remedial eating

like it never happened

shhhhh.....

I'm not really here.

I'm not really here because I'm busy on another project, and so told myself right up until two minutes ago that I'd stop by next week instead.  Also, I have a head cold the size of South Dakota.  I'm not wallowing.  I'm actually feeling pretty smart about the fact that for all the colds that have gone through this house, this is the first one that's touched down on me.  I'm just saying, I've been to South Dakota.  Three times, actually.  It's a big state.  Any state that can accomodate 400 miles of billboards trumpeting one drug store is a big state.  Turns out head colds come South Dakota-size.  Thankfully, so does Kleenex.

But sometimes, a little distraction is just what the doctor ordered, so let's say we have a quick chit-chat then poof!, like it never happened, run right back to what we were doing.  Alright then. 

The reason I'm not really here is last Friday.  Or rather, the fact that last Friday found me baking up a batch of Nanaimo bars, when the world paused briefly.  It was really quick-like, ein augenblick.  Maybe you didn't even notice.  But I did, as I tend to, when some sweet nothing stops me cold.  Because what crossed my mind in that fleeting, still moment was that I'd never seen a Nanaimo bar in Ohio. 

Now, on the one hand, this makes perfect sense.  I'd never seen a buckeye in Washington state.  Nanaimo bars are a regional speciality, hailing from Vancouver Island, just off Canada's Western Coast.  I grew up with my fair share of these gems, hailing as I did from Seattle, just south of Canada's Western Coast. 

Logical, then.  But unacceptable, all the same.  

Because to think that Ohio might not know Nanaimos, simply due to some sad accident of geography, well.  Not on my watch.  

About these bars.  Here's what they are:  These bars are a triple-decker event, three distinct layers, eminently complementary.  The base is a gussied-up graham cracker crust, pebbled with small shards of pecan and coconut.  What makes it magnificent—beyond the cube of butter—is the sheer scale of the thing, a half-inch, easy.  I adore graham cracker crust, so much I'm always serving up stingy, thin-bottomed pies, having sabotaged the edges shamelessly.  I've spent more hours this past year than I care to admit, puzzling over a way to make a graham cracker crust cookie.  The obstacle, ordinarily, is in the holding together, since it's fantastically crumbly manner is its solitary downfall.  This bar comes pretty close to solving that puzzle.  This crust is stacked.  But wait.  There's more.

Strata two, unconventionally (more on that in a minute), is a tender stripe of just-set cheesecake, cream to the crumb.  And then, because everything is better by threes, there's a cap of ganache.  A thick cap.  Worthy of an Ohio winter, even.  There's your localization.

Now, as you purists will well know by now, what these bars aren't: the real Nanaimo deal.  True Nanaimo bars (yes, there's an official recipe) have as their center a custard-flavored buttercream, with none of this new-fangled cream cheese business.  These are also good, by which I mean marvelous, lofty and swish and ever so slightly sandpapery, on account of the custard powder.  I count myself among you, traditionalists.  I also throw my hat in with the new order. 

Because around this time last year, I spotted Tara's version, which is really Alice's version, which is really Maya's version, and when it came time to bake up a batch Friday, well, you can tell which way my thoughts turned.  And then, because I'd already fiddled with authenticity, I just went whole hog and fiddled some more.  Halfway has never really been my way.

Authentic Nanaimos have chocolate graham crusts, arrived at either through cocoa or chocolate-flavored grahams.  I ommitted both, and was inordinately pleased.  (See graham-cracker-crust cookie dreams, above.  See also a mere mega-size threshhold for indulgence).  I used salted butter, because I love salted butter, and added another good crystalline pinch, besides.  Because sugar needs salt like Abbott, Costello.  (And like modern kids do, typewriters.  "This is like the computer ... only better!", Zoë crowed.) 

Blasphemous they may be.  Delicious, also.  (The bars, I mean.  Not the kids.  I'm kind of with them on the typewriter thing.)  Let's go with Nanaimo-esque, then. 

