfire through the foodie community in summer 2009, thanks to Melissa Clark and the blogosphere that picked her up. I’m posting this recipe in case you missed the first Granola Blitz.

While you're planning other things

They say that life is what happens while you’re planning other things. When I left the house last Friday to pick up lunch for myself and my former babysitter/current mother figure, I had a whole To Do list on the dining room table—fill out cell phone rebate form, make dinner (flank steak, cauliflower mash), long walk (yes, I assiduously plan my recreation). I had also already laid out and measured the ingredients for an Earl Grey biscotti recipe I was eager to try.

It was an expensive lunch.

On the way, I opted for a route including an intersection I generally avoid, due to its measly two-way stop sign in lieu of a more equitable four-way stoplight. I waited patiently at the stop sign for a break in the driver’s side traffic, then passenger’s side, back to driver’s side again, and proceeded ac--- WHOMP. A Mercedes slammed into my passenger’s side. What happened immediately, I don’t recall, but my car somehow got parked on the other side of the intersection (gratefully, or ironically, no other cars were coming). The other driver and I traded information between my tearful phone calls to my lunch date and my parents—all of whom could not have been more wonderful.

In a gesture that took us all back about 15 years, my lunch date/babysitter drove out to meet me and held me while I miserably sobbed into her shoulder. (Mercedes man was deeply, and erm, less than politely, perplexed at the relationship between the tall, elegant black woman and the short, sniveling white girl he had just hit.) She followed me in her car as I drove home, white knuckled, and stayed with my father and me while I called the rightful owner of the car (the father of one of my oldest friends, who raised me collectively with my parents) and the insurance company. Again, all parties were phenomenally understanding and warm.

The paperwork completed, my father insisted that I ice a sore shoulder and rest for a while—which I dutifully did, obsessing about the car and the accident the whole time. When the ice pack’s usefulness had worn out, I decided to kick my own into gear. I baked those biscotti I had set out to make three hours ago. Because since the 8^th grade and my first set of academic finals, baking has been my respite when I’m stressed or distressed. It makes me feel productive, it occupies my hands and my mind. It usually makes other people happy, and we all know that happiness is contagious (the whole, Judy-when-you’re-smiling-the-whole-world-smiles-with-you-Garland thing).

So spread a little love. Give yourself a break. Make some biscotti (the dough comes together extremely quickly, and in a single bowl!). And you don’t even need a several-thousand-dollar car accident as an excuse.

Earl Grey Biscotti

From Tea Cookbook

The recipe says you should use a serrated knife to cut the biscotti between baking times—I found that a very sharp regular knife, applied with a sawing motion and very little downward pressure resulted in less crumbling. However, if you aren’t terribly worried about aesthetics, the serrated knife will give you more of a homemade, rustic look (albeit, with the actual side edges on most cookies missing). More finely chopped ‘chunks’ will also reduce the likelihood of crumbling.

2 ¼ c all-purpose flour

1 ½ tsp baking powder

2 tbsp Earl Grey tea leaves (you can also use the contents of tea bags if that’s what you have—but use good quality tea!)

½ tsp salt

1 stick (8 tbsp) unsalted butter, cubed at room temperature

¾ c. sugar

2 eggs, beaten

2 tbsp whole milk (I used half and half)

3 tbsp blanched almonds, roughly chopped

3 ½ oz. dried apricots, roughly chopped

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees F.

Put the flour, baking powder, tea leaves and salt in a food processor and pulse until the tea leaves are finely ground.  Add the butter and sugar and pulse or mix with yoru fingertips unti l the mixture resembles berad crumbs.

Pour in the eggs and milk and pulse or mix until the dough comes together. Take out and knead in the almonds and apricots. Divide the dough in half and shape into 2 flat logs, about 10 x 2 inches. Spaced them apart on an ungreased baking sheet and baked for 20 minutes, or until golden. (Don’t undercook—it will make slicing more difficult. They really should be golden.)

Remove from the oven and let cool for about 5 minutes. Using a serrated knife (see note), cut in ½ inch (mine were a little thicker) slices whiel the biscotti are still warm, and arrange cut-side up on 2 baking sheets (I’m lazy, I only used one—they were a little tight, but it was fewer dishes!). Bake for a further 12-15 minutes, or until the edges become tinged with brown and crisp up. Remove from the oven and let cool on wire racks. Store for up to 7 days in an airtight container.

