Reinventing The Loaf

Pictured above is the whole wheat focaccia that I made the other night. I give it a C-, tops.

Generally speaking, the bread that I bake is sub par. It's decent when eaten hot (all bread, I have come to learn, is decent while still hot) but as soon as it cools it turns into roofing tile. This "rustic" focaccia in particular struck me as something that Medieval peasants might have turned up their noses at. All in all, not really what I'm going for with the homemade bread thing.

I know enough about bread to know that my problem lies somewhere in the kneading and/or rising components; unfortunately, I do not know enough about bread to be able to fix it. Not even after I bought Jim Lahey's acclaimed book, My Bread, which has been hailed as an "idiot-proof" method for baking bread. Well, apparently a few idiots manage to slip through the cracks, because my bread still sucks.

And yet I have bread baking in my blood. My aunt and grandmother, both farmers' wives, made their own bread. It's a ritual that relies on experience, carefully honed technique, and attentiveness to the smallest of details, which makes it a skill much better handed down from generation to generation than read about in a book. I never learned it from my aunt or grandmother because I wasn't interested in cooking while either of them was still alive, and in the past few decades it has not been fashionable to take a young girl aside and force domestic skills upon her.

Thus, my roof tile quality bread. I've decided two things. First, I will press on, reinventing the wheel if necessary in pursuit of a bread making method that yields the desired results. You're likely to hear more about this in the coming months. Second, when I have children, they will be the only fifth graders who know how to make a flawless baguette.

Roasted Tomatoes, The Low And Slow Way

I've already mentioned in a previous post the sort of revival camp fervor that Fuppies lavish on August fruits and vegetables.

Well, the tomato in particular enjoys a status above all of its late summer brethren (zucchini, peaches, squash blossoms, corn, etc) in the minds of Fuppies, eliciting a level of zeal and devotion usually reserved for ones family, best friends, and favorite brand of vodka. Especially heirloom tomatoes. If the Fuppies had a flag, it would be Alice Waters and Dan Barber cradling a bushel of heirloom tomatoes in their arms.

I poke fun, but there's something to all this enthusiasm over the arrival of the local tomato. Here's why:

1. Good tomatoes are undeniably delicious. They are bright and vegetal when fresh, deeply savory when cooked, and versatile enough to be at home in everything from pasta sauces to a BLT.

2. When local tomatoes are out of season the tomatoes that you get at the supermarket mostly come from Florida (year-round) and California (spring/summer). Because the fruit bruises so easily when ripe, they are picked unripe and later ripened using Ethelyn gas. This process, and all the changes in temperature that occur as they travel from the field to your kitchen, is why off-season tomatoes are so often mealy and insipid.

3. Tomato farming in Florida (and to a lesser extent California) is infamous for its exploitation of immigrant workers, many of whom exist in a state of wage slavery and live and work in inhumane conditions.

So, if you care about things like great tomato texture and human rights, and certainly if you are a Fuppie, you really should only eat tomatoes when you can get them locally, which means 4-6 weeks per year. Thus the fanaticism during that brief period when the good stuff is available.

Since there's a limit to how many fresh tomatoes even the most devoted tomato lover can eat in the form of salad, sandwiches, and the like, I strongly suggest roasting them. Slow roasted tomatoes are unbelievably versatile. Just a few of their many uses:

-Chopped up and included in sauces and vegetable sautes
-Mixed into risotto
-Pureed with tomato juice, oil, and vinegar for a vinaigrette
-As a pizza topping
-Seasoned and dressed with olive oil as an antipasto

There are two different approaches to the tomato roasting process: cooking them at a high temperature for under an hour, or at a low temperature for a much longer period of time. I'm a fan of the latter, as I find that the tomatoes roast more evenly, without drying out too much or acquiring a burnt flavor.



The slow roasting process takes 4 or so hours from start to finish but only around 20 minutes of active time. That makes it the perfect activity for when you're puttering around the house on a rainy August Sunday, as I was this past weekend. I spent Sunday afternoon plowing through laundry, grumbling along with The Viking about the deteriorating quality of The New York Times, and periodically tending to my roasting tomatoes. It was a septuagenarian sort of day.

Roasted tomatoes will last for 1-2 weeks in the fridge and up six months in the freezer, making it possible to extend your fresh tomato supply clear through winter. If I were a person who knew how to can things, I would also tell you how to can them. But I'm not. Maybe next year.

After roasting ten tomatoes on Sunday, I chopped up a few of them and included them in the filling for a vegetable lasagna (complete with homemade pasta, Italian grandma style). The result was pure summer comfort food, light but satisfying.