Oh, one more thing.  I also left out the added sugar in the topping, going instead with a straight-up ganache.  The result was ever so slightly bitter, which I adore against all that sweet.  They remained plenty sweet for my kids, anyway, who didn't argue when I broke my own no-cookies-for-breakfast rule and served them up, Saturday morning.  Because they go down fine with a pot of hot coffee, and I've never been good with double standards.  Beyond a few conspiratorial glances, no one cited the violation.  We dug in and moved on, like it never happened.   

Carry on. 

Nanaimo-Esque Bars
adapted from Tara, excerpted from Alice Medrich, Chewy Gooey Crispy Crunchy Melt-in-Your-Mouth Cookies

I've included the option of cocoa powder below, if you'd like to give the chocolate graham crust a go. 

Lacking the 9x9" square pan called for, I baked my bars in an 8x8" square pan.  This worked brilliantly, with the footnote that my filling took nearly twice as long to bake.  If using the smaller size, bake by signs of doneness rather than stated times; see recipe notes for cues. 

Please note that this recipe requires 3 hours of chilling time.  Please note, also, that these hold beautifully for several days, refrigerated.  Good luck with that.

 

Ingredients:

1 1/2 cups graham cracker cookie crumbs, from 9 whole (or 18 half) plain graham crackers
5 tablespoons cocoa powder, optional
1/2 cup unsweetened, dried shredded coconut (macaroon coconut)
1/2 cup finely chopped pecans
1 stick (1/2 cup) salted butter, melted
1/4 teaspoon salt
1/2 cup granulated sugar, divided
8 ounces cream cheese, at room temperature
2 tablespoons (0.875 ounce) packed brown sugar
1/2 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
1 large egg
1/2 cup heavy cream
7 ounces bittersweet chocolate (55-60% cacao), coarsely chopped

Line a 9- or 8-inch square baking pan with foil, criss-cross style, to cover all four sides.  Preheat the oven to 350°F.

Place butter and salt in a medium saucepan, and melt over low-medium.  When the butter has melted, add the graham crumbs, coconut, pecans, cocoa powder (if using), and 1/4 cup of the granulated sugar, and stir well to combine.  Tip into the lined pan, and pat very firmly to form an even layer.  I fold down the foil flaps over the crust, and roll gently and firmly with a can, to help secure the crust.  Bake 10-12 minutes, or until edges darken slightly and the kitchen smells fantastic. 

While crust bakes, mix the filling:  In a large bowl, by hand or with a mixer, beat the softened cream cheese, brown sugar and remaining granulated sugar until smooth. Add the vanilla, then the egg, and beat well to combine.  When the crust is baked, spoon the filling onto the hot crust, spreading gently to distribute evenly over the hot crust.  Bake until edges are slightly puffed, center barely jiggles, and a knife inserted into the center comes out with very moist cheesecake "crumbs".  This may take anywhere from 10-20 minutes, depending on pan size.  Start with the lesser time, and check every few minutes, until done.  Cool on a rack for 30 minutes, then chill for at least 2 hours, or overnight.

Make ganache and finish bars:  In a medium pan, warm cream to steaming over a low burner.  (Alternatively, heat in the microwave).  Tip the chopped chocolate into the hot cream, let sit five minutes, then whisk gently until smooth.  Pour the warm ganache over the chilled cheesecake, spread to cover, and chill at least 60 minutes.  To remove bars for cutting, lift out by their foil "ears", then place the entire slab on a board and cut into squares, wiping the knife between cuts.  These are insanely rich, so I cut them incredibly small, generally between 1 and 1.5".  The original recipe suggests 16-25 squares.  I yield closer 40-50.  Then eat 3.  Your choice.  

Bars store beautifully in the refrigerator, airtight, 3-4 days.   

as it should be

Well, first let me just say that you guys are swell.

Here I was, thinking I had made a Guinness-worthy effort of procrastinating, only to find I'm not the only one with picture paralysis. Talk about buoying. I feel fortified, understood, ready to conquer those walls!!

Thank you, truly.

Also, I've made pretty much no progress since we last spoke.

Because what was I thinking?

There was the small matter of that birthday, see.  And in one of my more exuberant examples of compartmentalizing (and there are so very, very many from which to choose), I had it all figured out that I'd tackle a three-year-running project AND celebrate my birthday boy, all at once. 

