A reasonable question

I have been, for quite some time, intimidated by polenta. I don’t like saying that out loud, because it makes me sound like a total cream puff, but in the spirit of keeping it real, I’m saying it. I’m willing to own it. I will also say, however, that as of a few days ago, I am not intimidated by polenta anymore. And I have Judy Rodgers to thank for that.


I don’t know where it got its start, this idea that polenta is so tricky to make, but it’s the common line. It’s what I was always told. They say you have to sprinkle the cornmeal into boiling water in a particular way, like a rain shower, and that you have to stir constantly. Rumor has it, if you put down your spoon and step away, or if you try to do anything that is not constant stirring, your polenta will go lumpy, irretrievably lumpy, to spite you. I remember my mother making polenta once, sometime in the late 80s. She had eaten it in a restaurant, served soft with sauteed mushrooms on top, and she decided to try it at home. She studied up in all the right places, and then she did as she was told: she stood at the stove and stirred, and stirred, and stirred, for over an hour. She was intense. She was devoted. And it was beautiful: the pure flavor of corn, only softer and richer, more deeply satisfying. But I don’t remember her ever making it again.

I tried making polenta once, in college. I didn’t know that the possibility of lumps in one’s corn gruel could cause a person real anxiety, but it did for me. It’s not that making polenta is actually difficult; it’s just that, because of all the dos and don’ts that come with it, I was sure that I was doing something wrong. I felt like my dinner and I were teetering on the edge of some precipice, a precipice over an abyss of lumps, and I didn’t know if we were ultimately going to fall, or how I could tell if we were falling, or how long I was going to have to stand there, teetering, by which I mean stirring, before we were rescued. (I’m prone to nightmares.)

So I started buying polenta in tubes, a simplified situation that requires only slicing. But it was never very good, and certainly not as good as freshly cooked soft polenta. After a while, I stopped eating much polenta at all, except in restaurants. But you don’t find it much on menus anymore - or not as often as you did in the 80s, when it had its big break - so, basically, what I’m trying to say is that I have been living a life devoid of polenta for quite some time. Whether or not that counts as a life is a reasonable question.



Anyway, I’d been thinking about that a lot lately, and then I saw, in the New York Times, that Mark Bittman was writing about polenta. I decided that the time had come. I gathered up a few recipes, including Bittman’s, and I compared them: some had you fuss until Forever, some promised that it was quick and easy, and some even used an oven method that requires no human intervention at all. What I decided on was something in between, the polenta from The Zuni Café Cookbook, by Judy Rodgers.

If I haven’t made this clear, I’m going to say it now: I totally love this book. It might actually be my favorite cookbook, and those are big words to throw around. I had been ignoring its polenta recipe for reasons cited above, but I should have had more faith, because it is brilliant. BRILLIANT.

Zuni has had polenta on its menu for a long time, and it’s perfect: served soft, with Parmesan, mascarpone, or nothing. I always wondered how they made it in a restaurant setting, where each cook is working on a thousand things at once, and how they served it so quickly, without any kind of wait or delay or allowance for stirring time. The answer, it turns out, is two-fold.

First, Judy Rodgers doesn’t(!) adhere(!) to the constant stirring rule. I love her. You need to stir often enough, she says, to keep the polenta from sticking or scorching, but you don’t need to hover over it. Using a heavy-bottomed saucepan is important, and you want to keep the heat gentle, so that the polenta bubbles only occasionally, slowly, like lava. If you stir every five minutes or so, you should be fine. Second, and this is the brilliant part, brilliant brilliant brilliant: after the polenta has cooked, you hold it in a double boiler, or in some sort of contraption over simmering water, for anywhere between thirty minutes and a few hours. Judy Rodgers says that this holding period is key, that it allows the cornmeal to swell and soften even more, making it especially creamy. And it does. Not only does it make for a better, more tender, lighter polenta, but it’s also so sensible. So humane. So handy! It means that, if you want to, you can make your polenta, your brilliant polenta, a couple of hours ahead and keep it hot until you want it.

If I were you, I would make it immediately, for breakfast, lunch, or dinner. Whichever comes first.


Zuni Café Polenta
Adapted from The Zuni Café Cookbook, by Judy Rodgers

I use Bob’s Red Mill brand corn grits polenta, which is not fancy, but it works fine.

5 cups water
1 cup coarsely ground polenta
About 2 tsp. kosher salt, or to taste
Unsalted butter, to taste
Parmigiano-Reggiano, for serving (optional)

Bring the water to a simmer in a 2-quart saucepan. Whisk or stir in the polenta, then stir until the water returns to a simmer. [I did this step, and the steps that follow, with a whisk.] Reduce the heat until the polenta only bubbles and sputters occasionally, and cook, uncovered, for about 1 hour, stirring as needed, until thick but still fluid. If the polenta becomes stiff, add a trickle of water. Taste. Add salt and a generous dose of butter. [I used 2 teaspoons of kosher salt and about 2 tablespoons of butter.]

