The Dinner Files

To start the new year right, I had made a batch of homemade doughnuts for my son and then a pile of bialys for my dashing husband. A few days passed and I thought “what about me and my special breakfast treat”? I thought about making English muffins or just some delicious walnut bread to toast, and then a craving for scones hit me like a ton of bricks.

Scones, like Rice Krispies treats, are sublime when fresh and homemade but they quickly become nothing special when made in bulk and sold out of café counters. I made a batch of these buttermilk scones last week, ate three in quick succession while they were still warm, and sent the rest out of the house with my dashing husband to share with his colleagues. One of them reported back that when he first walked in and offered everyone scones she wasn’t all that excited. “I mean scones are usually,” and she paused, looking for the right description, “sort of heavy and not really that good, you know?”

I do know. Once in awhile I trick myself into believing that a bought scone will be flaky and moist and delicious and not a doorstop. Then I learn my lesson as I try to gnaw my way through a sweetened hockey puck and don’t order a scone again for a year or two until, memory faded, I try again.

These scones, though, these scones are worth eating. The buttermilk gives them just a bit of tang and helps keep them moist without making them heavy. And the flakiness! Look! You can see the layers of flaky goodness! Feel free to stir in currants or bits of chocolate or orange zest or whatever will flavor the scone to your satisfaction. I like mine terribly plain, all the better to slather with marmalade if I happen to have some around the house.

My dad is officially impossible to shop for. He has plenty of interests that require plenty of stuff, but he outfits himself as needed. And for all his love of golf and skiing and fishing and duck and pheasant hunting and bridge, he isn’t someone who wants objects branded with those interests. No funny t-shirts. No door knockers or doo-dads with fish or golf clubs or what have you on them. He does not want a tie with playing cards on it. A widely used default gift for the man is a good bottle of Scotch or other booze – I go for small batch stuff he wouldn’t already know about.

Another default gift, at least from me, is marmalade. Homemade marmalade.

Many moons ago I made my dad a dozen quarts of marmalade for Christmas. A dozen quarts. Forty-eight cups of candied jellied citrus peel. If you think that is crazy wait for the kicker: he had eaten it all by August. See, my dad likes breakfast. He often eats what you and I would see as two breakfasts. A cinnamon roll or piece of coffee cake with his first cup of coffee, then he might do something like go fishing or take a bike ride, and then he’ll settle into his bacon and eggs or, more commonly, a session with the toaster. I’ve seen the man eat half a loaf of bread in toast in a single sitting. And that toast needs things on it. Butter and peanut butter, butter and jam, butter and honey, marmalade. Just sit back and imagine the amount of toast a person would need to consume to go through forty-eight cups of marmalade in eight months. That is more than a cup of marmalade a week.

As much as I would love to keep my dad in homemade marmalade — and I do hate to think of him at his breakfast table staring into a jar and lamenting, like the Countess of Tretham in Gosford Park, “Oh dear, bought marmalade, dear me I call that very feeble” — making a dozen quarts of the stuff is an endeavor I can no longer even wrap my mind around, much less work into my schedule. The process, while not particularly difficult, does take a certain amount of time what with the zest peeling and the section cutting and membranes-in-cheesecloth tying and the never ending boiling (see how in this simple 17-step guide). Of course, one is rewarded with a house that smells absolutely fabulous for hours and jars that look like you’ve somehow filled them with precious jewels. Still, along with the haunting aroma of cooked marmalade is a thin layer of sugary citrus juice stickiness that manages to work its way over everything in the kitchen, and those jars of precious jewels must be processed if you don’t want to have to refrigerate them.

So I am done with the work – and pleasure – of making marmalade for this season, anyway. And all I had to show for it was the single batch, three pint jars, I wrapped up and gave my dad for Christmas. I’m sure he’s eaten all of it already.

We have a pretty clear Christmas Eve tradition at my parents’ house. Those who go to church go to a 4 o’clock service and sing about the Baby Jesus, we re-convene at some time between 5 and 6, drink champagne or whiskey, depending on our taste, and eat various seafood-y appetizer-y things for dinner in the living room. Then we exchange gifts. My mom used to be in charge of the food, then for awhile I sort of helped her and a few years ago I just took the food over because I like it and she doesn’t.

