How Green is My Kitchen – Bothering More

How green is my kitchen? Well, technically, the answer would be “not very.” It’s “Chestertown Buff” a handsome shade of gold, available through the Benjamin Moore Paints Historical Color Collection.

But green is no longer a just a palette choice, but a philosophy as the more enlightened of you well know.

I’m not big on jumping on bandwagons, but Michael Pollan’s piece “Why Bother?” in the April 20th edition of the New York Times Sunday Magazine, gave me pause. Pollan discusses the personal impact we can each have on climate change, and made me consider the fact that my kitchen and some of my behaviors were probably more wasteful than I care to admit.

Pollan eloquently cuts through the verbal clutter of issues around carbon footprints and food miles and makes a strong case that the climate-change crisis is actually “a crisis of lifestyle – of character, even.” Pollan writes, “The Big Problem is nothing more or less than the sum total of countless little everyday choices, most of them made by us (consumer spending represents 70 percent of our economy), and most of the rest of them made in the name of our needs and desires and preferences.”

OK. I get it. I need to change and only I can make it happen. But, where does one start, especially on suburban Long Island, where the grid marks of consumption and mall traffic were firmly established after World War II? I’d love to plant a garden, but I’d never be able to care for it, and the nearest farm stand is about 75 miles away.

But, “home grown” and “sustainable” can be achieved in lots of different ways. “Culinary Types” do have the skills to prepare fresh and exceedingly edible food that is less dependent on highly-processed and excessively-packaged ingredients. So, I’ve resolved to find small solutions that as Pollan writes, may “actually beget other solutions, and not only the kinds that save carbon.” I recently revived the neglected and hibernating bread machine on my kitchen counter, and I realized that for the time it takes to drive to the supermarket, I could actually bake my weekly loaf of bread instead of buying it. It is a small investment of time to measure some simple ingredients and I produce a glorious loaf of nutritious and nutty whole wheat bread, flavored with molasses. The very thought of homemade bread in the pantry is a tantalizing reason to get out of bed, and I can’t wait to indulge in another crusty slice each morning with breakfast. It’s a positive contribution to the environment, and it might also be good for the soul.

For me, the change in behavior becomes even more focused if the results are tangible. Trying to calculate the cost savings of home baked bread is a little like contemplating the miracle of the loaves and fishes. I’m not an arithmetic genius, but some simple math does tell a compelling story. One loaf of commercially-packaged whole wheat bread costs $3.89 which, if I buy one loaf a week, adds up to $202.28 per year. By comparison, a 5-pound bag of organic whole wheat flour costs $4.99 and a five-pound bag of unbleached bread flour costs $3.95, a total of $8.94. If I purchase commercial bread for three weeks, it costs $11.67. So, the cost of the raw ingredients for multiple loaves of homemade bread is already less than the price of just three loaves of commercially-packaged bread. More important, as an eco-friendly colleague of mine pointed out, I will eliminate 52 inner plastic wraps, 52 outer plastic bags and 52 plastic fasteners from the waste stream. Given the uncertainty of the stock market, these are pretty good dividends.

However, there is more that can be done. What are your small culinary solutions? I’d love to know. And, check back in the weeks ahead as I begin to redecorate T.W. Barritt’s kitchen in shades of green.

©2008 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved

Cake in Imitation of a Haunch of Lamb from 1895

It is high time that we give serious and scholarly consideration to cake in the shape of a haunch of lamb.

Cake, shaped like meat? At the very least, it appears a scandalous mixing of culinary metaphors, at worst, a truly shocking proposition for the vegetarians among us. Yet, there is definitive historical precedence for a confection that would appeal to carnivores.

Certainly, the movement of patisserie inspired by architecture is well known to those who followed the exploits of the brilliant French pastry chef Antonin Careme, but the philosophical mingling of cake and animal protein is perhaps more obscure. One need only look to the Victorians who had a penchant for sculpting their food into whimsical creations. This recipe was uncovered by Australia’s Old Foodie in the Encyclopaedia of Practical Cookery, by Theodore Garret published in London in 1895. This colossal tome included extravagant recipes from the top chefs of Britain’s grand hotels, and Cake in Imitation of a Haunch of Lamb could quite handily feed a banquet hall filled with Victorian dandies:

Cake in Imitation of a Haunch of Lamb (a la Soyer)

A dish of this character is of no extraordinary value, even as an eccentricity. Put the yolks of thirty-six eggs in a basin with 3lb. of caster sugar, stand the basin in another one containing hot water, and whisk the eggs till rather thick and warm, then take the basin out of the water, and continue whisking them till cold. Beat the whites of the thirty-six eggs and mix them with the yolks, then sift in gradually 3lb. of the best white flour and the finely-chopped peel of two lemons, stirring it lightly at the same time with a wooden spoon. When quite smooth, turn the batter into a very long mould and bake it. When cooked, take it out of the oven and leave till cold. If not convenient to use so large a mould, the Cake can be baked in two separate portions, and afterwards joined together with icing. When cold, trim the Cake with a sharp knife into the shape of a haunch of lamb. Make a hollow in the interior of the Cake, but fill it up again with the pieces, to keep it in shape. Colour some icing to a light gold with a small quantity of melted chocolate and cochineal, and coat the Cake over with it, and leave it till dry. Make sufficient strawberry or vanilla ice to fill the interior of the Cake. Form the knuckle-bone of the lamb with office-paste; moisten the interior with brandy and preserved strawberry-juice, then fill it with the ice. Put the haunch on to a dish, fix a paper frill round the knuckle-bone, and glaze it over with a mixture of apricot marmalade and currant jelly. Melt a small quantity of red-currant jelly with some red wine, pour it round the haunch, to imitate gravy, and serve. (Garrett, Theodore. The Encyclopaedia of Practical Cookery. London, 1895)

Certainly, lamb and it’s more mature sibling mutton have inspired everything from iconic images of great Kings to fanciful ladies’ fashions. Why not cake as well? The pool of gravy made with red-currant jelly is particularly captivating.