Slow Roasted Tomatoes
Adapted from Think Like A Chef

10 Roma tomatoes
1/4 cup olive oil
1 head of garlic, separated into unpeeled cloves
5 sprigs thyme
Kosher salt
Freshly ground black pepper

1. Preheat oven to 350 degrees.
2. Cut tomatoes in half latitudinally, place in large bowl along with garlic, olive oil, thyme, and seasoning, and mix gently.
3. Line a large, rimmed baking sheet with parchment paper and place the tomato halves on the baking sheet, cut-side down. Pour contents of the bowl over them, distributing thyme and garlic evenly.
4. Bake for 20 minutes (until skins loosen) and then remove and discard skins. Pour any juices that have accumulated into a bowl and reserve.
5. Return the tomatoes to the oven and reduce the temperature to 275 degrees, periodically pouring off and reserving the juices.
6. After about 3 hours, remove the tomatoes from the oven and allow them to cool on their baking sheet.
7. Put garlic, tomatoes, and juice in separate containers and store.

Welcome To Our Garden

Believe it or not, in Manhattan this passes for a garden. Don't laugh. I've worked really hard on it.

I had goals for the place, I really did. I had visions of skipping through the apartment with an apron full of tomatoes, of serving dinner guests home-grown strawberries with cream. This was before I understood anything about growing stuff, and even thought it might be fun to have a fig tree in a big pot on the terrace (no, I am not kidding).

In reality, it's a daily struggle just to keep everybody alive. The unusually hot, dry summer that New York is currently experiencing hasn't helped; for the past month, the terrace has been practically radioactive, which means we've lost a lot of good men out there. It also means that rather than lounging on the terrace in our spare time we mainly dart out in the evening with a couple of cans of water and then retreat back into the safety and comfort of our air-conditioned apartment. So much for that idea.

I took the above picture last night while I was tending to our crops. It captures our ramshackle assortment of plants (the Bad News Bears of rooftop agriculture), and the tools of my trade: a utility broom, a watering can, a pair of clippers, and a glass of wine. Everything that a farmer needs.

Over the past few months, trial and error has taught me a thing or two about rooftop plant husbandry, and I thought I would pass these lessons on to you.

Plant herbs: Unless you want to sit around waiting for your three tomatoes and eight beans to ripen (or possibly to die in the meantime, as mine did), stick to herbs. Herbs grow fast (they are, after all, mostly weeds), they are resilient, and being able to go outside and choose from a wide array of available herbs will do wonders for your cooking. It's a genuine money-saver to be able to snip off a few sprigs rosemary instead of buying a fistful of it at the grocery store.

Specifically, basil: You can use basil to flavor just about anything during the summer, and our two plants produce more than we can eat. Every few weeks the basil threatens to take over the world and I have to cut it all down and make pesto. What's more, I've brought my basil to the brink of death at least three times and it has always snapped back quickly, so that's a good sign for those of you without a green thumb. The only thing to keep in mind about this herb is that it will continuously sprout little white flowers, and you need to pull them off in order to keep it strong and productive.

Give your plants room to grow: Plant each starter plant with plenty of room to breathe and grow -- more than seems necessary. I arranged mine too close together and after a week had to rip them all out and replant them. If they're too crowded, they won't grow to their full potential and will compete with each other for resources.

Water, water, water: In case you haven't heard, water is very important for plants, especially for ones in small pots sitting on baking-hot pavement. Unlike plants growing in the ground which can spread their roots and pull water from far and wide, plants in containers have very limited water supplies. We water once if not twice a day and that still probably isn't enough.

Use plant food: I water with Miracle Grow at least once a week. This is important in a container garden, because the amount of soil that your plants have access to -- and therefore the amount of nutrients -- is so limited.

Keep the faith: If you forget to water your plants for a while and they look like goners for sure (I'm talking splayed out on the soil, leaves shriveled up, brown, the works), keep watering them anyway because they might not have given up the ghost yet. They might not be dead, just playing dead. If after a couple of weeks there is no sign of life, then it's time to stop CPR.

Take Me To Your Freezer

Q: What is the item pictured above?

A: If you guessed "a Martian communication device" or "a prop from a Michael Crichton film," you are incorrect. It is, in fact, the Play & Freeze ice cream maker.

It was given to me for Christmas several years ago and has languished in disuse ever since, waiting for that special moment when I have the urge both to play and to freeze something simultaneously.

The Play & Freeze's big chance came this weekend thanks to a brutal heatwave and 48 hours devoted to being a homebody. For the past two days I have been absorbed with cooking, home improvement projects, working my way diligently through the Neverending To Do List, and keeping up with the Tour de France (there is nothing, nothing, quite so satisfying on a hot day as lying splayed out on the couch with a breakfast pastry and watching a gaggle of men with 1% body fat scramble after each other up a 10% incline). In yuppie terminology this is known as "recharging." I spent the weekend recharging.