I am really very good at this sort of planning on paper. I make lists, set goals, give pep talks, go go go! The hitch in the giddy-up being the timing (sound familiar?): ...and between Tuesday's 32nd and 35th hours, scrape frames and trim down prints and measure and ...  The logic of which has all the watertight integrity of mosquito netting.

Needless to say, I made a few executive decisions, most of which involved ditching framing for fêting.  Which, in my book, is entirely as it should be.  After all, seven year old boys don't come along every week.  Particularly seven year old boys who want a snow party.  Whee! 

Decorations were made.

Favor bags were painted. " 'Smore fun for later" kits assembled.  Then run through rigorous feasibility testing. 

Snowflakes were cut. 

Pencil sharpeners and Storm Fighters wrapped. 

Gifts started, and shelved, due to the aforementioned hours-per-day ratio imbalance.

 

Treats were baked.

 

Again.

 

 

And again.

 

(School, home, party.  Lemon bars, ice cream sandwiches, Nikole Herriott's buttermilk cake.  Butter doesn't get much of a break after Christmas, around here.)

Whew.

 

Respite was taken, which of late often means the watercolors were pulled out.

Again.

 

 

And again.

 

 

And which for me, when I realized, mid-clean-up, that I had four children in the house all playing happily, meant seven gorgeous, quiet minutes with fresh coffee and the new Canal House.  Talk about respite.

 

And then yesterday, post-party, post- week of preparation and celebration, the question of Downtown Abbey was floated.  We're talking Season 1, Episode 1, I'm-behind-on-way-more-than-my-walls here, folks.  To which the only reasonable answer was oh HECK, yes.  

There was a wee bit of framing.  But it was a mighty scant wee.  So I've officially granted myself an extension.  Putting my feet to the fire is useful.  Staying up until three a.m. is not.  End of February it is, then, which this year just so happens to be the 29th.  Not that I'm planning on cutting it that close...

But we still need to eat.  Again and again.  And for obvious reasons—see above, treats in triplicate—salads are my sanity right now.

Salads are also, apparently, my minor in life.  I do love a good salad, you know that already, and I'm ordinarily loathe to pick favorites.  But this, my friends, this is a favorite.  What this is is your basic citrus-avocado salad, tweaked over the years to my particular tastes.  Tart, drippy grapefruit and creamy, suave avocado are, all by their lonesome, Fred and Ginger and then some.  There's a giant squeeze of fresh lime, which works counter-intuitive wonders on grapefruit.  Instead of OD'ing the fruit's storied sour side, the lime somehow plays up its secret sweetness.  Clever fellow.   Add to that a good throw of cilantro, another guac alum, and a less-familiar friend to grapefruit.  But a friend it is, bright, verdant, cheeky.  And, to top it all, a scatter of squeaky cheese, queso fresco or ricotta salata, fresh and white, for chew and salt.

It is not your mother's grapefruit salad, one cherry-topped spartan half, the stuff of diets and denial.  It is grapefruit gone decadent, a knife-and-fork affair, grapefruit as it should be. 

Grapefruit + Avocado Salad with Lime, Cilantro + Queso Fresco
Serves 1 as a meal, 2 as a side

I love the tidiness of this salad: one avocado + one grapefruit = one grand meal.  That said, it can obviously be scaled up as needed, to serve a crowd. Squeeze the lime over the avocado just after slicing, and the salad will hold for an hour or two, refrigerated.

Segmenting (or supreming) is what takes grapefruit from good to grand, in a salad such as this where the citrus plays a starring role.  Removing the pith, leaving only juicy meat behind, is so worth the five minutes' time it takes.  In a nutshell: slice off the top and bottom (for stability), then take a paring knife and, following the fruit's contour, slide it between peel and flesh, top to bottom.  Repeat.  Once the fruit is exposed, hold it firmly in your palm, and slice a "V" in each segment with your paring knife, removing flesh from pith.  This work is best done over a bowl, to catch the abundant juice, and takes about twice as long to describe as to do.  Tea has a wonderful, illustrated write up here.

1 grapefruit, peeled and segmented (supremed)
1 avocado, peeled, pitted, and sliced
1/2 fresh, juicy lime, + more to taste
several tablespoons fresh cilantro, chopped
several tablespoons ricotta salata, queso fresco, or feta
salt

Arrange grapefruit and avocado in alternating layers. Squeeze the juice of half a lime over all, sprinkle with a few pinches' salt, scatter cilantro and cheese, and dig in.