The discerning host must consider whether serving a dessert course that resembles an entrée would cause significant confusion to guests? Is the meal concluding, or is it beginning yet again?

Our homage to Cake in Imitation of a Haunch of Lamb does take certain liberties with the original recipe, but playing with one’s food is certainly an acceptable post-modern pursuit.

This post is dedicated to the Old Foodie, who never fails to unearth the most extraordinary events – and retro cakes – in culinary history. It is a trifle late for her Mock Food Week, but of course, one must always cook lamb to the proper temperature. There is no rushing these endeavors.

©2008 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved

Wondrous Bread

Growing up, Wonder Bread was the “It” loaf in the grocery store.

I can just hear the gasps out there in the blogosphere. Stick with me. This story will improve quickly.

We had to have Wonder Bread. Hey – have pity! We were just little guys. Taste and nutrition really weren’t relevant. We were fascinated by the red, yellow and blue balloons printed on the wrapper. It was the heyday of Captain Kangaroo and Super Friends and the dawn of kid marketing. That airy, spongy white bread was entertaining, too. We would roll it into balls and pop it in our mouths. It was just that soft.

Fortunately, Mom was health conscious, and Wonder Bread made a quick exit from the household as whole grain breads began to appear at the supermarket. We dined on many varieties. My favorites were kid-friendly – date and nut bread or raisin cinnamon bread spread with cream cheese. Today, I’m a total convert as I forage for nutty grains and double fiber in the bread aisle. Wonder Bread seems so 1960s.

I’ve done some extensive study in bread, but the differences between the conditions of the industrial-sized classroom and the home kitchen can be significant. I love kneading, but I’m really challenged when it comes time for the bread to rise. In class we had proofing boxes, but my kitchen is just a little drafty. I’ve tried leaving the dough by the heater in the basement, or putting it in the oven on keep-warm, with minimal luck. I even read recently that putting the dough on top of a television while viewing is an option. I wonder if an episode of The Tudors will make the dough rise more quickly than a rerun of The Andy Griffith Show?

During the recent kitchen decluttering, the Regal Breadmaker caught my eye again. It had become invisible on the counter after many years of neglect like most specialty appliances do (I’m surprised my professional declutterer didn’t target it for extinction.). It has always felt a little like cheating to resort to the breadmaker after all that intensive, hands-on class work, but then I have an epiphany. We used monstrous electric mixers with digital programs that handled the kneading in class and we let the dough proof in temperature-controlled boxes. It’s not really that different. So why not let technology be my bread-baking friend? (Give me about three minutes, and I can rationalize and dispel most forms of guilt with a quick wave of the hand.)

I have a touch of trepidation. The big box has been asleep for several years, but it emerges from hibernation and soon it is whirring and squealing like Cinderella’s furry friends. The ingredients for Raisin Cinnamon loaf layer into the bread pan in minutes – bread flour (the high protein flour has more gluten and results in better structure), golden raisins and fragrant cinnamon. Dropping the raisins into the machine as the dough rotates and kneads is almost as much fun as those red, yellow and blue balloons of yesteryear, if not just a trifle dizzying.

Admittedly, the process is devoid of most of the Zen associated with bread baking, because the machine does the heavy lifting. While it’s not the same sensory experience, with a little help from my breadmaker the results are satisfying and the exotic, warm smells of raisin and cinnamon fill the kitchen. Spread with Crosby’s Bees Honey from Vermont, it is truly a Wonder-ful bread.

©2008 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved

A Mini-Obsession - Dorie's Coconut Tea Cakes with Cardamom and Rum Cream Glaze

I confess. I have recently developed a little obsession with mini-bundt cakes.

I usually try to vary my kitchen experiments, but ever since those Little Jackie Ds popped out of the oven, I’ve been on a quest to find recipes that I can, well, miniaturize.

I’ve heard about this syndrome before. In some people, it manifests itself with an overpowering desire to bake macarons.

Of course, I’m not gaining any deep insight from this endeavor, or preparing to start a business. I’m just eating the results and probably gaining at the waistline.

My issue with obsessive behavior is not new. I once aspired to own every recording ever made by Olivia Newton-John. A pasta obsession (I would eat it by the pound) in the mid-1990s resulted in a bit of excess weight-gain, just before the low-carb craze took over. The Hollywood writers strike did little to curb my addictive fascination for the TV program Lost. Every day at 3:00 PM, I make a Pavlovian-trip to the office vending machine for a bag of M&Ms – dark chocolate only. Then there’s that issue with red sweaters, but it’s really just a seasonal obsession.

