Will Work For Butter

Tags

baking, blessings, butter, French pastries, gardening, humor, volunteering, writing

In my very first post I mentioned how the transition from working girl to housewife/artist/property manager has been a strange, yet surprisingly easy one. Well, it’s still a bit strange. I think perhaps it’s because the farmer’s market is closed for the winter, so I’m not busy creating culinary delights for my townsfolk anymore. I miss my customers and the amazing people I worked alongside with – Julie, Sylvia, Michael, Linda, and Virgil. But mostly I miss the learning. Baking for the market was a bit like attending my very own private culinary school. Days before the market, I would read and re-read complex recipes, pour over countless cookbooks, including Linda Dannenberg’s fabulous book – Paris Boulangerie Patisserie – Recipes from Thirteen Outstanding French Bakeries, and plan-out my menu.

When I was living in the city and working 9-5, I never had the time to sharpen my gastronomic skills nor the proclivity to master such delicacies as Bouchons (chocolate “corks”), Croissants aux Amandes (almond-filled croissants), Tarte Normande (apple and custart tart), Gougeres (giant gruyere cheese puffs), Sables a’ l’Orange et Raisins (orange and raisin cookies), Tartes aux Framboises (raspberry tartletts with pastry cream), Coco au Miel (coconut-honey cakes), pizza dough, ham and Gruyere bread, my grandma Davis’s apple pie – or piecrust for that matter. The five months I spent working for the market has been an invaluable education that has not only opened the door to my culinary imagination, and shown me tangible ways in which I can make a little cash. It has made me realize how very blessed I am to have such opportunities as these.

Women gardening. Courtesy of oldpictures.com

Another blessing the transition from city life to rural bliss has uncovered is the opportunity to volunteer. For a few months after the market ended, I was volunteering for my friend Linda on her farm. What a joy! I’m looking forward to helping her harvest potatoes, garlic and more when spring approaches. Then, these past few months I’ve been volunteering at St. Timothy soup kitchen. Curiously it was my sweet, unbelieving friend Linda who told me about St. Tim’s. When I asked her if she knew of ways in which the community was helping its low income and homeless population, she said that St. Timothy’s was the first church (out of ~27 in town) to start a soup kitchen. Then shortly thereafter, six other churches stepped-up to the plate and started their own programs. So now the city of Brookings, OR offers one good meal every day of the week for those in need. It’s a good start.

My buddy Linda also told me about The Gospel Outreach Mission, which is where people may buy donated clothing and small pieces of furniture – for cheap. Growing up, I remember my mom and grandma used to shop at St. Vincent de Paul’s in Oakland, procuring a lamp, a couch, end tables. Then when I was a teenager my friends and I used to hit St. Vincent’s, for vintage dresses and men’s wool pants to wear with our Doc Martins. I never realized it was generational, but for the past 20 years I’ve been donating to St. Vincent de Paul’s. Then we moved to this little seaside town.

So now it’s The Mission on HWY 101 that gets all our stuff. When I dropped-off my first donation I asked the man there, Mario, if he knew about St. Timothy’s. “They have THE BEST meals.” He said, straight-faced. “How does one go about volunteering?” I had no idea how to get in the door, and couldn’t imagine they would “hire” me based on my enthusiasm. He told me to ask for Carla. The next week I did just that, my husband came with me and we scoped it out.

What an amazing smile Carla has, it’s so big and welcoming, I knew I was on the right path. My first day volunteering I arrived at 9am sharp. I think Ron, the director of the soup kitchen, could see I was very eager to help, so he didn’t have the heart to turn me away, even though I couldn’t remember Carla’s name and I called Mario, Martin. Still, he gave me the rundown, then he gave me the task of setting up tables and chairs, “Which is normally Rich’s job.” When Rich arrived he quietly fixed what I’d done, then I got to work on the salad, “Which is normally Angell’s job.” When Angell arrived she kindly let me continue making the salad, even though I asked, “Where are the band-aids?” After I bandaged my finger as discretely as possible and put on a plastic glove for good measure, I blurted out, “You know if you want I can bake. I bake for the farmer’s market.” What was I thinking? “Oh really!” Rich said excitedly. Ron looked at me thoughtfully and said, “I would like to use-up the frozen pears and peaches that I have in the storeroom. How about you make something next week?” “Great!” I chirped. Talk about exciting, my hands were itching to be covered in butter and flour once again.