Bibbidy Bobbidy Boo

(I’m sorry it’s been so long since I’ve made a substantive post—I had about 12 hours more work this week, the spaces between which were filled with a crippling acute post- election depression. I’m sure many of you can sympathize. Anyway, I’m baaaaaack!)

My parents were very wise when they were house-hunting in the Washington, DC area. They wanted good schools, and they INSISTED on access to public transportation. So we ended up in lovely Bethesda, which boasts some of the best high schools in the nation—and our house ended up on a beautifully verdant street between three bus routes. As a result, my brother and I grew up happily and independently using public transportation into DC, to the mall, etc.

Unfortunately, convenient public transportation entails proximity to major roads— a real obstacle for trick-or-treaters. So Halloween chez nous was very quiet, bringing in a grand total of four trick-or-treaters over the course of three hours. Despite that letdown, we enjoyed a very festive, pumpkin-themed dinner in front of our active fireplace (in the living room, in case any trick-or-treaters did come knocking).

I didn't think this pumpkin that cool looking, but I wanted you to know
what to look for. So I embellished it with a dog.

 Main course was a smoky, spicy and very hefty pumpkin soup—my first venture into cooking with non-canned pumpkin. The pumpkin in question is a Long Island cheese pumpkin, a member of the species Cucurbita moschata, prized for its smooth—rather than stringy—bright orange flesh. The pumpkin is so named because it looks (allegedly) like a wheel of cheddar cheese—squat and round, with a light tan exterior. Others have described it as a “bit like a fairytale pumpkin, flattened and "squashed," with light ribbing and a buff-chamois-color.” (I don’t know what fairytales these people were reading, but as far as I’m concerned, fairytale pumpkins are perfectly round and bright orange, with tangles of vines, such that they can be easily turned into perfectly round and ornate carriages. Also, what the hell does buff-chamois mean?)

Anyway, despite the fact that the pumpkin was a royal pain in the bum to peel, the results were worth it—it made for a wonderful viscous, chewy soup—especially when thickened with the beans. It also didn’t take too terribly long to cook—although I would suggest, if you have the time, perhaps roasting pumpkin quarters and making a puree to use in the soup, rather than cooking peeled chunks in broth. I suspect you’ll have a deeper pumpkin flavor—and you’ll avoid the annoying peeling part to boot! All you’ll need to do is roast the pumpkin quarters and scoop out the flesh. 

Dessert was a pumpkin bread pudding only very slightly adapted from Deb’s recipe over at Smitten Kitchen. (If you haven’t read her blog, you should leave this sorry bastard stepchild version and check it out.) I used leftover challah (see post 1) that had been frozen, during which process it tends to dry out a bit and therefore become absolutely perfect for soaking up pudding, rather than the suggested french bread. I also accidentally omitted the ginger (if I were you, I might reintroduce that 1/2 tsp).

Anywho, these treats distracted me and my parents from the fact that we were giving very few away—which means that we are currently experiencing an overabundance of treats. Which was just fine, given the results of Tuesday night. Happy Friday!

Smoky, Spicy Pumpkin Soup
Loosely adapted from several blogs

6-7 c. seeded, peeled, and roughly chopped LI cheese pumpkin (~1 8 lb. pumpkin)
2 tbsp olive oil
1 medium onion, chopped
2 stalks celery, chopped
4 cloves garlic, minced
3 tbsp grated ginger
2 tsp cumin
1/2 tsp curry powder
salt
pepper
4 c. chicken stock
15 oz. cooked black beans, drained (one can)
2 c. tomatoes, chopped (one can)
1 chipotle pepper, with some of its sauce
1 c. smoked chicken (or pork), diced
½ tsp garam masala
1 tsp smoked paprika
dash of cayenne

Heat oil over medium heat in a large soup pot. When hot, add onion and sprinkle with salt. Cook until translucent, stirring occasionally (~5 mins). Add garlic, celery, ginger, cumin, curry powder, and pepper. Cook until celery is soft and translucent, giving spices time to ‘bloom’ (~5 mins). Add chopped pumpkin, stirring to coat every piece in oil and spices. Cook 5 minutes, stirring occasionally. Add stock, and bring to a boil over high heat. Once soup is boiling, reduce heat, cover and simmer for 15-20 mins, until pumpkin is fork-tender. Add black beans and tomatoes (with their juices) to the pot.