I’ve also had a strong attraction to the diminutive. Don’t bother super-sizing for me. Growing up, I was a big fan of the pint-sized super hero, The Atom who had the power to reduce himself to microscopic stature and I voraciously read every volume of The Borrowers, a British classic about a family of tiny people who live under the floorboards of an English country estate. And, I had trouble containing my glee when the Irwin Allen TV science fiction fantasy “Land of the Giants” was released on DVD. The show never made the big-time but I loved the episodes of a Lilliputian band of explorers who crash in a land filled with gargantuan adversaries.

Dorie Greenspan’s “Baking: From My House to Yours” is the perfect guide for anyone looking to experiment a bit. Her “Playing Around” section of each recipe encourages the adventurous, and I promptly begin to mess around with her classic Coconut Tea Cake, found on page 194. In my miniature world, a single bundt cake divides into six, and I guild the lily of what she describes as a “plain cake” with cardamom and a dressier rum cream glaze. The little cakes have a nice kick with the flavors of tropical coconut, jaunty dark rum and the mysteriously seductive essence of cardamom.

Mini-Bundt Coconut Tea Cakes with Cardamom and Rum Cream Glaze

(Adapted from Baking: From My Home to Yours by Dorie Greenspan)

Two cups all purpose flour
1 teaspoon baking powder
A pinch of salt
¼ teaspoon ground cardamom
1 cup coconut cream (she recommends canned, unsweetened coconut milk, but that was unavailable)
4 tablespoons unsalted butter cut in pieces
4 large eggs at room temperature
2 cups sugar
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
2 teaspoons dark rum
¾ cup unsweetened coconut

Generously grease and flour six to nine mini bundt molds (the coconut can tend to make the cake stick to the pan). Sift together flour, baking powder, salt and cardamom.

Put the coconut cream in a saucepan with the pieces of butter. Heat until the butter is melted. Remove from heat but keep warm.

Fit mixer with whisk attachment. Beat the eggs and sugar at medium high speed, about three minutes until pale and thick. Beat in vanilla and rum. Reduce speed to low, and add the dry ingredients, mixing just until blended.

With mixer on low, add coconut. Then add the warm coconut cream and butter, just until combined. Divide batter among mini-bundt molds, being sure to cover the inner tube with the batter.

Bake at 350 degrees Fahrenheit for about 25 minutes. Let cool 15 minutes and then remove from pan.

Drizzle mini-bundt cakes with Rum Cream Glaze (1 tablespoon rum, one tablespoon cream and 1 cup sifted confectioners sugar whisked together until smooth) and sprinkle tops of cakes with more coconut.

Inevitably, this mini obsession will end, and I’ll move onto something else, like filling every room in the house with cut tulips, or collecting every piece of writing ever published about George Washington. But, if in the near future, I happen to announce that I am starting a new blogging project – something along the lines of baking 365 days of mini-bundt cakes – somebody please stop me.

©2008 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved

Whiskey Rebellion – Jack Daniel’s Mini Bundt Cakes with Caramel Glaze

As spring is trying to overcome its shyness in New York, I head south to Tennessee to celebrate the birthday of brother James. He has recently relocated to the Nashville area. We come from a family of history buffs and spend some time during the visit learning about the many statesmen and politicians who emerged from the Volunteer State.

After that, we decide to do some first hand research on the really important historical figure of the region – the inventor of Tennessee Sour Mash Whiskey.

It is a Sunday, and the parking lots for the local houses of worship in suburban Nashville are overflowing. We, however, are on our way to a distillery, which we will shortly learn actually has an ecclesiastical connection. Perhaps there is a chance we won’t go straight to hell.

As we leave the populace behind us, the strip malls become rolling green hills, dotted with cattle. We note a few tractors and some splashes of yellow forsythia. There is a Piggly Wiggly Store, and a number of gracious antebellum homes with log cabins out back. An establishment called Antiques & Uniques is offering concrete lawn art for sale. The selection includes the Blessed Virgin, Saint Francis and a Confederate Soldier. It’s all part of the charm of Middle Tennessee.

Some 75 miles south of Nashville, we arrive in the village of Lynchburg, a slumbering hollow with a population of 361. It is also home to the Jack Daniel's Distillery, where they’ve been making Tennessee Whiskey the same way since the 1860s.

At the spanking new visitor’s center, tucked into a stony hillside, we are met by an imposing statue of Jasper Newton “Jack” Daniel, also known as “Gentleman Jack.”

Our tour guide is Brian, a lanky rascal with white hair, a leathery complexion and a whiskey-mellowed voice. He invites us to follow him, and take it “slow and easy, the Jack Daniel’s way.” Brian takes us to the original office of Jack Daniel, located on the grounds, and now listed on the National Historic Register. We are told that Jack learned the process of making whiskey from a Lutheran minister, something they never bothered to mention to me in confirmation class. When the minister finally found religion, Jack took possession of the still and the rest is history. To say Jack Daniel’s was inspired by the divine might be pushing it a bit, but it makes James and me feel a little less like a couple of heathens, spending Sunday afternoon at the distillery.