1912 photo courtesy of thesisterproject.com

When I left the soup kitchen that day I came straight home and perused my cookbooks for a good fruit crisp recipe, but only came up with pie recipes. Two days later, I found an old crumpled up card in my recipe box for a fruit crisp that sounded good because it used freshly grated lemon and orange rind, only it served 8. I needed a recipe for 100! I’ll just multiply everything by twelve I thought, that makes sense. Ha!

The morning I was to make my crisp for the soup kitchen, I felt like I did on finals day at UC Berkeley, scared but hopeful. “Today I’m going to make the biggest dessert I’ve ever attempted, so step back, and say a prayer!” I told my husband. When I arrived at St. Tim’s, Ron had faithfully purchased everything I asked for, except I brought the old-fashioned oats. I wanted to make a small donation just in case it was a flop. Plus, I grated the lemon and orange rind at home to save time since I wasn’t sure how long this dish was going to take from start to finish.

After I’d opened and drained ten gigantic cans of sliced peaches and thawed about ten cups of chopped pear, I realized this project was bigger than I’d imagined. Still, I kept my cool and continued working, even when Rich, John and Ira began needling me about the gargantuan mound of chopped butter I was enthusiastically trying to incorporate into the topping ingredients. “Julia would be proud!” Rich said, patting me on the back, “You should have a sign on your back – Will Work For Butter. HA HA HA!” I had to laugh. It was a ridiculous amount of animal fat. “I only use butter when baking.” I informed them. “It’s easier to digest, it’s better for you than margarine, plus butter makes everything taste good!” I said, half-joking. Thing is, six pounds of cold butter is hard to handle, so Ron came over and helped me with the final mixing, and then I spooned the fruit into the three metal pans I was given. After sprinkling each dish with the topping, I noticed two of the pans were shallow indeed. I’m sure you can guess what happened.

photo courtesy of vrchristensen.com

As the topping began to melt in the ovens, the pans began to overflow, and burning butter = smoke, lots and lots of smoke.  Before you could say, Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers, all the kitchen staff were outside coughing and gasping for breath, and I was left virtually alone to ladle off the excess butter, which floated on top of each pan like a golden pool. When Angell arrived I told her what had happened and she miraculously fitted higher sides to the pans using tinfoil. Ingenious woman! Once the excess butter was removed and the higher sides were in place, I went to put the pans back into the ovens to continue baking. When I opened the oven door, I got hit in the face with so much smoke it scorched my eyeballs in their sockets. I almost dropped the pan but somehow slid it in safely. That’s when the ovens plotted their revenge against me.

Due to high heat, the ill-fitted racks began to shrink and fall down. Each time I pulled out the pans to spoon or blot off the excess butter I had to very gingerly place the pans back on the racks, otherwise they would fall. Talk about nerve wracking. On top of this, I had to endure a Monday morning quarterback from another soup kitchen, whose remarks were rather trying. “You have no idea what you’re doing, do you? How long have you been volunteering here? You should have known better than multiplying the quantity of butter.” It went on and on. All I kept thinking was, “What would Jesus do, what would Jesus do,” so I took it on the cheek and kept working. He went away eventually, when he did Ron said, “Lady, you’ve got rhinoceros skin.” “I can take it,” I said feigning a smile. “My pride is completely squashed, and I just want you to know that it was really nice knowing you all, since after today you’re no longer going to want me here.” He just laughed and patted me on the shoulder. Luckily, by the time our patrons started to arrive, the smoke had cleared and people began commenting, “Wow, that smells good.” Carla said it smelled like caramel, which makes sense as the ovens had just burned off enough butter and sugar to make a pound of caramels.