(Now for the fun part!) Using an immersion blender or a food processor (in batches! And be prepared to wear some of the soup!), coarsely process the soup. If using a food processor, return to soup pot and warm gently—add pepper, chicken and remaining spices, adjusting to taste (bearing in mind that the heat will grow as the soup sits, for example, in the fridge). Serve alongside a crispy salad and garnished with toasted pumpkin seeds. Throw a Southern Tier Pumking in the mix, if you’re feeling especially festive.

Pumpkin Bread Pudding
From Bon Appetit via Smitten Kitchen

1 ½ c whole milk
¾ c pumpkin puree
½ c sugar
2 large eggs + 1 yolk
½ tsp salt
1 tsp ground cinnamon
1/8 tsp ground allspice
pinch of ground cloves
2 tbsp bourbon (optional but OH so good)
5 c. cubed (1 in.) day old bread (I used challah)
6 tbsp (3/4 stick) unsalted butter

Preheat oven to 350 degrees F. Place cubed bread in 8”x8” baking dish. Whisk together milk, pumpkin, sugar, eggs and yold, salt, spices, butter and bourbon. Pour over bread. Bake 25-30 minutes, or until custard has set. Serve warm, mit schlag.

Happy Halloween!

From How Now and its favorite canine mascot.

Tilting at windmills

Three weeks ago, over Columbus Day weekend, my 61-year-old father biked the 185 miles of the C&O canal towpath in three days. With an incompletely healed cracked rib. His riding buddy, my “Uncle Phil,” bellowed the most charmingly accurate assessment of the situation as they left early Saturday morning: “Don Quixote and Sancho Panza!” 

But Dad survived! Not that I doubted he would, because my father is one of the most stubborn cusses ever to live—but all the same, I was extremely proud of my Papi. Such accomplishments call for celebration—and what other way is there to celebrate than with decadent desserts? Specifically, banana chocolate cream pie.

I’d been promising to make my father some kind of All-American pie for at least a year now, but making my father a pie was…a daunting prospect, to say the least. Sort of like my own personal windmill, to keep with the quixotic theme.

 That isn’t to say that he’s a hypercritical audience. In fact, you could say he’s the biggest proponent and supporter of my kitchen activity. (He’s also among my biggest fans—sharing that title with my mother—outside the kitchen as well.)

I bet Grandma's old pastry cutter carries
her perfect-pie-crust spirit.

But my father is particular about his pie crusts. His mother was a Home-Ec major at Michigan State University, and was an amazing seamstress and incredible cook, particularly of all things Americana. Like pie. So he’s got standards about pie, my father. Standards I came to know about not through family discussions of my grandmother’s pie, so much as through a Thanksgiving ritual known as “Dad makes the crust for the apple and pumpkin pies.”

While this annual ritual obviously begins with the making of the dough, the real show doesn’t begin until it’s time to roll the dough out. Then, despite his prodigious flouring of his surface and sheathing of the rolling pin in a special cover, his just-barely-moistened-going-to-be-incredibly-flaky-because-of-it dough begins to rip. And then, almost as though you’d handed him a paintbrush sopping in blue paint, my father, an otherwise proper gentleman, lets loose a string of profanity that could make a sailor’s ears burn. Some bickering/teamwork between Mom and Dad ensues, as they successfully coax the dough into a pie pan, and every year, marvelously flaky pie crusts grace our Thanksgiving table.

But you can understand, given this elaborate ritual, that I might have some anxiety with regard to pie crusts. I spent many years thinking they were a baking feat that only the most staunch of heart and skill could attempt.

This is clearly not true. Pies are among the most rustic of pastries, a way to disguise unattractive cuts of meat, use up fruit on the verge of spoilage, and plain old stretch ingredients. They’re not supposed to be freaking rocket science. Besides, even if your pastry isn’t the flakiest one in the world, who is going to complain about fresh, homemade (I mean completely from scratch), pie? Seriously.

 So I got over my fear of pie. The first pie guinea pig, in that wonderful tradition of couples the world over, was boyfriend. I made a butterscotch banana cream pie, without even the aid of a food processor to help out with the crust, and it came out…ok! After tasting it, boyfriend offered:

“You know the only thing that would make this better? Chocolate.” (In what situation, by the way, is this not the case?)

What he didn’t say was: “Gee, you know, this is ok, but the crust really could have been flakier.”