In the office, we view the original safe. Now, here’s a cautionary tale that illustrates the virtues of patience. One morning Jack had difficulty opening the safe and kicked it out of frustration. His toe got infected, and days later he died from a blood infection. So much for slow and easy …

Inside the modern distillery, we are warned not to take flash photos, because the whiskey vapors are volatile. Tennessee whiskey is made from corn mash, but the formula is actually 80 percent corn, 12 percent barley and 8 percent rye. All over the property, the tree trunks are pitch black, the bark reacting to the yeast that fills the air. We walk past giant steel vats, where the corn mash bubbles like witches brew. We view the charcoal mellowing process, which gives the whiskey its distinctive flavor, and walk through the dimly-lit barrel room where the whiskey ages. The air in the barrel room is intoxicating. Brian advises us to “walk slow, breath deep and savor the flavor.”

Since Lynchburg is located in a “dry” county, you can’t buy Jack Daniel’s Old No. 7 brand there, and in fact, we actually end the tour with a refreshing glass of lemonade. No sense getting arrested so far from home. So, feeling a little parched, I purchase a bottle when I return to New York and recreate those Tipsy Fudge Cakes, soaked with Jack Daniel’s, that are available for purchase in every souvenir store in Tennessee.

Using the recipe found here, I bake up a half-a-dozen chocolate mini-bundt cakes (which only need to bake for 20-25 minutes) glazed with caramel whiskey sauce. With deep, rich flavors of dark chocolate, coffee and mellow whiskey, these “Little Jackie Ds” are slow and easy, just the way Gentleman Jack would have liked it.

©2008 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved

My Blue Heaven

The afternoon is waning, and I happen to mention to my administrative assistant that I’ve signed up for an evening class on blue cheese.

She raises one eyebrow slightly. “Oh,” she says, followed by a moment of discomforting silence. “Blue cheese certainly has an interesting flavor.”

Few people are ambiguous about blue cheese. They either love it or hate it. I fall into the love category. For me, it is an attraction that is deep, obsessive and mildly deranged.

Blue cheese is like the whiskey of the dairy world. Wimps need not apply. You’ve got to have a strong constitution. The aroma resembles that of rich loam, freshly cultivated. The smell alone can grow hair on your chest. But don’t let my clearly obsessive compulsion for the Big Blue scare you from becoming an aficionado.

I am the first to arrive at the upper room at Murray’s Cheese in Greenwich Village. Murray’s is the destination for cheese-aholics in Manhattan. The education staff is pouring wine and setting out square white plates carefully arranged with wedges of cheese. I take a chair at a U-shaped table that will seat up to 25 people. There is a large glass window at the front of the classroom, and below, I can see well-dressed Greenwich Villagers perusing the glass display cases in search of their weeknight cheese tasting.

The class is aptly titled, “Got the Blues.” At my place setting there are six glasses partially filled with different varieties of sweet wines. They range from deep-red to amber to honey-colored. Before me are six triangles of off-white cheese speckled with veins of greenish-blue on a stark white dish. There is an intriguing, pungent aroma wafting off the plate.

Shortly, the classroom is packed, and I am relieved to know there are others like me in the naked city. The instructor is a young man named Chris Munsey, who works in the wholesale department of Murray’s. He has tousled hair, a cherubic expression and an encyclopedic knowledge on the basics of blue cheese.

We follow a plating chart, that maps out our wine selections and corresponding cheeses. Straight away, Chris warns us that our palates are in for a workout. Blue cheese and sweet wines are the stuff of intense flavors.

We start our tasting in the traditional way – the cheese at the 12 o’clock position on the plate is sampled first, and then you proceed clockwise around the perimeter of the plate.

Chris explains why he has selected sweet wines to contrast the dramatic, earthy flavors of the cheese – “Blue cheese tramples dry wines.”

An important word about that bluish green stuff on the cheese – it is mold, plain and simple. But it’s a good kind of mold, responsible for some of the most amazing salty, earthy, tangy and arresting flavors one can possibly experience. If you think you’ve been living on automatic pilot, have a bite of blue cheese. You’ll snap out of it.

“Blue cheese won’t hurt you. It will just make you stronger,” Chris advises.

He explains the process, which involves aging cheese laced with a mold called penicillium. After some time, the ripened cheese is injected with holes, allowing oxygen to interact with the penicillium and create that distinctive bluish-green shade usually seen in certain Van Gogh paintings. Blue cheese loves humidity and moisture and tends to thrive in caves. Nobody knows exactly how it was discovered, but as is usually the case in culinary one-upmanship Italy, France and Spain all claim credit for inventing blue cheese.

As we circle the plate, we travel the world. There is a mild blue cheese made from raw cow’s milk in France and a creamy gorgonzola. We are told that Stilton from England has a reputation for producing strange dreams. We taste a glorious “Bayley Hazen Blue” from Jasper Hill Farm in Vermont and we sample my top choice – Cabrales from Spain. Cabrales has a strong, gritty mineral flavor that practically brings tears to my eyes. The wines mingled artfully with the acerbic taste of the cheese. My head is reeling.

Chris says that the trick to pairing wine with blue cheese is that “both flavors are harmonious, not fighting each other.”

The class is concluded, and I set out for the train feeling slightly intoxicated and a bit heady, and it’s not because of the wine. I’ve had my Blue fix and I feel good. An ordinary evening has tasted extraordinary, and Murray’s has secured its reputation as a Mecca for colorful curds. With all that Stilton in my veins, I am sure I will dream of kings, sea monsters, despots and big blue oceans tonight.