This is not the actual crisp, but it looks a lot like it! Photo courtesy of fromsmilerwithlove.com

It’s amazing how something so catastrophic can turn out ok. God was merciful; my crisp was a hit. My husband, who came to see me on his day off (he got a BIG hug from me), sat with Ron for a bit and all he heard from our patrons was, “Great dessert.” “The best dessert they’ve ever served.” “It’s called a crisp, a crisp! Amazing.” Praise indeed. A woman who works in the free clinic even asked me to e-mail her the recipe, so she could make it for her family.

Can you believe that even after this drama, Ron still wants me to volunteer? Of course I get the occasional poke from my fellow kitchen staff, “Got Butter Katherine?” “This needs more butter, don’t you think Katherine?” “Don’t forget the unsalted butter!” But it’s always followed-up with praise for my “amazing crisp.”

I feel so blessed to be volunteering at St. Timothy’s. Not only do I get to help those in need; I get to wet my culinary whistle every week, and I’ve found an amazing group of people who enjoy volunteering as much as I do. Let’s see, I’ve made chicken pot pie, spaghetti Bolognese, rice pudding, tapioca, herbed hard rolls, lots of salad; and this week I will be making bread pudding, which will require the ovens, so cross your fingers!

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While the Husbands Away the Wife Will Play

Tags

baking, baking with confidence, cooking catastrophe, farmer's market, Julia Child, Julie and Julia the movie, Masting the Art of French Cooking, pie crust, writing

It’s not what you think. I haven’t been out drinking at the Pine Cone with the locals until 2am. Instead, while my husband has been on a much needed two-day motorcycle ride, I’ve been staying up until the wee hours of the morning widening my culinary horizons, or facing my fears if you like. You see, for many years I’ve had this terrible anxiety of making piecrust, of all things. Believe it or not, I’m not alone. I know many people intimidated by the thought of making their own pie dough from scratch, but I think my own insecurity stems from way back when I was newly married and learning how to cook, before my sweet sister Lisa gifted me with The Joy of Cooking, for my one year wedding anniversary.

photo courtesy of mirandafern.com

My first attempt at making a pie from scratch was for work. It was Thanksgiving season and my office was having a potluck – I was to make the pumpkin pie. As a kid, I grew up watching my mom make pumpkin and cherry pie from scratch with confident ease. Watch mind you, which is not the same as doing. Now I was 25 years old and I’d never even attempted piecrust. So, after obtaining her award-winning pumpkin pie recipe, I got to work with borrowed confidence. Of course everything went wrong. The dough refused to form into a ball, therefore I simply added more water, but when I rolled it out the dough stuck to the counter, so I added more flour, then rolled it out again and again until it was a perfect 9″ round.

As many of you know, all this water and flour and manhandling merely made the crust as hard as cement, which I discovered at the potluck. When I ate my first bite I nearly cracked a tooth. Plus, the pumpkin filling was a bit runny. Sigh. It was not my finest culinary moment. To their credit, my bosses and colleagues never complained, but I noticed many of them had left uneaten pie on their paper plates. All except Dr. Watanabe, who sweetly ate two pieces when he saw my face, as I tossed the plates into the trash. “No! It’s very good.” He said, smiling in that kind way that always made me feel special.

Ever since that one failed attempt and all these years I have been skirting around making piecrusts, sneakily purchasing them in the freezer section at the local supermarket and filling them with my own concoctions. When I began to notice many store-bought pie crusts are made with the dreaded partially-hydrogenated oil, something my husband and I have vowed to cut from our diets, I switched to phyllo dough, but phyllo can’t compare to a tender, crunchy, buttery pie crust.