The coup d’état was a peaceful one, but as with any regime shift, there were some practical and even ideological changes made. We always had tasty food, but the spread didn’t always have menu cohesion. I pared down, tweaked, and started experimenting with different combinations. I re-focused the whole thing back onto seafood, letting the gravlax hold court with an attending platter of shrimp. Baked clams have been involved, as have oysters on the half shell. This year I kept it more simple than usual – I figured with my 2 1/2 year-old nephew and 17 month-old niece on hand we might want to try and make a quicker work of dinner than we have in the past.

My task was made all the easier since my Manhattan-based mother-in-law joined us. She went to Zabar’s, bossed around some guys behind the fish counter, and arrived in Minnesota with a beautiful white fish and over a pound of supremely cut nova in her bag. I just needed to platter those players up with some cream cheese, red onion, and rye bread. I made some easy-to-eat salads, some garlic-stufffed mushrooms, and blue cheese-stuffed bacon-wrapped dates and was about to call it a day.

My husband, my son, and my brother all made it very clear, however, that a platter of shrimp was expected. They weren’t a-holes about it or anything, but when I asked people if there was anything they definitely wanted they all piped up with the same request: make and serve what I wanted, but they really liked the shrimp.

Tough position. I know they wanted those big, fat shrimp to dip into cocktail sauce. Yet the only shrimp that size available at the market were farmed and imported. I’m sure there are some shrimp farms in other places doing perfectly fine work, but the vast majority of them are ecological nightmares and the resulting shrimp are full of antibiotics and their own crap. So I went with the Key West pink shrimp from Florida that I know to be a well managed fishery. The shrimp were flavorful but small. I later heard my husband defending my choice to his mother, who, like everyone else, likes her finger-food shrimp big. In the end the shrimp platter thrilled no one, I suppose, but at least I didn’t feel bad serving it. You know what else I didn’t do? I didn’t apologize or explain it. The shrimp were delicious, so, really, there was nothing to apologize for, and no one wants to hear a lecture about shrimp fisheries on Christmas Eve. I mean, I’ve gone out of my way specifically to hear lectures about shrimp fisheries, I know I don’t want to hear one in Christmas Eve.

So I was a wee bit pleased with myself. I walked the walk – making the purchase I felt good about – but I also kept the focus on the delicious, not the politics, of the meal. And in an effort to mix things up a bit I made a spicy rémoulade to serve with the shrimp: I whisked the pastured egg plus one egg white with a bit of ground mustard before dripping in the oil ever so slowly so it would all emulsify into a springy mayonnaise (feel free to use store-bought if whipping up mayo isn’t your thing) . I stirred in plenty of mustard and Tabasco and added the minced scallion and capers and some parsley.I adjusted the seasoning to get it just spicy enough to tingle a bit but not so spicy you didn’t want many more bites. As I was putting everything out I had the Shrimp Triad taste it. As the three of them stood in my parents’ kitchen in their Christmas Eve Casual finest, they all agreed: it was delicious, they really liked it, and they would also like some cocktail sauce. I looked at my dashing husband, my omnivorous son, and my baby brother and quite seriously thought about telling them to go stuff themselves. A younger me might have, indeed, argued with them. She very likely would have at least explained why the spicy rémoulade was better.

Instead of lecturing or cajoling or debating, 2011-me shook my head and, as they watched, I pulled a bottle of ketchup and a bottle of horseradish out of the fridge, dumped ketchup and horseradish into a bowl, gave it a few stirs, and handed it to them to bring out to the coffee table.

Merry Christmas, I said. And I meant it.

We bucked tradition this year. I usually cook up a pot of Hoppin’ John and braise some cabbage on January 1. This year I made red beans and rice and braised some kale. I know, I know – when will the madness stop?

My crew of two always compliments the Hoppin’ John and eats the luck-filled meal with good cheer. The red beans and rice? They were too busy shoveling it into their mouths to say much of anything until their bowls were empty, at which point they each, in their turn, got up from the table, headed into the kitchen, and loaded those bowls back up with seconds. I was left to mention, casually of course, that I thought the beans were rather good. They nodded their heads and mumbled something in agreement through their bean-filled mouths.

That dinner felt lucky, not just for the bounty symbolized by the many beans, but by their tenderness, the rich flavor from the smoked ham hock, the restorative nutrition of the whole combination. And, most of all, of course, by the fine company in which we ate.

We spent a slice of the winter break back in Minneapolis. While there I do crazy things like read the newspaper in its paper form. This causes me to read parts of the newspaper I don’t seek out online, like advice columns. One such column published a letter from a woman bereft at her holiday circumstances: because she doesn’t get along with her extended family and doesn’t really have any friends, she and her husband and daughter end up spending holidays “alone” and it is very depressing. That little ditty put a whole world to be grateful for into perspective for me, but mainly I was glad that the idea of spending a holiday with “just” my husband and son always strikes me as a delightful prospect.

Our new year was rung in not just with tasty red beans, but by several rounds of my favorite Christmas present: the Pride & Prejudice board game from Ashgrove Press:

Yep. It exists and it is awesome. It was given and received as a bit of a gag gift. Or, rather, the gift was as much the knowledge of the incredible fact that such a thing exists as it was the thing itself. But we punched out the paper shillings, separated the “Regency Life” cards from the “Novel” cards, chose our characters, and gave it a go. Rousing good fun ensued. My son insisted we play again. Yes. The eight-year-old boy wanted to play again. We’ve now played several times – enough so the cards have started to repeat, which takes away a bit, but by no means all, of the fun.

May 2012 be filled with peace and joy, of course, and also bounty and tenderness and rich flavors and health. What I wish for you and me both, though, is that it is also filled with delight. Expected delights – like dinner with friends and family – are nice but, just to keep things interesting, I also hope for plenty of unexpected delights like crazy board games based on classic novels.

It sounds sort of weird, but I really hope a big fat man in a red felt suit gave you everything you wished for this weekend. I am a happy girl, surrounded by family and friends. I could complain, because I’m quite good at complaining, but I won’t. I don’t dare. I’m too lucky with this lot I’ve been cast with to dare whisper the hint of complaint.

I am, however, a bit full. My solution? This fennel orange olive salad. Lively, bright, wintery, Sicilian, crunchy, sweet, salty, cleansing. It’s everything I want to put in my mouth after the last few days of overindulgence.

Ask and you shall receive. I’ve finally posted my famous recipe for cranberry cordial, a homemade cranberry liqueur I’ve referenced and teased you with for years now. My secret is out. Everyone I’ve ever given it to can now see how lazy I am – making a big deal about this easy-as-pie concoction.

Serve it chilled in wee cordial glasses like the ones I tracked down at a thrift store somewhere on the 101 between here and Los Angeles on a road trip with my dashing husband back when he was simply dashing, or use to make the best kirs or kir royales you’ve ever had. I’ve used big batches of the stuff to doctor up the second (maybe third) crappiest sparkling wine at the market into delicious cocktails that made for very festive gatherings indeed. I wish you many such events in the coming weeks, or, rather, as many as you can stand.

Have you noticed that I don’t post a ton of sweets here? I’m not a real dessert-y sort of gal. A bite or two of whatever usually does it for me, much to my son’s chagrin. The poor thing has taken to lapping up a spoonful of honey for dessert more than once while pulling a face at the offer of a juicy ripe satsuma or a bitter square of dark chocolate studded with almonds and sea salt.

These pecan cookies, however, whether studded with crunchy bitter cacao nibs or delicate shavings of dark chocolate, are right up my alley, they are buttery and crisp and not all that sweet but perfect with a cup of coffee or a spot of tea, and they aren’t out of place with a dram of whiskey either. They are inspired by cookies from the fabulous Alice Medrich. I once made them with finely chopped chocolate when I couldn’t find cacao nibs. They were, to some palates, even more delicious.

Find other cookies I genuinely adore at this list of potential christmas cookies.