©2008 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved

Enchanted Egg Cake

The Easter season always inspires my memories of the Enchanted Egg. While I can barely remember the story, the image is fixed in my mind, an icon of the spring celebration. It was an exquisitely-decorated egg with a mysterious hole at one end. Peer into the hole, and inside you’d discover an enchanted world of eternal springtime.

The legend of the Enchanted Egg appears to spring from a children’s book of the same name, written by Peggy Burrows in 1956. The cover looks very familiar to me, but the tale has faded into my distant memories.

Richly decorated eggs have been a part of the Easter celebration for centuries. Ukrainian Easter Eggs, called "pysanka" were given as gifts as a symbol of spiritual rebirth. For many years, jewel-encrusted Faberge Eggs were presented by Russian Tsar Alexander III to Empress Maria as an annual Easter gift. Each egg contained a surprise hidden inside.

In the holiday television special, It’s the Easter Beagle, Charlie Brown, Snoopy picks up an Enchanted Egg in a department store and gazes in. He even leaps into the egg and dances a minuet in a meadow filled with cuddly white bunnies.

When I was a just a youngster, my grandmother Hilda even found us an Enchanted Egg, probably in the local candy and stationary store. It was made of white granulated sugar with squiggly pastel yellow trim. When you looked into the spy-hole you were treated to a bucolic spring scene. We kept it for several years and displayed it every Easter. In elementary school, I even crafted an Enchanted Egg the color of a robin’s egg out of paper Mache in Mrs. Shaw's art class. My mother still displays it each Easter in her home.

I decided to recreate the Enchanted Egg as a cake for our family’s Easter Dinner, decorated with butter cream and fondant. Before you leave, click below to take a peek inside the Enchanted Egg and revel in a sweet and magical melody of spring.

©2008 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved

Asparagus Tart and Rites of Spring

March seems just a little early for a change of seasons. There’s still a distinct chill in the air, but now and then, I will encounter a tantalizing hint of spring. A bashful lavender crocus pokes through the once-frozen ground. If I am particularly alert, I might spot a robin. And, of course, there is the appearance of a massive flock of canary-yellow Marshmallow Peeps in the supermarket.

For me, the real harbinger of spring is the arrival of pencil-thin shoots of emerald-green asparagus. Certainly, asparagus is available year-round, but the tastiest are those tender, impossibly-green shafts topped with feathery deep-purple buds that show up in the best markets about the time of the Vernal Equinox.

Asparagus is an ancient, perennial plant from the lily family. It was cultivated in Egypt and the Roman Empire. The Roman cookery manuscript Apicius – from the third century – recommends cooking asparagus upright in hot water. Asparagus took root in France in the 1400s, and England in the 1500s, and eventually migrated to North America in the late 19th century.

This Asparagus Gruyere Tart from Everyday Food has become one of my annual rituals of spring. A flaky, buttery pastry frames the slender stalks, highlighting their earthy beauty. It is a delicacy worth savoring in a ethereal season that often times seems fragile and fleeting.

Happy Spring!

©2008 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved

Torta di Ricotta (Ricotta Cake)

I’ll always have Tuscany.

I’ll never forget my culinary travels through Italy in 2006. From Emilia-Romagna to Florence, the ingredients of the land defined what we cooked and ate.

At Fattoria del Colle in Trequanda, one of the rare wineries in Tuscany owned by a woman and staffed by women, I would walk in the vineyards – bursting with dark grapes – with the sun beating on my neck. In the evening we would work with the serious and practical Italian cook in the kitchen to prepare sumptuous, rustic dishes from simple, abundant ingredients – Panzanella (Bread Salad), Zuppa di Trequanda (Swiss Chard and Cabbage Soup with Cannelini Beans), and Schiacciata All’uva (Sweet Focaccia with Wine Grapes). Recipes were effortless to assemble, fed the body and the soul, and tasted exquisite with a glass of Brunello as we dined on the patio of the Osteria and the blazing sun set over the ancient Tuscan hills.

Torta di Ricotta, a feathery Ricotta Cake, always brings back those memories. The ingredients are sheer simplicity – mounds of ricotta cheese, fruity olive oil, lemon zest and brown sugar. It takes only moments to assemble and the creamy texture and sparkling citrus will have you dreaming of a late-summer evening of wine, good food and friends.

Torta di Ricotta (Source: The Silver Spoon)

Butter for the pan
2 ¼ cups all purpose flour; extra for dusting the pan
4 eggs
½ cup light brown sugar; extra for sprinkling
1 ¾ cups ricotta cheese
Grated zest of ½ lemon
5 tablespoons olive oil
¾ cup milk
1 tablespoon baking powder

Preheat oven to 350 degrees Fahrenheit. Grease deep tart pan with butter and dust with flour. Whisk eggs and brown sugar together until light and foamy. Stir in ricotta cheese, lemon zest, olive oil and milk. Shift flour and baking powder over egg mixture, mix well and pour into cake pan. Sprinkle with additional brown sugar. Bake for 40 minutes. Remove from oven, cool and turn out. Serves 6.

I’m submitting my Torta di Ricotta to the Festa Italiana event hosted by Marie of Proud Italian Cook and Maryann of Finding La Dolce Vita.