 

 

quick 'n dirty

I do not have a problem.  I just want to make that clear.

Because a problem, as I told my children the other morning, as they melted down over the merits of standard versus mini-chocolate chips in their pancakes, is something of consequence.  A problem has weight, import, gravity, impact.  That is not what I have.

What I have is a pile of frames.  And a pile of prints.  And a series of walls in various shades of blank.  Seems simple enough, doesn't it? 

And it would be, should be, were I the sort of person who could pop out to Target and buy three botanicals plus some posters and—*bang* *bang*—call it done.  Who could pull off a room between breakfast and dinner, the way I pull off laundry, quick 'n dirty, done!, next?  Part of me rather wishes I were that person.  Part of me downright longs for it.

I am not.

Or were I like practiced movers, who completely settle, art and all, within a month of getting keys.  I deeply admire these people.  I aspire to be these people.

I am not these people.  Not yet, anyway.

Or, better yet, were I a person who enjoys the blank slate.  Rejoices in the expansiveness.  Welcomes the peace.

Oy.  I'm not that, either. 

What I am is a person with a large and motley assortment of prints and pictures, bits and bobs, ephemera and artifacts, of no value except to me.  Things I like, whose lines bring me cheer.  Whose colors make me smile.  Whose memories give me pause.  Which, since we moved, have been living in basement exile.

We moved on Valentine's Day.  Of 2009. 

Honestly, Molly. 

I am also an art history major.  Daughter of an exquisite, on-a-budget aesthete.  Granddaughter of a woman whose home still gives me goosebumps, comprised though it was of thrifted furniture and shag carpet. 

I eat with my eyes, not just lunch, but life.  My surroundings matter, and their "just-moved-in" look irks me.  (As does the endless clutter, but that's a separate conversation...)  But apparently not as much as getting it wrong.   

Because it seems I've a little trouble committing.  Never mind that we're celebrating our seventeenth anniversary this June.  Small potatoes.  Should the maps go here or should they go there?  Is the Keep Calm, Carry On better upstairs or down?  Would the old shoe forms look fetching hung up on the wall?   Or just strange?  (And how does one affix old shoe forms to a wall, anyway?)  And although I know exactly where I'd like this print here, it doesn't seem to fit that frame there...

Oh, that. There's also the Old Frame Situation.  I've thrifted a few over the years, admiring their small bones, beveled edges, faded charm.  I inherited several others from my grandparents, old beat plaster lovelies, gilded and chipped; ebonied ovals fitted with curved glass and stern black-and-white ancestors; big ugly wood ones I re-painted when Henry was four. 

Henry turns seven next Wednesday.  

Good grief.

Turns out old frames take new work to make them go.  Like, how does a person remove those old, rusty diagonal nails?  And how, then, exactly do you keep the fresh contents in?  And what if the glass is gone, or the backing crumbles, or all manner of trivial, inconsequential roadblocks?  [Answers:  A) Pliers.  And in re-assembly, this tool rocks.  B) Find an independent neighborhood frame store, and move in.  They'll cut new glass and mattes from scrap for a few dollars, per.  C) Use cardboard, stupid.  Oops.  I mean, Silly.]

Anyhoo, I resolved last month to do something about it, figuring what worked for cookies might also work for pictures.  I think my exact wording might have run something like, "Hang pictures by January.  Or they get the heave-ho."  Because while it might not be a problem, it's a high holy mess.  And an aggravation.  And a lost opportunity.  I'm ready to free up that corner of the basement for better things.  So I'm giving it my all, doing absolutely nothing else until I finish.

Well, nothing save joining in drawing sessions with Henry.  And replenishing the chili stores, and making more granola.  And popping up paper cities from Play All Day.  And attending tea parties with Zoë and her 37 closest friends.  (And uncovering the sweet silk carrot Mamo hid: we found it!)  And planning birthday parties.  And minding deadlines.  And organizing a chess night.  And sweeping.  Dusting.  Mopping.  Anything but. 

Yes, that wild rumble's the sound of my feet dragging.  At least I can bang out a salad, lickety-split.  