I was recently asked to attend a cookbook club. Members all cook a recipe from a book, get together to eat the results, and discuss the book and whatnot. I can attest that it is a delightful way to wile away a Saturday afternoon. The book for this gathering was Elizabeth David’s French Country Cooking. I made the honey hazelnut cake, which was good but not exciting. One of those old fashioned cakes that is as good for breakfast as it is for dessert or tea. As I flipped my way through that book it just made me want to read more Elizabeth David again and so her various books came down from the shelf and I soon noticed a few other items I’d like to cook, including her ragù.

The recipe called for “teacups” of things (that’s 6 ounces or 3/4 cup to you and me), and wanted me to put chicken livers in the sauce, which I didn’t really feel like doing. The best part, though, is that she insists that you add the ragù to “hot pasta in a heated dish so that the pasta is thoroughly impregnated with the sauce.”

Reading Elizabeth David just points out what a hack I am. I don’t ever write about impregnating things.

This ragù recipe, however, ain’t too shabby.

p.s. All you cranberry cordial-wanted fanatics, the recipe will be up soon. Very soon.

I had a hard week. Stressful. Anxiety producing. At one point just a wee bit scary. Nothing went quite how I’d wish it would. I felt overwhelmed and, at points, disheartened. Everything is much better now – no need to worry – and part of what cured my ills was a big pot of cream of wild rice soup.

I left the thickening work to the heavy cream by leaving both the flour and the potatoes out of it, I used pancetta where traditionalists would use ham, I tossed in some fresh thyme, and I added fancy-pants leeks instead of homey onions, but it was a fair reproduction of the soup I grew up with. My mom never made it – why would she when Lund’s had such a fine frozen version for sale? – but there was always a quart or two in the extra freezer in the basement, usually slotted into the shelves on the door this time of year, what with the freezer being full of ducks and pheasants.

My family gobbled it up just as happily as I used to. And they agreed that the generous grinds of black pepper at the end are key.

My Uncle Denny may be best known both here and in my mind for his superlative smoked salmon, a fish he catches, cleans, and smokes himself. It is actually smoked, not cold-cured or salt-cured, but set in a smoke house filled with smoke from a hot fire, a process known as hot smoked to some, kippered to others, or, simply, smoked. Instead of transforming the salmon  into the silken slabs of gravlax, the smokes dried the fish a bit, highlighting the oils which remain free-flowing in even the coldest of waters and that make salmon so delicious, and makes it easy to flake into salty bites.

Yet it is from him that I first learned a) pumpkin pie need not come from a can, and b) you need not confine yourself to pumpkin when making what he calls “gourd pie.” It takes no discernible effort for me to picture him in the kitchen of their old house – the one with a giant hand-cranked coffee grinder built into the kitchen wall, with baskets and pan hanging over the counters, and a wood-burning stove in the living room – manning the blender on a Thanksgiving morning, whipping up a half dozen of his gourd pies to bring to the Thanksgiving potluck and soccer game while my cousin, who is now finishing up law school, pulled at my hand hoping I’d read the stack of picture books he’d assembled to him.

So when Denny and my Aunt Nancy as well as my parents were in town the weekend before my dad’s birthday, we had a little dinner to celebrate. I took extreme advantage of my guests and made a range of pies to fill in my Thanksgiving offerings over at Local Foods. Pumpkin pie, chile pumpkin pie (seriously, that bit of ground dried chile is awesome in pumpkin pie!), and a bourbon pecan pie (made with maple syrup) were all on offer. Following my fine uncle’s example, the pumpkin pies were made with freshly roasted winter squash, with something labelled a “red kabocha” at the market. It looked suspiciously like a red kuri pumpkin to me. Check out that gorgeous color.

Whether you roast your own squash to make your own pie or not, I wish you a happy Thanksgiving and hope you spend it with people who make you laugh and who slowly but surely, without too much fuss and without distracting from the animated conversation already in the works, pay you the ultimate compliment and finish all the pie.

(Still menu planning? Find a gaggle of my Thanksgiving desserts recipes over at Local Foods.)