Emboldened by this success and inspired by his suggestion, I made a pie for boyfriend’s birthday. I found a good chocolate cream pie recipe, and held onto the bananas—a sort of unexpected guest in a chocolate cream pie. And I made whipped cream to go along with the whole thing. And you know what? Nobody said anything except “yum!”

So, with some trepidation, I made the very same pie for my daddy on his return from his epic journey. And you know what he said about the pie? Thank you. So go make some pies!

The dreaded quadruple yolker! 

 Banana Chocolate Cream Pie

Very slightly adapted from Mary Engelbreits’s Sweet Treats

Note: This is a recipe that occurs in parts, most of which need chilling or cooling, so you’ll want to start it EARLY the day you plan to serve it, if not the day before (pie crust won’t take any harm from longer refrigeration, as long as it’s tightly wrapped).

½ recipe Flaky Pie Pastry (see below, or use whatever crust recipe you enjoy)

 Filling:

2 c. milk (WHOLE!)

2/3 c. heavy cream

1 c. sugar

4 large egg yolks

3 tbsp cornstarch

Pinch of salt

8 ounces (good) bittersweet or semisweet chocolate, finely chopped

2 tsp vanilla extract

2 ripe bananas

On a lightly floured surface, roll out the dough to a 12 ½ in round. Fit the dough to a 9 in pie plate. Trim the edges of the dough, leaving a ½ inch overhand. Fold the excess dough under itself and crimp the edges (if you’re fancy like that). Refrigerate for 30 minutes.

Bake the shell: Preheat the oven to 375 degrees. Line the pie shell with foil and fill with dried beans or rice. Bake for 15 minutes. Remove the foil and beans and bake the shell for 8-10 minutes longer, until golden brown.* Let the pie shell cool completely on a wire rack.

Make the chocolate filling (it is SO worth making this from scratch). In a large heavy saucepan, combine all but 2 tbsps of the milk with the cream and sugar. Bring the mixture to a boil over medium heat, stirring to dissolve the sugar.

Meanwhile, in a large bowl, combine the egg yolks, cornstarch, salt and the remaining 2 tbsps milk and whisk until smooth.

Whisking constantly, gradually pour about half of the hot milk into the yolk misture. Pour the warmed yolk mixture into the saucepan of hot milk and bring to a very gentle boil over medium-low heat, whisking constantly. Boil, whisking, for 1 minute. Remove from the heat and whisk in the chocolate until it is completely melted. Transfer the filling to a bowl and whisk in the vanilla. Cover with a piece of plastic wrap DIRECTLY touching the surface to prevent a skin from forming and let cool to room temperature.

While pudding is cooling, peel and slice the bananas. Lay the slices on the bottom of the pie crust. Pour the cooled filling over, and smooth with a rubber spatula. Cover loosely and refrigerate for a least 2 hours, until chilled, before serving. Serve mit schlag.

*I had to bake with my pieweights for almost the entire time, because when I took them off, my crust began ballooning. Bottom line, just keep an eye on your crust and make sure it is evenly cooked and mostly flush with the pan.

Flaky Pie Pastry (makes enough for a double crust pie, so you’ll only use half for this pie)

2 2/3 c. all-purpose flour

2 tbsp sugar

½ tsp salt

¾ c. (1 ½ sticks) COLD, unsalted butter, cut into ½ inch pieces

½ c vegetable shortening, cut into 4 pieces

5-6 tbsp ice water

In a medium bowl, combine the flour, sugar and salt. Using a  pastry blender, two knives, or your fingertips, cut in the butter and shortening until the mixture resembles coarse crumbs. Drizzle 5 tablespoons ice water over the top, tossing the mixture with a fork until the dough just comes together. If necessary, add up to 1 tablespoon more water. Divide the dough in half and shape each half into a disk. Wrap in plastic and refrigerate for at least 30 minutes or overnight.

Mutant squash season

Cooler temperatures have finally come to Washington. You know what that means, don’t you? To paraphrase and bowdlerize Colin Nissan of McSweeney’s, “it’s mutant squash” season. (For the slightly more colorful and totally hilarious version, check out McSweeney's. Thanks, Skay!)

I love squash. I was always a really big fan of the acorn, since my parents use to roast it with butter, maple syrup and sausages in the cavity— fat and sugar, how could we go wrong? Anyway, this was enough of a staple autumn-wintry dish in my house that, on one occasion, I was delegated the task. I have a distinct memory of talking through the roasting process with my father’s secretary while waiting for him to talk me through it. As it turns out, this preparation was tradition in PJ the secretary’s house as well, and by the time my father was able to talk to me, her expertise had rendered his unnecessary.

