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.

Gettin figgy with it

Anyone who has ever been a college student, or a parent to a college student, knows that the return of the prodigal son or daughter—on Columbus Day, or Thanksgiving, or winter break—always involves a prodigal stocking of pantry shelves.

Or in my case, refrigerator shelves. My mother has always referred to me as her ‘fruit bat,’ proudly parading me around the farmer’s market upon my return from school, explaining her massive purchases at the Bethesda Women’s Farm Market by pointing at me and exclaiming, “The fruit bat is home!” I’m pretty sure that, given the amount of fruit she was buying, anything capable of flight was pretty far off the mark, but it was endearing.

Less endearing, however, is the origin of that nickname. When I was about five years old, the family took a trip out to Sacramento, CA to the home of a family friend—who had fig trees growing in their backyard. I went apeshit. I ate figs presented me at the kitchen table, figs wrested from Maxine en route from the fig tree to the kitchen table, and direct from the tree. I made myself massively sick in a most embarrassing way, which is probably not suitable content for a lady's blog. (I like to leave something to the imagination, but here are the main dramatis personae: 5-year-old Alex, lots of figs, and a lovely private swimming pool.)

You'd think such traumatizing experiences would have taught me my lesson, but to this day, I have zero self control around the things. My mom, true to form, has made a habit of buying them for me as a treat since I’ve been home, and every time I open the fridge to consider lunch or dinner, I do so over a fig that I’ve just absentmindedly grabbed from the carton. As a result, the cartons never last very long. So, consider yourself lucky that this cobbler made it into existence. Like the last recipe, it uses the unique mix of summer and fall produce we have available at this time of year—crisp autumn apples, the last of summer’s berries, and, of course, figs.

Apple, Fig and Blackberry Cobbler

Adapted from The New Basics Cookbook

*I stuck with the recipe’s filling, but instead of using a more pastry-like cobbler crust, I used a family favorite “cottage pudding” crust from Fanny Farmer’s Boston Cooking School Cookbook—it involves no cold butter, cut/manhandled into coarse crumbs, but a much simpler, much less messy mixing of melted butter and buttermilk into dry ingredients. As you would expect, it turns out a more drop-biscuit like topping, rather than a pastry topping. I doubled the FF recipe for the amount of fruit I was dealing with, and ending up with a 3:1 ratio of pudding to fruit—which was fine with me, but if you like a higher fruit ratio, I would stick to 1.5x the recipe presented here.

Filling:

6 fresh figs, halved (about 1 ½ c.)

6 apples (McIntosh, Granny Smith or Golden Delicious…or any baking apple), peeled, cored and cut into ¼ in. thick wedges

1 pint blackberries, rinsed and drained

½ c. granulated sugar

1 tbsp fresh lemon juice

finely grated zest of ½ lemon

Cottage pudding (remember to go with at least 1.5x this recipe):

1 ½ c. flour

2 tsp baking powder

½ tsp salt

½ c sugar

1 egg

½ c milk (or buttermilk)

½ c. unsalted butter, melted (one stick)

Preheat the oven to 425 degrees F. Butter a 13x9” baking dish, or a 2 ½ - 3 qt. casserole dish.

Make the filling: combine figs, apples, blackberries, sugar, lemon juice and lemon zest in a large bowl. Toss well to combine, and spoon into prepared baking dish.

Make the topping: Sift together flour, baking powder, salt, sugar. Mix in egg, milk and melted butter until just combined—if you overmix, the biscuit may get tough. A few patches of flour are fine.

Dot the filling with butter (if you feel so inclined—but it’s not necessary), spread the pudding on top with a rubber spatula. Bake for 30-35 minutes—watch carefully to avoid overbrowning. And if you do overbrown it, you can always top it with confectioner’s sugar, like, um, some people might do.

You say potato, I say yam

When I spent two months in Nigeria, the term 'yam' was an issue of great contestation between me and my housemate/employer. Ben, always with a huge smirk on his face, insisted that Africa was home to the original yam, and therefore the term yam could only be applied to the white, starchy tuber native to Africa. Those orange things sold as “yams” in the United States were definitely fake yams. 

It was a silly way to poke fun at each other, so neither of us ever really bothered to get to the bottom of the controversy. Besides, Ben knew pretty much everything about everything, so I didn’t question him. And we didn’t have water pressure up to the second floor and our electricity was generator powered, so I didn’t generally spend precious internet time looking up the difference between sweet potatoes and yams.*

But now, with my newfound lack of studenthood, I have lots of disposable internet time to look up questions of such paramount importance. So, let me give it to you straight, straight from the Library of Congress website: Yams sold as such in American supermarkets are not actually yams. They are sweet potatoes. Moreover, according to the U.S. Department of Agriculture, you should KNOW so, because yams are required to be labeled as BOTH sweet potatoes and yams.