In truth, it was Julia Child who changed my opinion of making piecrust from scratch. I’m fortunate to have grown up watching J.C. on TV – her curly red bob, happy eyes and big teeth – and that voice! I remember feeling sad when she passed away in 2004 at 91 years of age, but I’d honestly never fully understood how important she was to American cooking, nor did I realize how COOL she was, until I saw the film Julie and Julia. Something about that movie brought back fond childhood memories for me, and filled my heart with a desire to make Sole Dore, much to my husband’s delight, Gruyere cheese puffs for my fellow UCB workers, French chocolate mouse (made with Scharffen Berger chocolate of course), and comforting potato-leek soup.

Years ago, my husband gave me Julia Child’s cookbook – Mastering the Art of French Cooking for my birthday, but it’s not until this past Spring, when I started selling my organic baked goods at the farmer’s market, that I really began using her recipes: Pate Sablee (Sugar Crust) for my lemony Pots of Gold, Pate Brisee (Pie Crust) for my Apple Pie and Pate Brise Sucree (Sweet Short Paste) for my English Tea Cookies. It was her technique for blending the butter and flour with my fingers, NOT my $40 pastry blending tool from Williams-Sonoma, that enlightened me. This hands-on approach, along with the fraisage – or final blending of the butter and flour – has made my piecrust ventures a complete joy. After chilling the dough overnight in the refrigerator, and then allowing it to sit at room temperature for a bit, I pound it with my rolling pin then roll, spin – roll, spin (which eliminates sticking). Then I gently fold and lay the pie dough into the lovely, blue Le Creuset pie dish my mother-in-love gave me. Et voila!

I am so grateful to Julia for her advice: “A pastry blender may be used if you wish, but a necessary part of learning how to cook is to get the feel of the dough in your fingers. Il faut mettre la main a la pate!” Thanks to J.C. I swiftly make piecrusts with genuine confidence and ease, leaving time to do other things…

Come Back Soon…Prelude to Our Kayaking Adventure

Tags

birthday, cake, family, HWY 101, ocean, redwoods, road trip, stargazing

Last September, my Dad surprised me and came up to Oregon for my birthday. He loves to hit the road in his shiny black Corvette, and HWY 101 from the Bay Area is a road tripper’s dream. For the first few hours you wind through hilly emerald green pastures dotted with boulders, cows and sheep; the countryside, we discovered on our travels looks a lot like northern Scotland. Next, you drive through lush valleys packed with conifers, which eases your mind about the shortage of trees, and then quite suddenly, the road spits you out along the coastline. Here you can get out of your car, walk barefoot through the soft, white sand, get your feet wet enough to realize how bloody cold the water is, then hop back into your warm car and continue on.

101 then rolls you up hills that become thousand foot peaks, where you can stop again and take in the Pacific Ocean in all her majesty. Oh it’s beautiful up there! The cliffs are breathtaking and from that height, the ocean appears to be broken up in lines like desert sands; each line introducing different shades of green, blue, even black water. As your eyes scan the horizon you find yourself taking in and holding deep breaths of crisp, salty air that flows straight into your capillaries. Whenever I stand on those cliffs I like to imagine I’m in Ireland or Nova Scotia, or perhaps I’m one of Jane Austen’s heroines who has left home to travel west, and seeing the sea for the first time. It’s always thrilling.

After you pull yourself away from the inspiring ocean views, the landscape drastically changes from sandy tree-lined cliffs to dense redwood forests that beckon you to stop and take in a moment of calm. There’s something otherworldly yet welcoming about the redwoods. It’s as if they’re waiting for something. What that is I’m not exactly sure, I think it’s different for everyone. What I do know is that after I leave, I feel elated.