In the course of my ongoing battle to get my kitchen into some semblance of order, I came upon the Play & Freeze. As any of you who live in a New York apartment know, every possession must pull its own weight. That square foot being used by the Play & Freeze could be a salad bowl. It could be a copper roasting pan. The Play & Freeze simply cannot go on taking up space without proving its utility.

So, I decided I would put it to the test with a batch of ginger ice cream.

I heated 2 cups cream, 2 cups whole milk, and a few slices of peeled fresh ginger in a saucepan over low heat. As soon as bubbles started forming around the edges, I stirred it for five minutes.



I removed it from the heat, fished out the ginger slices, and stirred in 2/3 cup sugar. I waited for the mixture to cool and then added 2 tablespoons of minced preserved ginger.



After a couple hours of cooling in the fridge, the time came to load my ice cream mix into the Play & Freeze. Into the other end of the ball went ice and 8 Tbsp of course (preferably rock) salt.



The instructions call for the ball to be kicked, spun, rolled, tossed, what have you, for 10 minutes. Then you open up the ice cream container, scrape down the sides, and continue with the playing for another 10 minutes.



After the allotted time had passed, I scooped the ice cream into chilled beer mugs and topped it with apricots and sugarplums.



Play & Freeze Pros:
-A carbon-neutral way to make ice cream
-If ever put in a situation with children, this may be a successful way to distract and subdue them
-Twenty minutes tossing ball makes you feel like "you've really earned this ice cream"



Play & Freeze Cons:
-Twenty minutes tossing ball makes you feel like "you've really earned this ice cream"
-Ice cream comes out just barely frozen, and melts almost immediately upon removal from ball (especially if put in anything but chilled glasses, then forget about it); would never serve this to guests
-Only makes enough for 2-3 servings anyway

In summary, the Play & Freeze is the ice cream equivalent of an Easy-Bake Oven: a toy which produces a result that's edible, but no substitute for the real deal. So, I'm giving this baby a thumbs down. Do not buy yourself a Play & Freeze. If ever you decide that it's really a good idea to own your own ice cream maker, you can get one that works at the touch of button for like $50 (and in that case, you should definitely try the above ginger ice cream recipe).

The Viking, if you're reading this: I'm already shopping for a new Le Creuset, now that we have the space.

Our New Soda Siphon: Or, How To Assuage Your Yuppie Guilt

I'll be the first to admit that fate has dealt me a pretty great hand in life. I have a job that I like, attractive friends, low cholesterol, good teeth, a big warm bed to sleep in at night, a mother who spoils me, and a Viking of my very own.

This good fortune leads to a tremendous amount of Yuppie Guilt. Guilt about things like not giving change to Salvation Army Santas, being secretly resentful at having to participate in corporate community service outings, never once texting “HAITI” to 90999, and failing to donate to local food drives because canned goods are really heavy to lug about. I know that I don’t do nearly enough good in the world, that that probably makes me a wicked and ungrateful person, and that if God exists I am really going to be screwed for judgment day.

One of my greatest sources of Yuppie Guilt has to do with my stewardship of the planet...or lack thereof. Specifically, about my trash.

The Viking and I generate an enormous amount of garbage, due in part to the fact that we treat bottled water like we’re living in Nicaragua instead of New York. We use it to do everything except wash dishes and brush our teeth. I drink a lot of sparkling water in particular, and recently my San Pellegrino habit had gotten to the point where I was going through a case of the heavy glass liter bottles every other week. Add to that beer and wine consumption, and there was perpetually a small mountain of empty bottles piled inside the recycling bin.

Well, something plainly needed to be done. Buying a Brita pitcher was an easy fix for cutting down on bottled still water, but I wanted to go further. I wanted to stop buying sparkling too (I know. I know. My courage is an inspiration.). So I purchased a soda siphon.

The soda siphon: in addition to being an indispensable prop in classic physical comedy routines (see Marx Brothers, Three Stooges), a soda siphon is the old-fashioned way of making sparkling water out of still water + a CO2 cartridge. The one I bought cost $47.50 on Amazon.com, and while its space-age design lacks any charm/vintage appeal, it gets the job done.

I've given it a few weeks of regular use, and can report back that I highly recommend that you buy one. Sure, it takes a little more effort than just twisting off a bottle cap, but the benefits more than make up for it. The quality of the water is every bit as good as Perrier or Pellegrino, but without the nasty environmental impact. And if you buy the CO2 chargers in bulk, the costs works out to about 50 cents per bottle -- so less than half of what it costs to buy even cheap seltzer water in the grocery store.