Now that I’m all growed up, I don’t always have to call somebody to figure out what to do with squash—but occasionally, when our college kitchen was positively swimming in market share squash, I consulted the blogosphere. One exploration* yielded a recipe for white bean and kale stuffed delicata squash—an heirloom squash that is slightly sweeter than butternut, and whose major attraction is its edible peel (does anybody else hate fighting the peel off of a butternut’s awkward shape as much as I do?).

The ugly squashling.

The recipe called for tons of fresh sage—a luxurious ingredient I didn’t have at the time, and belonging to the class of “fresh herbs” which I didn’t usually have as a college student (if I had a fresh herb around, it was usually the lovely cilantro). I’m also not the biggest fan of white beans—I usually like them cold, pureed in dips or marinated—so I didn’t have those around at the time. So I improvised (like any good Povar-Bachorik, I looked for someone’s opinion—in this case, some poor blogger like me—and then basically ignored it).

I love black beans, so I used them in lieu of the white, allowing them to dictate the flavoring of the dish—that is, I went more Mexican than Italian. I also had some aging cornbread on the counter and some queso fresco in the fridge, which I substituted in for the template recipe’s crust of white breadcrumbs and parmesan. I was pleased with the results a year ago, so when some delicata caught my eye during a pumpkin run to the local farmstand, I thought I’d make something similar for a low-key-dinner-with-a-friend-on-Saturday-night-after-a-weekend-workday. The stuffed squash and some cilantro-cabbage slaw (keeping with the Mexican flavors) came together in about forty minutes (not bad), and when I sat down to enjoy it with good company and a Post Road Pumpkin Ale, I was very, very satisfied.

Delicata Squash stuffed with Black Beans

A How Now original

Note: I’ve only ever seen Chipotle Peppers in Adobo sauce from Goya, in little 4 and 6 oz. cans. They’re a wonderful way to add smokiness to any dish (instead of using this liquid smoke stuff I keep hearing about), and available in the international aisle of most supermarkets. The cans also last forever, because a little goes a long way.

1 delicata squash, halved and seeded

2 tbsp olive oil

1 medium onion, diced

3 cloves garlic, minced

15 oz. cooked black beans (one can)

15 oz. diced tomatoes (I used canned, but fresh are fine!)

½ c beer**

½- 1 chipotle pepper finely chopped, with some of its sauce (see Note)

1-2 tsp. cumin

dash cinnamon

dash cayenne (optional)

salt

pepper

½ c. cheddar cheese, grated

Preheat the oven the 350 degrees. Spray a rimmed baking sheet, and place the squash halves on it, cut side up. Prick the squash with a fork in 3-4 places per half, and then drizzle/brush on about ½ tbsp. olive oil; finish by sprinkling squash with salt and pepper. Place squash in oven, setting a timer for 15 minutes.

While the squash is roasting, heat the remaining oil in a large skillet over medium heat. Add onions and garlic, season with salt and pepper and sauté, stirring occasionally, until translucent. Pour in RINSED beans, tomatoes (with  their juices) and spices, and simmer until most of the liquid has been absorbed. Moisten with beer, then throw in the chipotle pepper and adobo sauce, and simmer about a minute more.

By now, about 15 minutes have probably passed. Pull the squash out of the oven, and check it for doneness—it should be completely cooked (i.e. tender when forked) before stuffing. If the squash still needs cooking, continue roasting, checking it in 3-5 minute intervals.

When the squash it fully cooked, generously stuff it with  the bean mixture (you will probably have leftovers). Top with grated cheddar (again, generously), and put it back in the oven for about five minutes, until the beans are heated  through and the cheese melted. Enjoy!

* At this point, I was using Tastespotting, a "a community driven visual potluck"/sort of food porn cum composite food blog site, a great deal. I’m finding that I use it less often now, and I refer more often to tried and true blogs and cookbooks. But it could also be that I have less desire to procrastinate now, and Tastespotting is just stellar for that.

**This measurement is kind of a lie. I took the glass of beer I was drinking from, and, much to my guest’s, erm, surprise, just kind of sloshed some of it into the pan.

All tarted up

 “Halloween is the one night a year when girls can dress like a total slut and no other girls can say anything about it” (Lohan 2004).