The salad of which I speak is less recipe than formula, one I come back to, time and again.  The basic equation boils down to this: greens + tart fruit + toasty nuts + salty cheese.  The slightly-less basic version goes:  vary everything.  That's where the fun begins. 

The greens might be arugula, or garden mesculun, or romaine.  The fruit, juicy pears, crisp apples, strawberries.  The cheese, blue, feta, ricotta salata, queso fresco, miso.  (Right, so miso's not cheese, but it's got the same suave umami, which is part of what gives this salad spine.)  The nuts, toasted walnuts, candied pecans, macadamias, bacon.  (Okay, so bacon's not technically a nut.  But a local pizza joint serves a knock-out harvest salad with slivered figs [fruit], pumpkin seeds [nuts], and crumbled bacon for, well, the same thing bacon's always for.  Unabashed yum.  I thought you ought to know it has a place at this table).  Right now, in mid-winter, my go-to position is sweet citrus, spinach, salted almonds and fresh cheese. 

The details differ, based on the season, but the end result is always earthy, soft, crisp, creamy and rich, sweet and salty, tart and light, fresh and bright.  Not a bad ROI for formula food.  

I'm also fond of the fact that it's quick 'n dirty as a salad gets.  I just word-counted the instructions, and if I'd left out the "adjust seasoning" bit, it would qualify as a habit entry.  That's fast.  (I didn't, though.  That last minute tweak is often what takes a salad from ho-hum to more, please.  Also, I've never been good with thirty words or less.)  And if we're being honest here—and if we're looking at rusty nails and old, unfinished business, we're being nothing if not honest—I often don't even dirty a jar for the dressing.  For company, sure, I'll grab a jam jar and shake, to get that lovely, creamy emulsification.  But for me?  For lunch?  I sprinkle salt, vinegar, olive oil on directly, and mix it all with my hands, *toss* *toss*, done.

I think I framed three pictures, last week.  At this rate, it might be March before I'm through.  Things might be a bit spare around here, until then.  But with all the salads you could spin off of this one, here?  You won't go hungry.

A Winter Salad of Spinach, Satsumas, Almonds + Feta
Yield: 4 servings

I buy almost all my nuts raw and whole, toasting and chopping them as needed, because their flavor is so very much better.  There are a few exceptions: marcona almonds, which are typically oil-roasted and salted, and these flaked almonds, which I buy by the large bag, at Costco.  I bought them on a whim once, and regretted it immediately, thinking they would have the stale flavor of most pre-toasted nuts.  But they're lovely, crunchy and crisp and perfectly salted, something I toss into salads all the time.  Except when I run out, as I did last week.  See variations below. 

I go back and forth on the radishes, here.  Nice with, nice without.

8 cups baby spinach
3 satsumas or clementines, peeled and segmented
generous 1/2 cup toasted, salted almond slices (such as these), or chopped marcona almonds, or butter-fried almonds* (see below)
generous 1/2 cup feta, ricotta salata, or queso fresco, crumbled
4-6 radishes, sliced thin as you can manage (optional)

for dressing:
1/2 teaspoon salt
2-3 teaspoons mild vinegar (sherry, cider, white wine)
2-3 tablespoons olive oil

In a large bowl, place all salad ingredients.  Sprinkle lesser amounts of salt, then vinegar, then olive oil over all.  Toss well, with clean hands, until leaves are glossy.  Taste for seasoning, add additional vinegar/oil/salt as desired, and toss again.  Eat.  

*Butter-Fried Almonds:  Plain almonds are nice here, but amped-up almonds are better.  When I'm out of those nibbly little toasted almond slices and marconas, both of which are toasted, roasted and salted, I make up a quick batch of butter-fried almonds, as follows:  Roughly chop 1/2 cup whole, unblanched almonds.  In a small skillet, melt 1 tablespoon butter over medium heat.  Tip in chopped almonds, and sprinkle 1/2 teaspoon salt over all.  Cook almonds in butter, stirring regularly, around 5 minutes, until almonds are golden.  Let cool 15 minutes, to crisp up.  Almonds can be fried hours or even days ahead.  Though you may munch them all before they reach the salad bowl.