Using a soda siphon also allows you to add all types of exciting things into your sparkling water -- Italian soda syrups, lemon, lime. You can carbonate OJ or apple juice. You could even carbonate milk if you wanted to! Although, maybe don't try that.

Perhaps best part of the soda siphon is the Mad Men-esque romance it lends to even the simple act of pouring a glass of sparkling water, and especially when making an actual cocktail. The first thing I did after fizzing my first bottle of water was make myself a scotch and soda, temporarily forgetting that I think scotch tastes like gym socks.

It took me a few tries to get the process right, so here are a few tips. Let me stress that the water needs to be cold and filtered going in (low temperature = fizzier water; filter it because if it tastes like tap water going in, it will taste like tap water coming out). Oh yeah, and make sure not to fill the siphon too full with water, or when you discharge the CO2 into it you’ll end up spraying water everywhere, like on some important-looking papers lying on the coffee table and all over your copy of the Bouchon cookbook that you've worked hard to keep clean. For example.

Without further ado:

1. Fill the siphon with cold, filtered water until it is 5” – 6” from top (you’ll be leaving some space in the bottle for the C02).















2. Insert tube.

















3. Screw lid on tight.

















4. Insert CO2 canister into sleeve, then screw sleeve into CO2 valve; CO2 canister will empty fully into siphon.
















5. Unscrew CO2 canister and discard; screw cap onto valve.

















6. Shake siphon vigorously at least five times.

















7. Dispense sparkling water in a gentle stream; keep siphon stored in refrigerator for maximum carbonation.
















On Saturday I went through five siphons full of seltzer making Fizzy Lizzies (an excellent vodka cocktail for which I’ll give you the recipe soon, if you are very good), and had only a handful of empty cartridges to show for it -- empty cartridges, and a smug expression that said, "I care deeply about the environment...in the chicest way possible."

Say Cheese

To pass the time on this gloomy Friday afternoon, I will tell you the story of how fresh ricotta came into my life.

It wasn't long ago that I was reading through Barbara Lynch's (fantastic) new cookbook, Stir, looking for something not too risky to make for dinner with a couple of the Viking's colleagues and their wives. It was there that I came across a recipe for ricotta.

I guess I had never thought about cheese-making as a realistic possibility before. Some of my free-associations about people who make their own cheese: radical, hipster, unibomber, Brooklyn, patchouli, libertarian.

Well that turns out to be really unfair, because ricotta is actually incredibly easy to make and trust me when I say that the homemade kind is way better than that Polly-O sludge that you get at the grocery store.

Traditionally, ricotta is made from the by-products of making other cheeses, but we won't be going down that path. You can make it straight from milk too. In that case, you use heat and acid to curdle the milk, separating the curds from the whey.

As it turns out, I had some experience already as an accidental cheese-maker. When I was five I mixed orange juice and milk together in a misguided attempt to recreate the creamsicle...and it curdled. I tried to drink it and cried.

Then there's the Irish car bomb. After you drop the shot of Bailey's in a pint of Guinness, if you don't drink it quickly enough the stout curdles the cream-based liqueur.

For the record, neither of these are actually approved methods of ricotta making. You can do it using buttermilk, distilled white vinegar, or lemon juice. I prefer vinegar because I think it leaves the least taste residue in the cheese, and provides a consistently high yield from the milk.

I served my first-ever batch of ricotta alongside bread and honey as an hors d'oeuvre (pictured at top), and used it again that night to top fettucine with lamb ragu. Once my guests got wind that I had made the cheese myself, they were curious to know how it's done. I'll advise you not to explain the cheese-making process to dinner guests. It's inherently gross and there's no way to sugar-coat it. I didn't think that they would buy my story about "ricotta fairies" so I deflected the question and changed the subject. They probably thought there were dead bodies involved, but oh well.

Since then, I make ricotta whenever I have a little spare time and I've have never had a problem finding ways to use it up before it goes off. Fresh ricotta will keep in the fridge for 3-4 days.


Ricotta Cheese

Yields 2 cups

1/2 gallon high-quality whole milk
1/2 c distilled white vinegar
3 tsp kosher salt

1. In saucepan, combine ingredients over medium heat.

2. Heat until liquid reaches temperature of 175 - 180 degrees, stirring occasionally.

3. Remove from heat and ladle curds into colander lined with a double layer of cheesecloth. Either leave as-is to drain in colander or tie cheesecloth shut with kitchen twine.

4. Allow curds to drain for about an hour, or until ricotta reaches desired consistency.