Stout Grove

Leaving the redwoods is difficult, but you still have a few more hours alternating ocean views with patches of forest. Then suddenly, you are at the Oregon border, where people stop to have their picture taken. This is my favorite part of driving through the border. I love the excitement in their faces as they stand in front of the Welcome to Oregon or Welcome to California sign and awkwardly have their picture taken by their mom or husband, girlfriend or grandma. I love the adventurousness of the human spirit and I think even the smallest adventures keep us young.

Unlike my mom who is a young 65, Pop is an old 65. Like they say, “It’s not the years, it’s the miles.” But I think this trip helped him regain some of his youth. When he arrived he had color in his cheeks and pep in his step, despite the fact that he was exhausted after such a long drive. It was great to see him and he was awfully sweet to come up for my birthday, since I hadn’t made any friends yet and family live so far away. In return, I spoiled him with starlit nights and culinary delights. After his nap, he and I went for a long walk on the beach, which he loved, and said the landscape reminded him of Morro Bay because of the large rock formations. For dinner I made him my special – chicken potpie, which has sort-of become our favorite “guest meal.” I got the recipe from Comfort Food by Williams-Sonoma, my most favorite cookbook at the moment.

After dinner, we all went outside and lit sparklers. I danced around with my sparkler while my husband watched, smiling. My dad, who is fascinated with outer space, was looking at the star-filled sky. “You know, I haven’t seen this many stars and the Milky Way Galaxy since I was a boy.” He said in wonderment. I thought it was adorable that he called the Milky Way by its proper name. As we all gazed upward, he showed us how to differentiate between a planet and a star – a star “twinkles” a planet doesn’t. When I spotted the planet Venus, he explained why this planet is brighter than any other planet or star in our galaxy – it’s partly due to the highly reflective clouds that surround it. Lying down on an old quilt, he showed me how to spot satellites in space, which I’d never done before. It’s quite simple really, you just stare for a long time in one spot, and all of a sudden you’ll see something that looks like a star moving across the sky at a steady pace. It’s crazy, as soon as you have the eye, you can spot them all over the place. “Ok…that’s a little scary.” I joked. “We’re always being watched by big brother.” Pop said, almost admiringly. Next, he attempted to explain something even scarier – Dark Matter, which is something Einstein tried to prove. I began to realize how smart my dad was on the subject of Astronomy. After all, he has been studying it for pleasure for as long as I can remember. Excitedly, I listened to him explain how outer space is slowly spreading, when all of a sudden I felt just as excited for cake – so we went in.

I had to make my own birthday cake this year. Growing up in the Bay Area, I’ve become spoiled on the best cakes you can buy, and I couldn’t lower myself to eat one from Fred Meyer. Instead, I found a great German chocolate cake recipe and used Scharffenberger chocolate, fresh eggs, sweet cream butter, King Arthur flour, organic pecans and coconut flakes. It was a two tier cake so I smothered the inside layer with the coconut-pecan filling and then I covered it with chocolate ganache frosting. I was a little surprised it turned out so well, as I rarely hit the culinary nail on the head on my first try. It usually takes me two or three attempts before something turns out perfect – like my creamy chicken potpie with its flaky, buttery crust.

After we had our fill of German chocolate cake and ice-cold milk, Pop and I talked and played Kings Corners until after midnight. It was great to spend quality time with him. When I got tired of loosing, I told him about the adventure Tony was taking me on the following day. For my birthday, he was treating me to a kayaking trip on Lake Earl. I’d never been in a kayak before and was beyond excited about our nature quest.

Cake for breakfast? Absolutely!

The next morning was a beautiful, warm summer day. After eating a healthful breakfast together and discussing the highlights of our visit Tony and I said farewell to my dad, who I could tell was excited to hit the road again. As we waved him off, I felt a little sad and melancholy, like I always do whenever I say good-bye to anyone I love.

However, I had little time to wallow in nostalgia. Tony was excitedly making PB&Js and bagging up chips and a soda for our afternoon on the lake. If only I had known what was going to happen I would have brought some water and a more protein enriched meal, like roast beef on a roll!