Transfer the polenta to a double boiler set over simmering water. Wrap the lid tightly in plastic wrap (*see note) and cover the polenta. Allow the polenta to rest that way for at least 30 minutes – or up to a few hours, depending on your schedule. If you don’t have a double boiler, you can make a close approximation by setting the saucepan containing the polenta on a small, ovenproof ramekin centered inside a wider, deeper pot, and surrounding it with barely simmering water. Cover the pan as directed above.

Serve hot. If you want, grate some Parmigiano-Reggiano on top, though I like mine plain.

Note: The plastic wrap doesn’t seem like great idea to me, but I’m not sure. Heating plastic can cause it to release chemicals, but since this plastic wrap isn’t actually touching the food, is it safe? I followed the recipe as directed, but I wanted to raise the question. If you’re worried, maybe skip the plastic wrap? Or instead, try placing a sheet of parchment over the saucepan, under the lid?

Another note: This polenta would also be delicious with a spoonful of tomato sauce or meat sauce, or with some sliced sausage. You could also serve it with some sort of braised beef or pork. I had polenta topped with duck ragu and a fried egg at Flour + Water in San Francisco, and it was out. of. control.

The last note: If you have leftover polenta, spread it about 1 inch deep in a lightly oiled baking dish. Allow it to cool, and then refrigerate until you’re ready to roast, grill, or fry it.

Yield: 4 to 8 servings

We ate this cake

About a million years ago, by which I mean last Thanksgiving, I mentioned on Twitter that my cousins had made an olive oil cake for our mothers’ birthday dinner. Our mothers are identical twins, born in the third week of November, which means that our family’s Thanksgiving comes with an extra bonus meal: The Twins’ Birthday. Anyway, I mentioned this cake, and someone - maybe one of you reading today? - asked if I might share the recipe. I said that I would do my best to get it from my cousin Katie, its keeper, which I did, and after bringing it home and accidentally burying it in a stack of papers on my desk for three months, which I’m told promotes ripening, or something, I am elated to bring it to you today. It’s a wonderful cake.



I first tasted it last May at another family birthday meal, this time in honor of Katie. It was her 30th birthday, and in our family, 30th birthdays require a lot of festivities - mine involved a surprise weekend in San Francisco with Brandon, my cousins, The Twins, and friends, ending with a baggage handler stealing my mother’s gift out of my suitcase and me crying myself to sleep; memories! - so a bunch of us decided to plan a whopper for Katie. She’s usually a planner of surprises and does not receive them very easily, but I think we did alright. Nine of us took her to a family friend’s home in the very small town of Boonville, California, for a weekend of eating and wine-tasting. One night, we dressed up and went to the Boonville Hotel for dinner, and that’s where we ate this cake.




We had called ahead to request a special dessert, because one member of our party is dairy intolerant, and so the chef made a recipe from his mother, an orange, almond, and olive oil cake. As birthday cakes go, it was unassuming, even rustic: a single layer, pale gold and coarse-crumbed, dusted with powdered sugar. But its flavor was something else: big, gutsy, rich with toasted nuts, and saturated, absolutely saturated, with the perfume of citrus. We liked it so much that my aunt asked for the recipe. We made it last November, and then I made it again a few days ago, for you. (But I forgot the powdered sugar on top. I’m so sorry. Please use your imagination.)

In the days since I rescued the recipe from its untimely burial on my desk, I’ve done a little looking around, and it seems that it may have originally been published in The Boston Globe, although I can’t find the date or the article. There’s also a similar cake in the book Breakfast Lunch Tea, by Rose Carrarini. Wherever it comes from, the concept is weird and brilliant: you start with whole citrus fruits - the original recipe calls for two small oranges and one lemon, but I prefer the flavor when I use one small to medium orange and one lemon - and you boil them in water for thirty minutes, until they’re soft. Then you remove the seeds from the orange, if there are any, and discard the pulp from the lemon, and you whizz the rest - the lemon rind and the entire orange - in the food processor. Not only does this process yield a coarse paste that infuses the cake with both moisture and flavor, but it also makes your house smell like you’ve spent tons of money on designer air freshener. You mix this paste into a base of eggs and sugar and flour and leavening, and then you stir in ground toasted almonds and olive oil, which add even more fragrance and flavor, if that’s even possible, and aside from the baking part, you’re done.