©2008 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved

Spring Forward: Lamb Stew with Dill, Sweet Peas and Root Vegetables

The following is a public service announcement from Culinary Types: Check the time. Did you set your clocks ahead one hour last night?

Here in the United States, we just marked the return of Daylight Savings Time. The “Spring Forward” event, which used to happen in … the Spring … has now been moved forward by an act of Congress so that we can lose an extra hour of sleep and enjoy an extra hour of daylight in the dead of Winter. Very useful.

About the only benefit I can see here, is that I can now place the blame for all my chronic time management and sleep deprivation issues squarely with the U.S. government.

Fortunately, for those of us pressed for time, struggling to adjust all of the digital clocks in our homes and still needing to get a meal on the table, there’s Lamb Stew with Dill, Sweet Peas and Root Vegetables.

Lamb was not a common dish growing up in “The Casserole Corridor” on suburban Long Island. It was costly and considered exotic. The only time we ever had it was during an occasional Sunday Dinner at Nana’s house in Laurelton. As multiple generations of brothers, sisters, spouses and cousins sat down at the table, Nana would announce, “I made lamb, because I know you never get it at home.” The traditional preparation was a roasted Leg of Lamb, served with iridescent green Mint Jelly that looked like it came straight from the dinner table of the Wizard of Oz.

We knew that Nana spent hours preparing those Sunday Dinners, something most of us rarely have the time to do these days. But, lately I’ve been dreaming of lamb, perhaps as a more delicious way to accelerate the arrival of Spring, beyond simply pushing the clocks forward on some arbitrary date. Mark Bittman’s “How to Cook Everything” offers many variations on Lamb Stew that require about as much effort as tossing several ingredients into a Dutch oven. Frankly, turning all the household clocks forward is taking more time than was needed to prepare this stew. Served with fresh pasta, the lamb is rich, succulent and earthy, the sauce is light – more like a broth – and the addition of sweet peas and fresh dill makes this one-pot dish a welcomed harbinger of Spring.



Lamb Stew with Dill, Sweet Peas and Root Vegetables

Adapted from “How to Cook Everything” by Mark Bittman

2 pounds boneless leg of lamb cut into cubes by the butcher
1 ½ cups sliced onions
Salt and freshly ground pepper
2 to 3 cups liquid – I used one cup of Cabernet Sauvignon and two cups of beef stock
3 pounds of root vegetables cut into 1 inch chunks – I used two pounds of pre-cut baby carrots and one pound of small red potatoes, peeled and sliced
One large bunch of dill with stems
About one cup of frozen sweet peas

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees Fahrenheit. Place the lamb cubes and onions in a Dutch oven, add one cup of red wine, one cup of beef stock and season with salt and pepper. Cover, bring to a boil and place in the pre-heated oven for 45 minutes.

Remove the leaves from the bunch of dill and tie the stems together with cotton cord. Add the carrots, potatoes and dill stems to the pot along with the remaining one cup of beef stock. Cover and return to the oven for about one hour.

When the lamb is tender, remove the dill stems from the stew. Chop the dill leaves fine and add to the stew, reserving about one tablespoon for garnish. Stir in the frozen peas. The hot stew will warm the peas. Add some freshly squeezed lemon juice and season with salt and pepper. Garnish with chopped dill and serve.

This recipe makes 4 to 6 servings and will put a spring in your step if Daylight Savings time has left you sleep deprived.

©2008 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved

Decluttering the Imperfect Pantry

No doubt you visit Culinary Types to meet some fascinating epicureans, sample some witty prose, or feast on a banquet of food history.

A visit to my kitchen is a far more frightening scenario. Something along the lines of Jacques Pepin meets Jackson Pollack.

There comes a time in every chef’s life journey when he must admit that the kitchen system just isn’t working anymore and needs a complete overhaul. The pantry is in fact, imperfect. The canola oil smells funny, that pancake mix from 2001 is probably dicey, and the special-edition commemorative Heinz Green Ketchup is now far greener than when I first bought it.

It doesn’t help that dear Lydia from the Perfect Pantry is currently highlighting “Other People’s Pantries” each weekend. The immaculate photos from my fellow food bloggers make me feel like a pariah. I have to admit it. My kitchen cabinets are chaotic and I’m a slob. I need help.

Enter Rosemary Flannery, expert declutterer and owner of the service “No More Domestic Drama.” She promises to devise a strategy for downsizing and managing the mess behind the curtain – “Find what you need, when you need it!” She’s one part Felix Unger, one part Sigmund Freud.

I am clearly uncomfortable when I meet Rosemary at the train station. It’s not easy to reveal your dirty little kitchen secrets. Will she think less of me for co-mingling Pfaltzgraf dishes with plates from IKEA and Flintstone Jelly Glasses?

Fortunately, she is non-judgmental and we get to work immediately in systematic fashion to set things right. Every parcel of food is removed from the cabinets, the expiration date is checked, and items are grouped into similar categories – Pasta, legumes, grains, sugars, flours, spices.

I feel a cold sweat coming on as I am forced to choose between mini-muffin pans and an over-supply of spring form pans. Rosemary is brutally efficient, but supportive. “Will you ever use it again?” she asks pointedly. “How are you feeling?” she’ll also enquire periodically.