The Comforts of Home…Cooking

Tags

BLTA, comfort food, pasta, soup, stew, tomatoes

Success! It’s such a relief to be back home in the arms and paws of my family. When I arrived I got all kinds of love, praise for finding amazing tenants, and my husband’s special BLTA: Bacon, lettuce, tomato and avocado sandwiches on toasted wheat. I kid you not, he makes THE BEST BLTA in the world. I think the trick is he spreads out the ingredients evenly, so that every bite has a little bit of everything. Of course using the freshest organic ingredients you can find helps. After devouring the entire sandwich, we fooled around a little then I fell into a deep, deep sleep.

Yes, I know it’s bad to sleep right after you eat, but I was exhausted and back with my man and feeling quite at peace. The following day I cleaned house like crazy (what a pigsty!) and made vegetable lentil soup. I served it with freshly made rosemary focaccia bread, lightly toasted with a little butter. Heavenly. I first discovered this combination at the Beachcomber Cafe in Trinidad, CA.. How can something so easy to make be such a blessing to your very soul? Some people need a nice juicy steak and potato to feel content. I am not above this, but if I want to feed something more than my stomach, I make soup and I use a big English soupspoon when I eat it. Maybe that’s why I love the part in Amelie when she is eating soup with her father. The whole feel of that scene is both comforting and healthful.

When I was nine, I made my first homemade meal for the family. Beef stew. I’ll never forget my Mom’s boyfriend Bill’s praise. It made me want to cook all the time just so I could get a father figure’s approval. The next thing I made was banana bread. To this day I wish I had that recipe, because it was the best I’ve ever baked; light and airy with a strong banana flavor and a chewy crust. I think I got it from a children’s cookbook that got lost in one of our many moves.

I still make banana bread and stew. However, I use lamb instead of beef because lamb seems easier to digest. For years my husband thought he was eating beef (he’s NOT a fan of lamb), until I gave the recipe to a good friend and he hear the dreaded word. (One trick to killing lambs gamey taste is to use good quality San Marzano stewed tomatoes.) I’ve also added spaghetti sauce to my culinary repertoire.

I’ll never forget when I was dating my husband he actually asked me, very casually, “Do you make your own sauce? My grandmother does and it’s the best.” I was shocked. Was this a prerequisite?! After eating her spaghetti I wanted to learn how to make my own sauce. Now I can’t even stomach jar sauce. If only people knew how easy it was to make their own, better than they can find in any “Italian” restaurant or jar.

When I cook pasta for myself I make vegetarian sauces that are quick and fresh tasting – using minimal ingredients: Bariani olive oil, chopped tomato, fresh basil and De Cecco noodles. Sometimes I throw in a chopped Zucchini for fun, and then sprinkle freshly grated Parmesan cheese on top – bellissimo!

When I make spaghetti for Tony I make his favorite rich, red sauce: Bariani, one big yellow onion – chopped, a few cloves of garlic, ground white turkey meat, sea salt, lots of Italian seasoning, two big cans of San Marzano crushed tomatoes, ~1 can of water and some good red wine. If we feel like spicy I add red pepper flakes, if sweet I add some agave or maple syrup. “And that’s my trick.” It needs to simmer for at least two hours, so watch The Godfather while you wait. Mama Mia! It’s amazing and so simple. When you make spaghetti, use good quality pasta, like De Cecco – they’re pretty close to freshly made. I always freeze the leftover sauce so I can have rigatoni, manicotti, or pizza whenever I’m in the mood, which is often.

Tonight, Tony is steaming the two huge artichokes I bought from Dan’s Produce (the produce stand from or old hometown) and he’s making Parmesan couscous. I made the aioli sauce using Best Foods mayo made with olive oil (it has a green lid instead of blue), freshly squeezed Meyer lemon juice and fresh ground pepper.

Did I mention how good it is to be home?