Thus, with Halloween just around the corner, it is time to get all tarted up. By which I mean, write a post about my great-grandmother’s apple and plum tarts, also known by their ridiculously long German names, zwetschgenkuchen (no one told them that—count ‘em—FIVE consonants in a row was entirely too many) and apfelkuchen.

According to family lore, I am eerily like my namesake, Ella Van Geldern. (My middle name is Elise.) Though a wonderful pastry cook, Oma (as she is called in the family) loved oversweet store-bought icing (on which I have made myself sick, not infrequently). There are some other traits that apparently connect us (wickedly sharp tongues, an ability to talk FOREVER), but these are irrelevant to a cooking blog. (Woo! Enough parenthetical statements, ya think?)

When she did that pastry-cooking bit she was so good at, Oma NEVER measured ANYTHING—time, ingredients, vessel size. Her recipes are full of useful instructions like “bake in hot oven until done” and “add flour until it looks right.” In an effort to functionally record her recipes such that her pastries could be replicated, my mother spent hours with her in the kitchen as a college student, shoving measuring spoons into streams of flour and spices, and taking note of oven temperatures and baking times.

Despite her heroic efforts, Mom didn’t manage to get measurements for all of Oma’s pastries, so the following recipes will be half written, half bake-by-picture. (What, you think I’m industrious or fast enough to intercept my mother’s hands in the kitchen? Ha!) I assure you, though, that the photo interpretation is worth the effort. These tarts are relatively simple (the dough is made in the food processor!), can be thrown together quickly with refrigerated dough, and tempt even the most abstemious and timid diners to ask for seconds. So without further ado…

Good luck, gumshoe!

Tart crust- Blatterteig 

(You may recognize this butter dough as the same dough used for bachelor button/thumbprint cookies!)

½ lb. unsalted butter, room temperature

1 c. granulated sugar

2 eggs

1 tsp lemon extract/juice OR vanilla

2 c flour

1 tsp baking powder

Whisk together flour and baking powder in small bowl—set aside.

Place butter and sugar in bowl of food processor, process until fluffy. Add eggs one at a time through feeding tube (ew, that sounds awfully surgical), then vanilla or lemon flavor. Gradually add flour/baking powder mixture, and process until the dough begins to come together in a ball (you may need more flour, this is fine).

Remove dough from processor, shape into moderate-sized disc, and refrigerate for at least 1 hour (and up to 7 days, maybe longer, if your dad doesn’t insist on tarts within that window).

Zwetschgenkuchen (Plum cake)

½ batch blatterteig

~1 lb. Italian plums, quartered

matzo meal

cinnamon sugar

Take the blatterteig out of the fridge.

Butter a 10” tart pan generously. Break the blatterteig into smaller hunks (I don’t know, about 3” long?) and distribute the blatterteig over the pan. Using your palms, press the dough into the pan to ~1/2 inch thickness, “smooshing” it up the sides of the pan. Avoid overhandling dough. Sprinkle lightly with matzo meal (just enough to coat).

Begin adding plums, pressing down lightly, like this:

Dr. Povar moves so quickly that I can't even catch her arms on camera, and you expect me to capture measurements of ingredients? Fat chance.

Fill the crust, leaving some space between plums for the crust to rise. Sprinkle cinnamon sugar (“it should taste like sweetened cinnamon, not cinnamon-y sugar” –Gail Povar) over the tart until it looks like this:

Bake at 350 degrees for 45 mins to an hour. While the tart is hot, sprinkle with more cinnamon sugar.

Allow tart to cool, and refrigerate tightly covered (for eating later, when you will bring it to room temperature) or enjoy (preferably mit schlag).

Apfelkuchen (Apple cake)

½ batch blatterteig

2-3 baking apples, peeled, cored and sliced 1/8- ¼ inch thick

raisins

cinnamon sugar

1 egg

Lemon juice

Sour cream or yogurt (light is ok)

Sugar

Flour

As with the zwetschgenkuchen, make tart crust by spreading blatterteig onto buttered tart pan.

Begin placing apples (again, gently pressing, but layering a bit so there are nooks for the custard to fill) like this:

When tart is full, add cinnamon sugar until it looks like this:

Then sprinkle enough raisins over the apples until it looks like this:

Make custard: whisk together lemon juice and one egg, about 3-4 tbsp sour cream or yogurt (knowing that if you use regular yogurt, you’ll need more flour thickener), and about 1 tbsp flour (no measuring spoon were harmed in the making of this particular tart). Add sugar until the custard is just barely sweet. It should look like this:

You'll notice that the spoon here is a completely workday spoon. No measuring here! Nuh uh!