I’d never had a cake like this one before, either in flavor or in method, and though I don’t sit around and keep score on this kind of stuff, it might be the most sophisticated everyday cake I know. Privately, I think of it as a marmalade cake, and that’s what I’ve decided to call it. I know I’m supposed to call it an orange, almond, and olive oil cake, but then everyone gets excited about the olive oil angle, and honestly, if you’re looking for an olive oil cake, this is not its purest incarnation. This cake is about citrus, all-out, the kick and spice and gentle bitterness you find in a jar of good marmalade. Its ingredients lean toward Italy, but in my mind, it’s more like something Jeeves might bring, what ho!, with your afternoon tea. Either way, I should tell you, too, that it keeps amazingly. It even tastes better with age. You could steal slices from it for an entire week, and I strongly advise you to do so.


Marmalade Cake
Adapted from the Boonville Hotel

You could make this cake with store-bought roasted almonds, but I like to buy them raw and toast them myself. That way, I can control how deeply they’re toasted, and they also taste fresher. If you’re short on time, you can toast them a day or two ahead. You might also want to plan ahead for preparing the citrus fruits, since boiling and cooling them takes time. (And remember to use organic oranges and lemons, since you’ll be eating the rind.) Once you’ve got the nuts and fruits ready, this cake is quick to make.

1 small to medium orange
1 lemon
6 ounces raw almonds
1 cup all-purpose flour
1 Tbsp. baking powder
4 large eggs, ideally at room temperature
½ tsp. table salt
1 ½ cups sugar
2/3 cup olive oil
Confectioners’ sugar, for serving

First, get to work on the citrus. Put the orange and the lemon in a saucepan, and cover with water. (They’ll want to float. Don’t worry about it.) Bring to a boil over medium-high heat; then reduce the heat to medium and simmer for 30 minutes. Drain, and cool.

Meanwhile, toast the almonds. Preheat the oven to 325°F, and set a rack in the middle position. Put the almonds on an ungreased sheet pan, and bake until they look golden and smell warm and toasty, 10 to 15 minutes. (I tend to get nervous about burning them, and consequently, I always try to pull them out of the oven too soon. Don’t do that. Let them really toast.) Set aside to cool completely. When the almonds are cool, pulse them in a food processor until finely ground, the texture of coarse sand. Set aside.

Set the oven to 350°F, and grease a 9-inch round springform pan.

When the citrus is cool, cut the lemon in half, and scoop out and discard the pulp and seeds. Cut the orange in half, and discard the seeds. Put the lemon rind and orange halves in the food processor – there’s no need to wash it after grinding the almonds – and process to chop finely, almost to a coarse paste.

In a small bowl, whisk together the flour and baking powder.

Combine the eggs and salt in a mixing bowl. Beat until foamy. Gradually beat in the sugar. Fold in the flour mixture. Add the citrus, almonds, and olive oil, and beat on low speed to just incorporate. Do not overmix. Pour the batter into the prepared pan, and bake for about 1 hour, or until a toothpick inserted in the center comes out clean. Cool the cake in its pan on a wire rack. Remove the sides of the pan. Before serving, dust the cake with confectioners’ sugar.

Note: This cake tastes even better on the second - or even third - day, as the flavors meld and mellow. Store it at room temperature, covered with plastic wrap.

Yield: 8 to 10 servings

The very definition

I am bad at weekend mornings. I hear that some people, maybe even a lot of people, have weekend mornings that involve a hot breakfast, hot coffee, the Sunday Times, and hours that pass slowly, quietly, as though on tiptoe, but I am not familiar with that kind of weekend morning. I like mornings a lot, but I am not good at planned relaxation, and I married someone who is similarly impaired. We went to visit his grandparents in Florida over New Year’s, and we were very tired and verging on sick, but instead of reading books, lying on the beach, or whatever one does on vacation in Florida, we wound up kayaking in the Everglades. With alligators. (To be fair, it was my father-in-law’s idea. Relaxation impairment is a genetic trait.)



Anyway, my weekend mornings are, by and large, identical to my weekday mornings. They involve cold cereal, a glass of water, and hours that pass quickly, unceremoniously, while I am busy doing whatever I happen to be doing. I know that this is just how I am, but I don’t like it. I feel somehow that it is deeply wrong. I want to do better. I want to make more oatmeal pancakes.



I first ate these particular oatmeal pancakes when I was seven, I want to say, when one of my uncles got married in Doylestown, Pennsylvania. We stayed at the Inn at Fordhook Farm, a hotel on the private property of the Burpee family, of the Burpee Seed Company. I remember little of the wedding, except for the fact that my uncle’s fiancée was an incredible woman, beautiful, a Presbyterian minister with poufy blond hair and a great laugh, and that her sister was beautiful too, and that they fascinated me. I thought they were perfect in every way. My uncle’s fiancée, the woman who became my aunt, passed away about a dozen years later, and when I think of her, I remember her just like that, like she was at her wedding. I also remember that the Inn at Fordhood Farm served oatmeal pancakes for breakfast, and that my entire family went crazy for them.