We start a “Toss” pile, a “Donate” pile, and a “Maybe” pile. Dropping the rusted tart pan on the “Toss” pile is a no-brainer, but I’m really torn over the salad spinner. It goes to the “Maybe” pile, although after Rosemary leaves, I regress and put it back in one of the cabinets. Ah well. Therapy is a process, not an immediate transformation.

As the afternoon wears on into evening, the donate pile gets larger, and the cabinets start to look roomier as well. All baking items are consolidated and grouped together into one large cabinet (although later I discover some additional cake pans hidden away in the guest room). I can actually see every item.

Mini-casseroles and baking dishes are stored together over the stove. Rosemary is creating a strategy of storing items where you use them. Already I can see that my trips back and forth across the kitchen will be reduced.

We sort through many stacks of dishes, and the treasured mustard-colored stoneware from Bennington, Vermont and my Liberty Blue Ironstone with scenes from the American Revolution is brought up from the basement and given a home in one of the large cabinets. Rosemary maintains that you should use your nice things and enjoy them, instead of packing them away.

We make a trip to a home furnishings store and purchase additional shelving and quilted China storage sets for larger seasonal collections of dishes. These will be stored, but easily accessible for more elaborate celebrations.

It is hours past dinnertime and I am drained. Rosemary surveys the room briskly and declares, “I think we managed to get about a third of the kitchen in order.”

“Couldn’t we round that up to half, just so I feel a little better?” I beg her.

There is still work to be done, but I am on the road to recovery. I make a conscious choice not to purchase the snazzy Rachel Ray mixing bowls in Bed, Bath and Beyond because they will clutter my cabinets, and my multi-vitamins are in easy reach when I pour my orange juice in the morning. I’m looking forward to my next cooking project.

I am still thinking of fishing that mini-muffin pan out of the donate box, but I have time to work on my willpower. In the meantime, the pantry, while hardly perfect, feels far less dramatic, exceedingly more functional and a bit more serene, at that.

©2008 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved

A Sweet, Petite Delivery

I agree to be part of the beta test immediately. There is no need to twist my arm.

The email comes from Veronica’s Test Kitchen. “I’m sending macarons,” writes the proprietor of the blogosphere’s most prestigious center of culinary science.

How could I possibly refuse?

Veronica is my hero. She can give Harold McGee a run for his money. Her keenly insightful kitchen experiments have taught me a thing or two about organization, attention to detail and using your powers of observation in the kitchen. Her macaron marathon was a tour de force, and now she’s taken the enviable step of opening her own patisserie, Petites Bouchees, offering exquisitely-crafted French macarons to the city of Richmond, Virginia and beyond. Veronica is turning her passion into a delicious vocation.

As I wait for the delivery, I decide to research the elegant pastel-colored sandwich cookies that can be found in most pastry shops in Paris. A macaron is a small, round biscuit, made from ground nuts and meringue that is crunchy on the outside and tender on the inside. They can be sandwiched together with a variety of Grenaches and cream fillings. Various sources cite the spelling as macaroon, or macaron. Wikepedia reports on the difficulty of preparing macarons, and dates their origin to the French courts of the 18th century. They are traced to a place called Nancy, a commune in the Lorraine region of Northeast France. Larousse Gastronomique tells me that macarons emerged in Venice, Italy during the Renaissance. The name is derived from the Italian word maccherone and the Venetian word macarone, which means fine paste. One story says that macarons have been made in a monastery in Cormery, France since the year 791. There is even an intriguing story of two Carmelite nuns who during the French Revolution became famous as the “Macaroon Sisters.”

I can see why Veronica has taken to this grand culinary tradition.

The package is due to arrive on Wednesday. I check the front steps several times but nothing has arrived. On Thursday morning, I am racing from the house to catch a train, and I spy the delivery box on the front steps. It must have arrived after dark. I return to the house, deposit the contents of the box in the refrigerator, and catch the next train to Manhattan. During the work day I am driven to distraction. Visions of macarons are dancing through my head.

In the evening I arrive home and immediately take the precious contents from the refrigerator. The macarons have been packaged in a sleek, slender cocoa-colored box. It is tied with a teal ribbon, decorated with brown polka-dots. Carefully, I break the plastic seal, slide out the box and slowly raise the lid.

My eyes fall on a dozen pristine macarons, meticulously-shaped and packed in neat rows. I pick up a macaron and take a sniff – the aroma is nutty, sweet and fragrant. The soft, pastel hues suggest the French countryside: Vanilla filled with a sunny Madasgacar Bourbon Vanilla Buttercream, sea-green Pistachio filled with Chocolate Ganache, and wheat-colored Hazelnut filled with Salted Caramel Cream.

I taste a stylish Vanilla macaron. The outer texture is firm and the inside is soft and chewy. The buttercream filling dissolves in my mouth like rays of sunshine. I taste a second … a third … a forth. I’m beginning to understand Veronica’s obsession with macarons. In a short time, I have consumed eight macarons. I take my responsibility as a beta tester very seriously. Of course, this is purely an experiment to determine which variety is my favorite. It’s a tie. I love them all!

Could life be sweeter?

Tres magnifique, Veronica! Merci beaucoup!

©2008 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved

Spinach Ricotta Ravioli with Butter and Sage (Ravioli di Ricotta e Spinaci)

I admit it. I’m a Chef Boyardee baby.