Pour the custard over the tart, using a pastry brush to make sure every apple is coated. If you move the raisins around, don’t worry about it, you can always relocate them after the custard is spread. Now, it should look like this:

Bake in a 350 degree F oven for about 1 hour, until the custard is well set and the crust is just beginning to pull away from the pan (see photo at beginning of post):

Allow to cool before cutting, or refrigerate tightly wrapped.

 (Whew! Can you tell I have a new camera that I like playing with?)

Back to school

About four hours ago, I returned from a three day trip to Providence, RI via New York (where I picked up boyfriend). It was a beautiful fall weekend—crisp October air, skies with that silvery fall cast, and leaves changing and fluttering into crunchy piles on the familiar sidewalks between my old house, dreaded chemistry buildings, new campus centers, and beloved latin bagel and coffee joints.

It was a weekend that returned me, through conversations over spicy chais and spicy tuna, to the realities of college life—most of which my recipes, thus far, have pretty much ignored. Challah, though budget friendly, can require hanging around the house or scheduling regular trips back to it during rising; cobblers including blackberries (though the blackberries could easily be swapped for something else) are not the most budget friendly, even in the peak of berry season (which we have long since passed). 

The following recipe, however, comes together quickly, is infinitely flexible according to dietary restrictions (veganism is something one encounters much more frequently in college settings than elsewhere, I find), and calls for ingredients all cheap and abundant at this time of year. It’s a two pot meal, and makes excellent leftovers for toting around campus, to the lab, to rehearsal (I’m looking at you, Higher Keys), etc. It’s mushy and warm—ultimate comfort food.

Stamppot (trans. “mash pot”) is a traditional Dutch dish, which I just grew up with, and loved, as mashed potatoes and swiss chard. When I ended up in Amsterdam at 14, and discovered that it belonged to a whole category of potato-veggie mashes, one of which included sauerkraut, I loved it even more. Traditional recipes call for steamed greens and, frequently, the addition of bacon; here, we (my mom and I) wilt the chard with a little onion, a touch of garlic, and that most American of condiments, Lawry’s Salt.* We use whole milk and butter with the potatoes, but you could just as easily swap in chicken stock for a lighter version, or olive oil and vegetable stock for a vegan one. You can also mess with the ratio of greens to starch—I like mine about 1:1, but adolescent/college-age boys tend to like it a little more skewed toward the starch side.

Why would you throw such pretty things away?

Mashed Potatoes and Chard, aka Stampot

16 oz. swiss chard

½ medium onion, diced

1 tsp. garlic, minced

12-16 oz. potatoes, any variety

2 tbsp. butter

¼- ½ c. whole milk

Lawry’s salt

Salt & pepper, to taste

Wash and de-stem the chard, reserving the stems and chopping them into ½ inch chunks. Chop the leaves into 1 inch thick ribbons. Melt the butter in a large skillet. When it shimmers, add the onion, garlic, and a pinch of salt; cook, stirring occasionally, until translucent (~5 minutes). Add the chard stems and cook, stirring occasionally, until they too are translucent. Add the leafs and wilt (you may want to add some liquid—broth or plain water—to accelerate this process).

Meanwhile, make the mashed potatoes. Scrub/peel (however you like your mash) and coarsely chunk the potatoes. (If you need them to cook really quickly—as I often did—chop them more finely. They’ll get more waterlogged, but since you’re adding liquid to the mash anyway, it hardly matters.) Boil them in a large saucepan until tender.

Drain the potatoes (keeping them in the same pot) and cut the butter into them. Mash the butter into the potatoes. Once the potatoes are pretty well mashed, add your preferred milk/liquid until the potatoes reach your desired consistency—but remember, they’re going to get thicker with the addition of greens, so better to err on the side of thinner than you usually like. Season.

Stir in the greens until incorporated. Mound onto serving plates, with tomatoes (decidedly not Dutch) as a fresh accent, if you like. Wrap yourself in a snuggie, biology textbook, or significant other, and enjoy.

* Turns out not everyone grew up on this. It’s magical on any kind of steamed vegetable, and absolutely necessary in The Best Mac and Cheese Recipe Ever, which I will post soon.