How many supermarkets have you been to where this is the case? Either every supermarket I have ever been to is miserably sub par, or there is some lax regulation surrounding the sweet potato/yam conundrum. Election issue, anyone?

Anyway, if you were looking for some actual substance in this post, here it is: while yams and sweet potatoes are both angiosperms, or flowering plants, they are members of different orders and families. Yams are monocots, meaning that they have one embryonic seed leaf, and belong to the family Dioscoreaceae; sweet potatoes are eudicots (having two embryonic seed leaves) and belong to the family Convolvulaceae. Yams are starchier and dryer, with tough skins and usually white interiors (though this varies among the 600 species found in Africa). Sweet potatoes have a variety of skin and flesh tones, and the skin is generally thinner, softer, and edible.

The sweet potatoes Americans have generally come to know as yams are soft sweet potatoes, and were commercially farmed later than their firmer friends. As such, soft sweet potatoes were marketed as yams to differentiate them from their predecessors.

So, why this exegesis on yams vs. sweet potatoes? The recipe I’m about to present you with calls for sweet potatoes, but according to author Anna Thomas, “Yams can be used in place of sweet potatoes if that’s what you have on hand.” Curious cook that I am, I wondered how my soup might have been different had I used sweet potatoes, instead of the yams that were all I could find at my supermarket. Turns out it didn’t make a difference at all, on account of my yams are actually sweet potatoes.

Ok, enough of this nonsense. Here’s the recipe. It’s really lovely, quite light, and makes use of the mix of produce we have available at this time of year; the end of the summer greens, and the beginning of fall and winter’s hard tubers. Of all varieties.

Kale and sweet potato soup with cumin and lemon

Adapted from Anna Thomas’s Love Soup (thanks, Jules!)

2 large leeks, white and light green parts (6 oz.)

1 large yellow onion

2 tbsp olive oil

1 ½ tsp salt (plus more to taste)

12 oz. sweep potatoes

1 small Yukon Gold or white potato

12 oz. Russian kale (I used curly)

4 green onions, sliced

2/3 c. chopped cilantro

freshly ground black pepper

3-4 c. any broth (veggie if you’re trying to keep this vegan, but chicken works fine too)

1 tbsp. cumin seeds

1-2 tbsp. fresh lemon juice

cayenne

Wash and coarsely chop the leeks. A note on leek washing technique; leeks tend to be pretty sandy, so it won’t do to rinse just the outside. The best strategy, I think (thank you Mark Bittman) is to leave both ends of the stalk intact, and cut a long slit through the rest of it the leek; pull apart the two ‘sides’ you have created and run lots of cold water through the layers (see picture). Chop the onion.

Heat the olive oil in a nonstick pan and start sautéing the onion with a sprinkle of salt over medium heat. When the onion is translucent and salt, add the leeks and keep cooking, stirring often, until the vegetables are caramelized and golden, 25-30 minutes.

Meanwhile, peel the sweet potatoes, scrub the non-controversial potato, and cut them all into ½ inch dice. Trim the thick stems from the kale and chop coarsely. Combine potatoes and kale in a soup pot with 5 c. cold water and a teaspoon of salt, bring to a boil, then lower the heat and simmer ~15 minutes.

Add the caramelized onions and leeks to the pot, along with the green onions, cilantro, and a lot of freshly ground black pepper (really! A lot! It’s wonderful!). Add about ~3 c. of broth, or as much as you need to make a soup that pours easily. Simmer gently, covered, for another 10 minutes.

Lightly toast the cumin seeds in a dry pan until they are JUST fragrant (remember , they will keep cooking even when you take them out of the pan) and grind them (with a mortal and pestle if you think it’s quaint and want carpal tunnel…otherwise a spice grinder or cuisinart will do). (Actually toasting and grinding the cumin seeds yourself is worth it for this recipe, as cumin and lemon are the main—and really only—flavor events in this soup. Otherwise it’s quite mild—and you don’t want an insipid soup.)

Stir the cumin and lemon juice into the soup and taste; add more salt, pepper, or lemon juice as needed, and finish with a pinch of cayenne (just a pinch, especially if you’re cooking this ahead of time, as the heat will intensify as the soup sits).

Ladle into bowls and garnish with a swirl of olive oil (I used blood orange olive oil, which was fantastic—but use whatever you have as long as it is high quality! Otherwise, just serve it plain, or with crumbles of feta.).

Serves 6 as a meal

* I did, however, get a look at the NY Times’s “Chocolate Chip Cookies” recipe from the summer of 2008, where they researched everything that is awesome about all chocolate chip cookies baked across NYC and integrated it into a single, singularly awesome chocolate cookie recipe. Priorities are priorities, folks. Sweet potatoes vs. chocolate cookies is no contest.