Growing up on suburban Long Island, I just assumed that ravioli came from a can. There were exactly two varieties, which in the 1970s was considered an embarrassment of riches – meat ravioli and cheese ravioli, each covered in a clingy red sauce. The main kitchen tools required for preparation were a sturdy pot, a cover and a can opener.

My palate, my kitchen skills and my culinary wisdom have grown incrementally in the years since.

If only I knew then, what I know now. In 2006, I stood next to a no-nonsense Italian grandmother in Bologna and rolled pasta by hand. In the historic food markets, shop windows were abundant with rows of plump golden pillows of pasta. In Florence, under the tutelage of Chef Roberto, I fed translucent sheets of dough through a pasta machine, prepared egg tagliatelle, cut ravioli by hand, and dressed the dish in melted butter and aromatic sage. Those weeks inspired an “awakening of the senses,” as a culinary icon once said.

Chef Roberto made me promise that I wouldn’t just relegate the pasta-making experience to my European culinary adventure. “You must do this at home,” he urged.

I made good on the promise. I bought an Atlas Pasta Machine and I’ve served up many a platter of tagliatelle. But, I must confess I’ve been a bit of a ravioli procrastinator. No more. It is a frigid February weekend – too cold to go out – so there’s plenty of time to ramble around the kitchen. Ravioli is a time-intensive exercise. The afternoon experiment clocks in at roughly four-and-a-half hours. The spinach must be washed and cooked, and mountains of leafy greens are eventually reduced to about four cups of puree. My kneading hand is a little rusty, but I work the semolina flour and eggs into pliable, shiny dough. Carefully, I spoon the filling onto sheets of pasta and tuck them in.

While the ravioli is resting on the counter, I do a little page-turning through my new favorite reference book, The Oxford Companion to Italian Food by Gillian Riley. There I learn that stuffed pasta, as it is generally referred, is made in distinctive, traditional shapes, depending on the region in Italy, and that stuffed pasta was considered a gastronomic luxury of the upper-class in the Middle Ages and Renaissance periods, but eventually became a popular food of the middle-class. Mixtures of fresh spinach, ricotta and herbs are traditional fillings for stuffed pasta in Parma and Modena.

The sun has gone down as I melt butter and slip the pasta pockets into simmering water. The results are pleasing, but the delicate simplicity of the meal does not adequately reflect the labor of the effort. Homemade ravioli is a physical and mental investment. It is hard work, but there is intense satisfaction in preparing a hand-crafted meal. And, the best part is there’s a healthy supply of ravioli now tucked away in the freezer for future quick-cook dinners.

It was time to give my can opener a rest, anyway.

©2008 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved

Gumdrop Cake from 1946

I can’t take the pressure anymore! The Old Foodie and her “Week of Cakes” has worn me down. It is the middle of the work week, and instead of kicking off my shoes, pouring a glass of Bordeaux, and watching the evening news, I am baking a Gumdrop Cake.

I have a high-powered meeting tomorrow. But instead of studying, I’m obsessed with thoughts of Candy Land, Chutes and Ladders and Willy Wonka.

The Old Foodie knew she would get to me. It was only a matter of time as she sat in her secret lair in Australia and innocently presented day-after-day of retro cake confections – Hot Lemonade Cake, Busy Bachelor’s Marble Cake and Peppermint Stick Candy Layer Cake with Seven Minute Frosting. And, right in the middle of Lent, no less. I can’t even pawn this cake off on a church bake sale. The faithful are all fasting.

I give up! Stop the madness!

And, what is it that breaks me – a Gumdrop Cake, of all things. It’s certainly suitable for a children’s party, but what will those executives say when I pull this rainbow-colored loaf out of my briefcase? I suppose I can always run away and join the circus. The color scheme would certainly appeal to a troupe of clowns.

Some thoughts about the primary ingredient – is it gum, or candy? Gumdrops are actually gelatin, or pectin-based pieces covered in granulated sugar. Eight gumdrops are reported to contain only 115 calories, so I have nearly convinced myself that this will be a low-calorie treat. Yet, as I study various websites searching for the truth about the origin of gumdrops I am stymied, and can find no reputable explanation for their invention. Perhaps gumdrops really are grown on Gumdrop Mountain. If you are in a celebratory mood, be advised that we have just missed National Gumdrop Day. It occurs every year on February 15th, which seems a bit excessive since so much chocolate is typically consumed on February 14th, but perhaps it is part of the day-after-Valentine’s Day low-calorie candy diet plan.

Should you attempt to try this cake at home, be forewarned: the directions call for one pound of gumdrops, chopped finely. Gumdrops are sticky. Chopping gumdrops finely can challenge even the most experienced chef. Typically, when writing one of these Retro Cake posts, I would imagine what the baker might have been doing in the era when the cake first appeared. In 1946, I suspect they were scrubbing the gelatin off their kitchen knives.

The Old Foodie questioned the wisdom of removing the black gumdrops from the recipe. I suspect this is purely a matter of aesthetics, as many would prefer not to find black pieces in their cake. But as an added bonus, the baker can snack on the black gumdrops while the cake is in the oven.

Well, I’m off to have a slice of Gumdrop Cake, pedal 10 miles on my stationary bicycle and find a support group for Retro Cake addicts. Have a nice day on the sunny beach of Peppermint Bay!

©2008 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved