Leaving for Lent and a date bread (for dates)

Earlier this week we had a Fat Tuesday potluck with a breakfast-for-supper theme. We filled our bellies with Dutch babies and bacon, butter, raised waffles, applesauce, and all kinds of syrup. Then I decided to give up writing blog entries for Lent. Don't worry though, I've recruited a motley crew of boyfriends and vegetarians, bakers and mothers to handle the dispatches during those 40 days. So let me introduce you to my first-ever guest blogger:

Emily is a cake-baker, ice-cream maker and fan of nostalgic sweets. Emily loves cats, coffee and Patrick. She likes linguistics (most of the time) and tattoos. She dislikes eggs and mushrooms, though she's trying to train herself to like them (the mushrooms I mean). Emily has her own blog which, coincidentally, shares the same birthday as mine! She posts everything from adorable pictures to thoughtful quotes to funny interviews to good music videos and occasionally even offers us a glimpse into her kitchen.

Emily, take it away:

Sometimes, in the busyness of school and work and family and baking cookies, I forget about quick breads. This should not be so. I mean the name - quick! bread! - is all you need to know especially if, like me, you love bread and dessert and think they both ought to exist in the same loaf, and fast. 

This one in particular is spicy and best with butter, and packs well in wax paper for little journeys. I took some for snacks on a weekend trip over the straight and I'm so glad I did. It's adapted from Kim Boyce's Good to the Grain, my go-to "I need to feel good" cookbook.

Date Bread

Adapted from Good to the Grain

butter for your pan

1 1/2 cups hazelnuts, chopped roughly in halves

2 tsp olive oil

1/2 tsp kosher salt

8 large Medjool dates, halved and pitted

1 cup all-purpose flour

1 cup whole-grain pastry flour

1/2 cup teff flour

1 tbsp baking powder

2 tsp ground nutmeg, preferably freshly grated

1 tsp kosher salt

4 ounces (1/2 cup) cold, unsalted butter

1/3 cup sugar

2 eggs

1/3 cup honey

1/2 cup plain yogurt

Preheat your oven to 350 F. Toss nuts in oil and salt and spread on a baking sheet. Toast in the middle of your oven until they smell too good, about 12 minutes. Be watchful. Set aside to cool, leaving your oven at the same temperature.

Meanwhile, bring half a cup of water to a boil and then, once boiled, pour over dates in a container deep enough to use an immersion blender in. Let dates soften.

Butter a loaf pan.

Measure dry ingredients into a large bowl, whisking to combine.

Put the butter and sugar into the bowl of a stand mixer with a paddle attachment, or use a wide-paddled spoon to mix by hand. (Be vigorous!) If using the mixer, cream for 3 minutes on medium speed.

Blend the dates with an immersion blender (or food processor, or blender, or what-have-you). In a medium bowl, mix the eggs, honey and yogurt together with the date puree.

Pour half of this mixture into the bowl of the mixer and mix on low until well combined. Add half the dry ingredients, then alternate, mixing until just combined. Scrape down the sides and stir in the hazelnuts.

Scrape into a loaf pan, smoothing out the top with a wet spatula. Bake on the middle rack of your oven for 70 to 75 minutes, rotating the pan halfway through the baking time. It will be good and dark and you'll be worried it's burnt but persevere.

When it's finished, really finished, CAUTIOUSLY slide a knife around the edges and remove the loaf from the pan, so it can cool completely on a rack. Don't shake the pan to loosen, or you'll end up with this:

Makes 1 loaf. 

Black, sticky and gingered-all-over

I had been gathering gingerbread recipes like cobwebs or kitchen paraphernalia so, when December arrived, I knew a thorough sweep was in order. I armed myself with bitter-black molasses, ginger in all its incarnations and a good amount of butter. Every week, a new batch, wafting spice and sticky sugar, sat cooling on the kitchen counter.

The first recipe up to bat was a home-run! Pitch-black with a crunchy, caramelized cover that hid its feathery soft insides. The slice I hid at the back of the fridge only got better as it slumped into itself, deeper and denser. Second to hit was a mild-mannered brown number with a lick of golden syrup and sunken cranberry bottom. Next up was an education as Caitee learned that gingerbread is not only a kind of cookie dressed like a man (or boy), but a type of cake! I discovered that applesauce can't be hurried, particularly when using four varieties of apples. Our cake was made partially with kamut flour, barely sweetened with applesauce and distinctly spiced with a blend of aniseed, allspice, black pepper, cinnamon, nutmeg and finely ground coffee. A pumpkin gingerbread followed almost immediately. Then a player on a diet that included mustard, coffee, even cardamom, but barely an ounce of butter. It didn't make it past third so the crumbs were folded into a tangy, tiny-bit-boozy ice cream reminiscent of eggnog. Finally, on Christmas morning, there was a gingerbread that was all balls, risen (perhaps not to its full potential) with the help of yeast, drowning in caramel. Monkey balls were the main topic of conversation for the next few days.

You know what? I'm not sick of gingerbread. In fact, I'm already collecting recipes for next year. The competition is heating up! Do you have any gingerbread recipes you want to throw into the fray? As for this year, I'd say the starting batter, black, sticky and gingered-all-over, was the hands-down winner.

Black Sticky Gingerbread

From 101 Cookbooks 

In the interest of eating as many different kinds of gingerbread as possible I divided this recipe by two and baked it in an 8-inch square pan. The only tricky part was halving the eggs. I usually crack an egg into a bowl on top of a scale to figure out how much it weighs, then take away half of it to use in an omelette or some other baking project. Also, I used buttermilk instead of milk with no adverse side effects. I didn't line my pan with parchment either but I buttered it very thoroughly.

1 cup unsalted butter

1/2 cup water

3/4 cup unsulphured blackstrap molasses

3/4 cup flavourful honey

1 cup tightly packed dark brown sugar

3 cups all-purpose flour

1 1/2 tsp baking soda

1/2 tsp salt
2 tsp ground ginger
2 tsp ground cinnamon
1/2 tsp allspice
1/4 tsp ground cloves
3 large eggs, at room temperature
1/2 cup milk
1 packed tbsp freshly grated ginger root

Preheat the oven to 325 F, with a rack in the centre. Butter and line a 13 by 9 by 2-inch baking pan with parchment so it hangs over by a few inches, which will help you remove the cake from the pan later.

Combine the butter, water, molasses, honey and brown sugar in a medium, non-reactive saucepan and place over low heat. Stir frequently until the butter is just melted and all of the ingredients are well blended. Remove from the heat, pour into a large bowl and set aside to cool.

Meanwhile, combine the flour, baking soda, salt, ginger, cinnamon, allspice and cloves, and set aside. When the molasses mixture feels just warm to the touch, add the eggs, one at a time, mixing well after each addition. Add the milk and stir to combine. Fold the dry ingredients into the batter but don't be concerned if you can't get every little lump out. Stir in the grated ginger.

Pour the batter into the prepared pan and bake for 45 to 60 minutes. The baking time depends on your oven and the shape of your pan. It's ready when the top of the cake springs back after you've touched it.

Allow the cake to cool for 10 minutes, then, using the overhang of parchment, lift the cake out of the pan and cool completely on a wire rack before cutting.

Serve with whipped cream, if you like. This cake gets better with age and, if refrigerated, its texture becomes  deliciously dense and sticky.

Enough for 12 to 16 people.

The most wonderful time of the year

It only comes about once a year. Sugarplums, snowflakes, nutcrackers, candied orange peel, bows, bells, baubles and holly. Christmas. This year, mine was a collaboration between two families in a cozy, rain-flecked cabin on Bowen Island. Everyone pitched in to put a rich, rainbow of a feast onto our forks, into our bellies. 

Sean started us off with all kinds of good stuff - caramelized onions, blue cheese and roasted apple - in one bite. I laid out a spread of prosciutto and fiery-orange persimmon slices to nibble on before supper. There was the usual last minute kerfuffle as gravy was whisked into existence, Brussels sprouts hit hot bacon fat, steel carved into meat and tin foil fought to keep everything warm. When the dust settled there was dinner to be had. Purple potatoes mashed with a bit of celery root, courtesy of Dad and Daniel. Sweet squash mash from David who also handled the Brussels sprouts (with a little help from his friends). A medley of beets, carrots and parsnips, thanks to Anne. Christmas coleslaw, a la me. Tart cranberry sauce, a rosemary-scented, garlic-studded heck of a leg of lamb, complete with sauce, all Simon. A delicious turkey, missing only one wing, with great gravy, that'd be Mom. Stuffing, Pamela. Hot, tender, tear-apart oatmeal molasses rolls, yeah me. I'm an overachiever.

Given the option, I like to call dibs on the salad course at these Christmas/Easter/Thanksgiving extravaganzas. It's always nice to provide a light and fresh antidote to all the usual rich fare on offer as well as something more exciting than say spinach salad. (Not that I be hatin' on the spinach). I look for a salad that is simple and sturdy enough to stay put, given the vagaries of the occasion, but that can also be made partially, or even totally, in advance. This Thanksgiving it was a shaved Brussels sprouts salad and at Christmas it was this coleslaw. It was a bit brighter, tarter than your typical coleslaw but sure tasty. It had shreds of cabbage and crispy, sweet kohlrabi. Vitality from a generous amount of alfalfa sprouts with a whiff of royalty from rubied sour cherries.

All from my current culinary crush, a man I've been rather enamoured with lately. It's actually been going on since last Spring. Prawns with Fennel, Feta and Pernod. Rhubarb and Beetroot. Chicken Salad with Sprouting Broccoli and Sorrel. I never failed to be intrigued by the fusion of disparate ingredients and whiff of exotic spices that emanated from his weekly column at the Guardian. I queued at my local library (position 72) for a chance with his new cookbook Plenty then, tummy-rumbling, bookmarked half the recipes. Mango and Coconut Rice Salad. Sweet Potato, Dried Persian Lime and Quinoa. Cardamom Rice with Poached Eggs and Yogurt. During the Summer, while in London, my brother and I visited one of his locations for brunch and couldn't resist picking up lunch which fueled our brisk (and ultimately blistered) tour of the town. Beetroot, Plum and Feta Salad. Melt-in-your-mouth marinated Eggplant. Spiced Potato Wedges. Who is the man behind all this? None other than Yotam Ottolenghi. I've already given you one of his recipes, but how about one more?

Cabbage and Kohlrabi Salad
From Plenty

A few days after Christmas I made this salad again but added celery, which blended right in and provided more juicy crunch. Leftovers taste even better the next day, despite the sprouts becoming a bit soggy, and are excellent crammed into a turkey sandwich. Finally, while typing the recipe out I noticed that I didn't follow the last step in which you transfer the salad to a serving bowl, leaving most of the juices behind. The salad was still scrumptious.

1 medium or 1/2 large kohlrabi
1/2 medium head green cabbage (about 1/2 pound total)
large bunch of dill, roughly chopped (about 6 heaping tbsp)
1 cup dried whole sour cherries
grated zest of 1 lemon
6 tbsp lemon juice
1/4 cup olive oil
1 garlic clove, crushed
salt and freshly ground black pepper
2 cups alfalfa sprouts

Peel the kohlrabi and cut into thick matchsticks that are about 1/4-inch wide and 2-inches long. Cut the cabbage into 1/4-inch thick strips.

Put all the ingredients, apart from the alfalfa sprouts, in a large mixing bowl. Use your hands to massage everything together for about a minute so the flavours mix and the lemon can soften the cabbage and cherries. Let the salad sit for about 10 minutes.

Add most of the alfalfa sprouts and mix well again with your hands. Taste and adjust the seasoning; you need a fair amount of salt to counteract the lemon.

Use your hands again to lift the salad out of the mixing bowl and into a serving bowl, leaving most of the juices behind. Garnish with the remaining sprouts and serve at once.

Serves 4, or more if it's part of a feast.

End Note: I just realized I seem to have a penchant for gay, British food writers.

You don't know me!

Or maybe you do.

But do you know that I can't snap my fingers?

That I prefer waffles to pancakes?

I just finished a cheese-making internship with the fine folks at Farm House Natural Cheeses.

Though I still eat Cheese Whiz. (No, I am not ashamed and will never stop).

I have a bike named Nikki, sometimes called Nikki-san, other times Medium Grain Rice, who I adore.

I also have a car named Putt-Putt who I tolerate. Barely.

I love blood pudding.

And champagne.

I was born at 2:22 in the morning.

And I can sing every single word of American Pie.

There, ten things you never knew about me.

Thank you to Murissa for inviting me to participate in this meme. It may have taken me over a month to finish but better late than never, right? Right?

File this one under Fall

I've been waiting an entire year to tell you about this.

It would have been sooner but by the time I was back to the blogging of things, last January, it already seemed as if Spring was striding forward. And this recipe should definitely be filed under Fall. 

I think we're back there now. When the sun finally manages to roust itself out of bed at 7:46 am (sixteen minutes later than ME!) it sparkles upon frost, not dew. The once-towering corn that lined my way to work has been shorn to yield fields of bare brown and stubble. A haze of mist hangs over the hillocks that blaze with orange dropping leaves. And a dusting of snow, like icing sugar, powders the topmost tip of Mt. Cheam and crisps the valley air. October, you make me feel a bit older and, though hardly octogenarian, wiser too.

Ahem. Where was I? Right, the recipe worth waiting for. (Even though you didn't even know you were). It was about a year ago, during Italy week in culinary school, and we were making gnocchi. Out of all the tips and tricks bestowed upon us my favourite was using a bit of chestnut flour in the production. So, when I had some leftovers to bring home my first thought was to eat them with the chestnuts I had, already handily shelled and waiting, vacuum-packed, in the fridge. But, as I was flipping through a tome of a cookbook that had been dug out of the library for our perusal, the plot thickened. I came across a description of a gnocchi dish with chestnuts and prunes. Now, I don't know about you, but I love me some prunes. I was sold.

Home I went where I browned up my gnocchi in lots of butter, tossed in a few chopped chestnuts, some slivered prunes and, just for colour, a bit of parsley. Bam. Boom. You better believe you'll fall for it!