My mother must have asked for the recipe, because somehow we came home with a copy of it, and my mother isn’t the stealing type. She made them a couple of times, but I was unmoved. I liked them at the inn, but at home, I wanted our usual family pancake, by which I mean Bisquick. I was a kid, you know? But a couple of years ago, I thought of them again, and I asked her for the recipe. I made them, and I liked them quite a bit, although, to be dead honest, I found them a little bland. They also had what can only be described as an odd amount of cinnamon: not enough to bring a real flavor, but too much to ignore. Anyway, I was not sold. But, a month ago, on a whim and I don’t know why, I decided to try AGAIN. This time, I left out the cinnamon, doubled the salt, and lo and behold, I too am now crazy. (For the pancakes.) (Just to clarify.)

In the weekends since, I’ve already made these pancakes three times. I also made coffee! We even had a friend over to eat with us, which is the very definition of Fine Weekend Morning, even though that particular friend, our friend Ryan, happened to be staying in our basement at the time, so we didn’t exactly have him over, but still. I’m tempted to say that I’m on a weekend morning roll. Though that might be optimistic.



Either way, these pancakes have won a spot in my repertoire. Not only do I like to eat them, but I love the process of making them. It starts the night before, when you measure out some oats, pile them into a bowl, and then pour a decent amount of buttermilk on top. This mixture sits in the fridge overnight, during which time the oats plump and swell and go soft, the perfect base for a winter pancake. (This overnight step means that you do have to plan ahead, which takes spontaneity out of the equation, but if you’re me, it’s nice, because once you’ve got your oats soaking, you’re locked in, and you won’t wake up lazy and eat cereal instead.) To the soaked oats you add melted butter and a couple of beaten eggs, and then you stir in some flour, leavening, a little sugar, and salt, and what you get is a great, great pancake: gently sweet the way oats are, impossibly moist, hearty but not heavy, not light but not leaden, lovely. They fry up to a handsome shade of gold, and fresh out of the pan, their outer edges have a thin, lacy crunch that dissipates in a matter of minutes, so get on it.



Oatmeal Pancakes
Adapted from the Inn at Fordhook Farm

If you want to add blueberries here, you can use fresh or frozen. (And if you’re using frozen, there’s no need to thaw them. The hot pan will do that for you.) I don’t like to stir the berries into the batter, because then you wind up with weird purple streaks, so I press them into the individual pancakes as they cook. You can use however many berries you want, but be sure to add them after the pancakes have cooked on their first side for a minute or two, so that the batter has time to start to set. When you flip the pancakes, the heat of the pan will make the berries sizzle and soften nicely.

Also, if you find yourself with any leftover pancakes, as I often do, know that they are delicious. This past Saturday, I had three left over, so I put them in a plastic bag on the kitchen counter, and I ate them cold that night, after going out for a drink, a completely undrinkable drink, with a girlfriend. I love gin, and I love Lillet, and I have nothing against Scotch, but apparently I do not care for the union of gin, Lillet, and Scotch. Cold pancakes saved the day.

2 cups rolled oats
2 cups buttermilk
½ cup all-purpose flour
2 Tbsp. sugar
1 tsp. baking powder
1 tsp. baking soda
½ tsp. table salt
2 large eggs, lightly beaten
½ cup (1 stick) unsalted butter, melted but not hot
Vegetable oil or spray, for greasing the pan
Maple syrup, for serving

The night before:
Combine the oats and buttermilk in a medium bowl. Stir to mix. Cover with plastic wrap, and refrigerate overnight.

The morning of:
Take the bowl of buttermilk and oats out of the fridge. Set aside.

In another medium bowl, whisk together the flour, sugar, baking powder, baking soda, and salt. Set aside.

Add the eggs and melted butter to the oat mixture, and stir well. Add the flour mixture, and stir to blend. The batter will be very thick.

Warm a large nonstick skillet or griddle over medium-high heat, and brush (or spray) with vegetable oil. To make sure it’s hot enough, wet your fingers under the tap and sprinkle a few droplets of water onto the pan. If they sizzle, it’s ready. Scoop the batter, about a scant ¼ cup at a time, onto the pan, taking care not to crowd them. When the underside is nicely browned and the top looks set around the edges, flip the pancakes. Cook until the second side has browned.

Re-grease the skillet, and repeat with more batter. If you find that the pancakes are browning too quickly, dial the heat back to medium.

Serve hot, with maple syrup.

Yield: about 12 pancakes, or 3 to 4 servings

A nasty habit

I have many important things to tell you.

1. I’m doing a podcast! I intended to tell you about this a week ago, but there’s been an illness in my family, and I’ve been away, and it hasn’t been a lot of fun, so, you know, let’s talk about that podcast. It’s called Spilled Milk, and I co-host it with my friend Matthew Amster-Burton. Every time we record an episode, Matthew makes me laugh until I snort, cry, hyperventilate, and/or hoot like an owl, and I hope our show does the same for you. The first episode is on the topic of fried eggs, and you can listen or download it – free! – through the Spilled Milk website, or through iTunes. The second episode, on winter squash, will be released a week from today, on January 21.