How I learned to stop worrying and love the spore

This blog will start with a recipe. Because, although writing a blog is among one of the most egocentric activities in the whole gosh darn world, this blog is really not intended to be about me, or my adorable new child (I’m looking at you, Smitten Kitchen...also I don't have a child) or the politics and economics of food (I’m not interesting enough to be writing about eating out in New York, let alone Not Eating Out In New York).*

This blog is about the food that comes out of my [parents’] kitchen and about keeping my writing in shape during my time off from being a student. So thanks for tuning in and indulging this exercise. So let me actually start with the recipes already!

I’ve got some fun recipes (a kale and sweet potato soup, some fig, apple, blackberry tart action) backlogged, but any of my housemates from college would object heartily, I think, if I started with anything but challah. 

Despite the fact that my father has always been a bread baker, yeast beasties (as he calls them) made me nervous. They were live critters, weren't they? Couldn't they have minds of their own and refuse to go to their carbon dioxide generating work? However, over the winter break of my senior year of college, close family friends--and prodigious bread bakers-- were snowed in with us, and I took advantage of the opportunity to eke out a baking lesson. Richard and Susan were wonderful teachers, and cured me of my phobia, at least with regard to this very forgiving recipe. 

And so, for the semester following that snowstorm, challah was a regular occurrence in my off-campus house. It usually came out of the oven on Saturday or Sunday evenings**, and generally didn’t last beyond 24 hours. If it did, it was sliced, slathered with mustard, and topped with brisket (college was hard).

So, without further ado, here’s the recipe that filled our grungy and wonderful house at 181 Governor with the smell of baking bread—and even got a mention in my housemate’s phenomenal one-man show. 

Challah

Adapted from the Capen-Weinstein recipe, and taught me on a snowy Saturday in late December 2009

1 ½ c. water

1 c. milk (whole, skim, whatever you have)

heaping ½ cup granulated sugar

4 eggs (+ 1 for the wash)

1 tbsp. salt

1 tbsp. dry active yeast

flour (about half of a 5 lb. bag)

Combine eggs, sugar, salt, milk and water in large mixing bowl using a wooden spoon. Add 2 c. flour. Add yeast (it does not matter how warm the mixture is, though if you’re an anxious sort, you could let the milk and eggs come to room temperature before starting with the whole thing.). Mix thoroughly.

Add flour one c. at a time, until mixture is kneadable (see photo). (The dough will be difficult to stir before it should be kneaded. In this case, employ what my dad calls the ‘man stirring technique:” wrap your hand in a fist around the spoon handle, sprinkle the flour over the dough, and just kind of pull it away from the sides of the bowl. The flour will eventually be incorporated.)

Turn the dough out onto a VERY well floured surface. Knead for 5-10 minutes, then place dough in a greased (Pam works well) bowl. (I wash my large mixing bowl and throw the dough right back in after greasing). Cover and let stand for 3-4 hours, or until the dough has doubled in size. If you have soffit lighting, this is a great moment for it to shine (I wish I could say this kind of stupid punnery won't happen often on this blog, but the fact is that I will probably try to make it happen as often as possible); place the rising dough under the lights, and the extra warmth will expedite rising, especially on chillier days.

Turn the dough out onto a very LIGHTLY floured surface for braiding. Cut the large piece of dough into two equal halves using a bread knife (a scale is handy here). Set one half aside (it will be the second loaf, but for now, let’s just deal with the one).

Divide the half into three equal pieces. Squeeze the three pieces into ropes about 15-18” long. Set them side by side. Find the middle and start your braiding from there. In one direction, you will braid by crossing whichever rope is central to the outside, alternating moving it to the right and left. Each time you move a rope, give it a light tug, stretching it a little over whichever rope it is crossing. Once you have come to the end of one side, pinch the three ropes together, and tuck the end under the braid, pinching the dough of the end and the bottom of the loaf together. Then, braid from the middle to the other side—this time, the braiding will be of the normal sort—crossing right over center, then left over center, etc. Don’t forget to tug, and tuck the end under! Repeat this process with the second three pieces.

Move the loaves onto a parchment lined cookie sheet- If your cookie sheet is rimmed, it will help to grease the rim to prevent the loaves from sticking, should they rise to touch the rim. Allow the loaves to rise, loosely covered, for 1 hour.

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees F. Beat the remaining egg, and brush it liberally over the risen, braided loaves. Place the loaves in the oven for 30 minutes (or until a toothpick inserted comes out clean), rotating after 15 minutes. Cool loaves on the sheet for 5 minutes,  then transfer to a rack to cool completely (if you can keep your housemates, students or parents, away from the loaves for that long).

Makes two sizeable loaves.

*I really like both of these blogs, by the way. No slam intended. I just don't have a cute kid or a political agenda. Honest.

**Yes, I know that challahs are a traditional Shabbat food, and that it was absolutely sacrilegious that I should be making them any other day than Friday, let along during Shabbat itself. But Friday afternoons, especially in the rainy months (which is about 10 in Providence, RI), are a perfect time for any college student to get some work out of the way to allow for thoroughly lazing about all weekend. (Which, I guess if you’re me, means making challah.)