2. Yes! That’s a new banner up there! It had been the same for three years, and those orangettes were stale. So, in honor of winter, I give you a head of cabbage instead. When spring comes, we can switch to artichokes, I’m thinking, or asparagus. Maybe rhubarb. It’s going to be exciting.

3. I love this chocolate mousse. Loved it, rather.


I seem to have a nasty habit of writing about rich foods in January, right on the heels of the holidays. I’m sorry about that. Even I don’t want to hear about chocolate mousse right now. But I love this recipe, so I’m going to write about it anyway, and even if you are totally chocolated-out, or desserted-out, or avoiding sweets as a New Year’s resolution, or whatever, I strongly recommend that you bookmark it for future use. It’s my go-to chocolate mousse. I think everyone should have a go-to chocolate mousse. It’s not hip, nor has it been for about a million years, but it never goes out of style, either. It’s the Audrey Hepburn of desserts. Only fatter. Or fattier? You know what I mean.

I can’t remember how or where I was introduced to chocolate mousse, but I remember eating an alarming amount of it when my parents took me to Paris as a kid. There was a restaurant called Claude Sainlouis, I think, around the corner from our hotel, and though we were only in town for ten days, we went there twice, mainly because I was obsessed with their chocolate mousse. The first night, the host sat us in the back dining room, hidden behind a partition. The main dining room bustled, but ours was empty, quiet as a church. I remember my parents saying that we’d been put there because we were foreigners: we’d been sniffed out, ghettoized, hurried away from the French-speaking diners. It was a terrible feeling. I’m not sure why we went back, but I must have begged convincingly for the mousse, because we did. And the second night, miracle of miracles, the host smiled at us, a tiny smile of recognition. He showed us to a table in the main dining room. My father beamed. It was a great night. I ate steak frites and mousse au chocolat. I don’t know that the mousse was anything special, but I loved it. I was 10 years old, and my feelings about chocolate mousse were much like my feelings about ice cream: good or bad, it was AWESOME. The restaurant is still there, I think, although I haven’t been back. I looked it up on Google Street View, and the awning looks much classier than I remember. Who knows.



Anyway, I do love chocolate mousse. And this year, when we were planning a Christmas Eve dinner with a few friends, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I’ve tried a few chocolate mousse recipes over the years, some better and some worse, and this time, I decided to use one that had been skulking around my clippings folder untried, a recipe from Cook’s Illustrated. (I also made Dorie Greenspan’s extraordinary lemon tart, because I am apparently into total excess, and because it really is extraordinary.)

The thing about this mousse recipe, to put it simply, is that it’s perfect. Some mousses are dense and sticky, like a ganache truffle. Others are foamy, almost frothy, with the mouthfeel of a marshmallow. This one sits squarely, happily, in the middle. It’s soft and creamy, light but substantial. It’s also not too sweet. It’s deep and dark and complex, spiked with enough coffee and booze to complement the chocolate, but not compete with it. As I recently heard Brandon’s aunt say of her son’s new girlfriend, I think it’s The One. It’s a keeper.



Just a single caution: see this teacup? It’s a standard size, as teacups go, but people, that was a LOT of mousse. Do not fill your teacups like I filled my teacups. Do not. The amount of whipped cream on top, however, was spot-on.


Chocolate Mousse
Adapted from Cook’s Illustrated, 2006

The original recipe calls for brandy, not whiskey, but I never seem to have brandy around. We’re whiskey people. You can use whichever you want.

About the chocolate: the good people at Cook’s Illustrated use Ghirardelli bittersweet (60% cacao) chocolate for this recipe, and I do too. You could use a fancier brand, if you want, but whatever you use, it should contain about 60% cacao. Chocolates with a higher cacao percentage have less sugar and a starchier consistency, and they won’t work well in this recipe.

Also, about serving size: chocolate mousse is, by definition, serious stuff. I am pretty much a total pig about dessert, but I recommend that you offer this in small servings. The recipe makes six to eight servings, and I lean in favor of eight. Especially since I like to serve it with a whack of whipped cream on top.


8 oz. bittersweet chocolate, ideally 60% cacao, finely chopped
2 Tbsp. Dutch-processed cocoa powder
1 tsp. instant espresso powder
5 Tbsp. water
1 Tbsp. whiskey or brandy
2 large eggs, separated
1 Tbsp. sugar, divided
1/8 tsp. salt
1 cup plus 2 Tbsp. cold heavy cream

For serving:
Very lightly sweetened whipped cream

Combine the chocolate, cocoa powder, espresso powder, water, and whiskey in a medium heatproof bowl. Place over a saucepan filled with 1 inch of gently simmering water, and stir frequently until the chocolate is melted and the mixture is smooth. Remove from the heat.

In another medium bowl, combine the egg yolks, 1 ½ teaspoons sugar, and salt. Whisk until the mixture lightens to a pale yellow color and thickens slightly, about 30 seconds. Pour the melted chocolate mixture into the egg mixture, and whisk until combined. Set aside for about 5 minutes, until just warmer than room temperature.

In the bowl of a stand mixer fitted with the whisk attachment, beat the egg whites on medium-low speed until frothy. Add the remaining 1 ½ teaspoons sugar, increase the mixer speed to medium-high, and beat until soft peaks form when the whisk is lifted. Detach the whisk and bowl from the mixer, and whisk the last few strokes by hand, making sure to scrape up any unbeaten whites from the bottom of the bowl. Using the whisk, stir about ¼ of the beaten egg whites into the chocolate mixture, to lighten it. Then, using a rubber spatula, gently fold in the remaining egg whites until only a few white streaks remain.

In the now-empty mixer bowl, whip the heavy cream at medium speed until it begins to thicken. Increase the speed to high, and whip until soft peaks form when the whisk is lifted. Using a rubber spatula, fold the whipped cream into the mousse until no white streaks remain. Spoon into 6 to 8 individual serving dishes - I like to use teacups - or, if you’re feeling casual, mound it up in a single serving bowl. Cover with plastic wrap, and refrigerate until firm, at least 2 hours and up to 24 hours.

For best texture, let the mousse sit at room temperature for 10 minutes before serving. Serve with very lightly sweetened whipped cream.

Yield: 6 to 8 servings

Happy, merry

The three of us wanted to give you something nice. Unfortunately, all I have is this picture.


But mainly, we wanted to say thank you. You’ve given us so much. This year was a big one, and we couldn’t have done any of it - no book, no restaurant, nothing - without you. Thank you for being here, for being there, for every kindness. Thank you for giving us so many reasons to celebrate.

See you in 2010.

For ever and ever

I have wanted this caramel corn recipe for a very long time.


Which is weird, because I am not, in general, a caramel corn person. No matter where it comes from, it’s usually a little sticky, a little cloying, a little heavy, a little stale. But I’m crazy about this caramel corn. I saw Twilight for the first time last weekend, and basically, I am to this caramel corn as Edward Cullen is to Bella Swan. I’m in love with it. And I am destined to wrestle, for ever and ever, with a violent desire to eat it. (Also, Robert Pattinson! Hellooooo.)


I tasted this caramel corn for the first time about six years ago, when my brother David opened a restaurant called Ceiba, in Washington, DC. The executive pastry chef was also a David, a charming, double-dimpled guy named David Guas, and for the grand opening party, he made caramel corn. I remember very clearly standing in the dining room, just outside the kitchen, when a waiter came through the crowd with a platter covered in small white paper trays, the kind that fries come in at concession stands, or maybe it was actually white paper cones, or maybe I don’t remember that night so well at all, but the trays, or the cones, were filled with caramel corn. It was eerily light, crisp and snappy, sweet-salty, insane. It was this caramel corn.


Most commercial caramel corns, or the specimens I’ve tasted, at least, don’t really taste like caramel. They only taste sweet. This one tasted like true caramel. It tasted like butter and brown sugar and heat - and, crucially, a little bit of salt. It was also studded with salted peanuts. I wanted to ask if he would share the recipe, but I had only met him once or twice, and I didn’t want to seem pushy. My brother told me that they planned to serve the caramel corn as a mignardise, a little sweet something sent out with the check, so I contented myself with the thought that, whenever I ate at Ceiba, a little paper tray of it, or cone of it, would be waiting for me at the end of my meal.

Of course, Ceiba is approximately 2,700 miles from where I live. In the six years since it opened, I have eaten there exactly twice. There has been very little caramel corn in my life. And David Guas, for his part, moved on a couple of years ago, starting his own consulting company and helping restaurants across the country develop dessert menus. I mourned my lost opportunity. In my next life, I vowed, I would be pushier.

But as luck would have it, he has just come out with a cookbook, and in it, on page 154, is the caramel corn. Hellooooo.


If you’ve been around here for any length of time, you may remember that, for four Christmases in a row now, I’ve been trying to give only homemade or handmade gifts. I make and give away tins of cookies and candies, and when I do shop, I buy mainly from artists and crafters, at places like this, or this, or this, or this, or this. It makes me feel good. I also buy books, because I can’t imagine not buying books. But mostly I bake or make candy, and what I’m trying to say is: a couple of weeks ago, I drew up a long list of items to make for this year’s tins, but I cannot bring myself to start making them, because I CANNOT STOP MAKING CARAMEL CORN.

The problem is, it’s easy. And quick. You pop some popcorn, and then you put it into a bowl. You make a caramel, and you cook it to 250 degrees. You quickly dump the hot caramel over the popcorn, and then you fold it in as well as you can, and then you add salted peanuts. Then comes the clincher: you bake it for one hour in a low oven. Not all caramel corn recipes include this step, but I think it’s the deal-sealer. In the oven, the caramel, which had started to harden as you stirred it into the popcorn, gets a chance to soften again. You can now stir it into the popcorn more easily and evenly. The whole, gooey mess will crisp spectacularly as it cools, and the kitchen will smell outrageous, and then you will turn into Edward Cullen. I’m so sorry.

One last thing: don’t be upset if the peanuts don’t seem to want to stay mixed in with the popcorn. Heaven is the handful of caramel-coated peanuts left in the container after the popcorn is gone.


Caramel Corn with Salted Peanuts
Adapted from DamGoodSweet, by David Guas and Raquel Pelzel

A few notes to help you along:

- The original version of this recipe calls for microwave popcorn. I used Newman’s Own brand microwave popcorn in the “natural” flavor. However, I don’t see any reason why you couldn’t use stovetop or air-popped popcorn, if you’d like. You’ll need 10 cups of it, and you’ll probably want to salt it lightly, since almost all microwave popcorns have at least a little bit of added salt.
- Be sure to have a whisk and a rubber spatula close at hand. You’ll need them both on short notice.
- Before you begin cooking the caramel, measure out the baking soda and the vanilla, and chop the peanuts. You won’t have time to do it later.
- Do not try to make this recipe without a candy thermometer.
- If you plan to give this popcorn as a gift, know that it looks very handsome, and keeps nicely, in a Mason jar.

1 (3½-ounce) package plain (unbuttered natural flavor) microwave popcorn, or about 10 cups fresh popcorn popped by any method, lightly salted
1 cup packed light brown sugar
¼ cup light corn syrup
6 Tbsp. unsalted butter, melted
¼ tsp. salt
½ tsp. baking soda
2 tsp. vanilla extract
1 cup lightly salted peanuts, roughly chopped

Preheat the oven to 250°F. Line a rimmed baking sheet with parchment paper.

If using microwave popcorn, pop the popcorn according to the package instructions. Coat a large mixing bowl with nonstick cooking spray, and dump the popcorn into the bowl, taking care to pick out and discard any unpopped kernels.

In a medium saucepan, whisk together the brown sugar, corn syrup, butter, salt, and 2 tablespoons of water. Bring to a simmer over medium-high heat. Continue to simmer, whisking often, until the mixture reads 250°F on a candy thermometer, about 3 to 4 minutes. Immediately remove the pan from the heat, and whisk in the baking soda and vanilla. Quickly pour the hot caramel over the popcorn. Use a rubber spatula to gently fold the caramel into the popcorn, taking care to distribute it as evenly as you can. Stir in the peanuts, and transfer the mixture to the prepared baking sheet. Bake for 1 hour, stirring and turning the popcorn with a spatula every 20 minutes. Remove from the oven, and place on a cooling rack for 20 minutes. Gently break up the popcorn, and serve.

Store in an airtight container for up to 5 days (or thereabouts).

Yield: about 10 cups

I am not kidding around

Well. It’s hard to know where to start. I’m tempted to jump right in, to say that you should hurry up and put a pot on the stove and make the pasta recipe below and let’s get back to business, shall we?, but that doesn’t seem right. First, I need to thank you. I had no idea that Delancey would swallow me up like that, and I need to thank you for being so patient, so supportive, so good to me. This restaurant is up and running today because of you. I am not kidding around about that.

I am also not kidding around when I say this: I’m ready to get back to writing. I can’t imagine not having worked at Delancey, not having worked alongside Brandon, not having put my whole self into it, especially in the beginning, but I miss writing. I wish I could do both, but as you can see by my long silence here, it doesn’t seem to work that way. Anyway, as personality types go, I am not a restaurant cook. When I’m working the line and get a dozen orders at once, I do not experience an adrenaline rush. I experience an urge to run, screaming, out the front door of the restaurant and into the street. I can hack it, but I am not wired to love it. Of course, when I’m writing, I also occasionally get an urge to throw myself into traffic, but the difference is that I love it anyway. It’s what I’m supposed to do. It’s why I am sitting here, typing this paragraph. It’s also why, as of next week, I will no longer be working a regular shift in the kitchen at Delancey. I leave my station in the very capable hands of this lady and this lady. I’ll still be there a lot of the time, doing errand-running / spot-cleaning / pinch-hitting / payroll-calculating / menu-shaping / proud co-owner duties, but mainly, I’ll be writing. If I were the squealing type, I would totally be squealing right now.

So, you know, blah blah blah, let’s get back to business, shall we? I strongly suggest that you make this stuff.



I wish I had remembered to grate some Parmesan on top before I took that picture, but that’s what I get for waiting to cook until I was wickedly hungry and then trying to mix starvation with food photography. Then, as luck would have it, when I did finally grate some cheese on top, I forgot to disable the automatic flash before pushing the shutter button. I hope you like your pasta with a side of glare. Delicious.



What you see above is the quintessential pasta dish of the Romagna part of Emilia-Romagna, tagliatelle alla Romagnola. Only I made it with penne rigate instead of tagliatelle. Either way, the basic concept is this: noodles, butter, prosciutto, and Parmigiano-Reggiano. Noodles, butter, prosciutto, Parmigiano-Reggiano. It rolls off the tongue like a song, doesn’t it? I’ve been singing that one a lot lately.

I know that the days after Thanksgiving aren’t generally a time when most people want to think about butterfat, pork, and pasta, but tuck this recipe away, because you’re going to want it someday. It’s quick and pantry-friendly, and at the end of a winter day, when you’re tired and cold, it’s going to be your dinner in shining armor. If you were one of those kids who grew up on noodles with butter, or noodles with butter and Parmesan, you’re going to go kind of nuts for this. It’s what a security blanket might taste like, if you’re the type of person who eats blankets. Or, if you’re a fan of spaghetti alla carbonara, consider this its cousin, with prosciutto instead of guanciale, Parmesan instead of Pecorino, and no egg. The best part is that I learned about it from a book edited by none other than our very own Luisa Weiss! The book is Giuliano Hazan’s Thirty Minute Pasta, written by the son of the great Marcella Hazan. If a pedigree like that doesn’t make you want to put a pot of water on the stove, it is a dark day.

Here’s the idea. You buy a thick slice of prosciutto. You cut it into short, narrow strips. You put a decent pat of butter in a skillet. When the butter melts, you cook the prosciutto for a minute or two, just until its raw pink color gives way to something closer to mauve, an unusually appealing take on mauve, and the general vicinity smells like bacon, minus the smoke. It smells fantastic. Meanwhile, you boil some pasta. When the pasta is ready, you drain it and quickly dump it into the skillet. Grate some Parmesan over the whole thing, and stir and toss it with a couple of spoons. The warm butter that coated the pan now coats the noodles, and the prosciutto gets mixed up in there too, a little salty, deeply savory, rough and rustic, heady, hearty, comfortable. It’s beautiful in the way that old ladies in Italy are beautiful. You’re going to like it.


Some quick housekeeping:

- For those of you who, so long ago now, were interested in the light fixtures at Delancey, where we got them and/or how they were made, here’s a link to our designers’ website. (Once you’re there, click on WHAT WE DO.) They custom-designed the lights. They’re so good.

- I am thrilled and honored to be a part of the simply photo pop up shop, hosted by Jen Causey. I have two images in the shop: this one and this one. Jen has generously offered a 10% discount - good for any item in the shop - to readers of this blog, so jump on over, support independent artists, and be sure to type the discount code ORANGETTE at checkout.


Pasta with Fried Prosciutto, Parmesan, and Butter
Adapted from Giuliano Hazan’s Thirty Minute Pasta

I should tell you, before I go any further, that I received this book as a free review copy. That fact has not clouded my judgment, I swear. I receive many review copies that I never write about, and I only mention a recipe here if it’s a keeper. This one is.

The proper title for this dish is tagliatelle alla Romagnola, but since I didn’t use tagliatelle, I’m winging it, title-wise. I hope Mr. Hazan will forgive me. I used penne rigate, which was fine, although I’ll bet it would be even better with a long noodle – dried egg tagliatelle, ideally. I have written the recipe below for one serving, because I usually make it when I’m working at home alone and in need of a quick meal, but the recipe scales up very easily. The original recipe, as Mr. Hazan wrote it, serves four and uses four ounces of prosciutto, 4 four tablespoons of butter, and so on.

1 oz. prosciutto, sliced 1/8 inch thick
1 Tbsp. unsalted butter
Kosher salt
About 3 ounces dried pasta, preferably egg tagliatelle
Freshly grated Parmigiano-Reggiano

Fill a deep pot with water for the pasta. Salt the water well. Place over high heat, and bring to a boil.

Cut the prosciutto into narrow strips – about ¼ to ½ inch wide – and then cut the strips into short segments, each about 1 inch long. Warm the butter in a 10-inch skillet over medium heat. When the butter has melted, add the prosciutto, and season with a tiny pinch of kosher salt. Cook until the prosciutto has lost its raw color, but not long enough for it to brown, about 1 to 2 minutes. Remove from the heat.

When the water boils, cook the pasta until it is al dente. Drain it – but not too thoroughly; you want the noodles to still be coated with some moisture – and turn it into the skillet with the prosciutto. Toss. Grate a little Parmigiano-Reggiano on top, and toss again. Serve immediately, with more Parmigiano-Reggiano to taste.

Yield: 1 serving