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Frequently, when I go to my parents’ house, the organizing spirit seizes me with an iron grip and won’t be satisfied until I’ve emptied out the pantry, sorted every package and box and can of food, and replaced them again. It’s usually a comical affair as my mom and I chuckle at the ridiculous artifacts of gift baskets and deep discounts we find lurking at the back of the cupboard. And upon returning home, I tend to find myself inspired to root through my own pantry to create meals with odds and ends I already have on hand.
This dish came out of one such rooting. An excess of white rice, leftover almonds from my holiday toffee-making, a can of water chestnuts, and chicken and peas from the freezer, seemingly disparate parts, became something great together as this Almond Chicken. With the addition of a green onion and a bit of sherry and soy sauce, it’s a quick meal that requires only a few minutes of stir-frying and a fluffy bed of rice.
When asked if I could bring scones to a “Ladies’ High Tea”, I found myself suddenly faced with two questions:
1. What exactly is a Ladies’ High Tea?
2. How the heck do I make scones?
Scones are something that I always hear about, that people some to rather enjoy, but that I’d never made before. But what better excuse to learn a new recipe than a chance to share it with new friends?
Not really having the time to experiment with several recipes, I began hunting for a recipe that seemed simple, basic, and classic. I was, however, incredibly surprised by the range of this pastry, and have now added many recipes to my list to try in the future. Apple cheddar scones? Blueberry lemon scones? Cinnamon scones?
After such a long and unpleasant winter, I’ve been really, really savoring the return of warm weather. The twiggy trees outside our apartment are now lush with foliage, the sun is up when we awake and its light lingers in the sky long after we’ve arrived home from work, and laundry goes so much faster since sweaters and jeans have been replaced by tank tops and light, swishy skirts. ‘Tis the season of sunglasses and short haircuts and flip flops and farmer tans (the only kind of tan I get, thank you).
But above all else, ’tis the season of local produce, each week appearing in more abundance and variety at farmers markets around the city. And though leafy greens tend to be the very first fresh items available, the truest harbinger of the coming summer bounty is the mighty asparagus spear.
These tender shoots are the rock stars on the local produce stage, producing a short-lived but iconic album every year to their adoring fans. For a brief moment, there is a glut of asparagus, piled high on market tables for eager customers to sort through, seeking the perfect stems. And then, just as suddenly, the harvest is over. This year, during these short lovely weeks of asparagus, I stumbled across this simple recipe that has quickly become my favorite.
Welcome to the last of my six-part series about the trials, tribulations, and triumphs of baking a wedding cake. Last Tuesday, I flew to Colorado to attend a hen party, participate in the rehearsal and rehearsal dinner, stand up as a bridesmaid, and last but not least, to bake a groom’s cake and a wedding cake for Sierra, my best friend of 15 years, and her fiancéhusband, Sean.
It was quite a whirlwind trip.
This was also the first time I’ve made a trip to Colorado since leaving for college eight years ago that coincided with luscious autumn colors glazing the mountains and meadows of home. The scene was nothing short of breathtaking.
But you’re probably not here for my photos of leaf-peeping and coasting down Hesperus Hill. I’ll wager you wanna see some dang cake!
There are things I daydream about. Sometimes, they are kitchen things.
In these kitchen daydreams, the sauce pan I need is never at the back of the cabinet. All my spice bottles are the same shape, same size, same color, and they’re all labeled in the same font. Sunshine floods across my countertops and splashes to the floor, filling the room with light. My knives are always sharp, but I never cut my fingers. Avocados grow locally. Also cashews and cocoa beans and grapefruits.
Le sigh.
Some dreams stay that way. But other dreams? Pasta-and-mushrooms-tossed-in-sun-dried-tomato-cream-sauce dreams? Oh yeah. They’re COMING TRUE.
Last summer, while in the midst of packing up my Ohio life for our pending move to Colorado, I was also menu planning a dinner for almost 20 people at a remote, 9700′ mountain lodge with gas refrigerators, gas ovens, and limited electricity. For dessert, I wanted something that was easy but impressive, required neither baking nor freezing, was cheap to make but wasn’t boring, could feed a crowd, and overall, was heartbreakingly delicious.
A unicorn, I thought.
BUT THEN. Icebox cake. To the freakin’ rescue.
Why, in the name of all that is good and delicious in this world, did I only start making this last summer? I mean, who knew such a perfect summer dessert could exist?
Did you guys know?
WELL. If you, like me, were in the shadows, let me show you the light. (more…)
I think I was in sixth or seventh grade when I first heard about hummus. One of my classmates probably brought it in their packed lunch, with a pack of carrot sticks or some pita bread. My hometown was (and still is) definitely the kind of place where sixth graders are excited about eating hummus and carrots for lunch.
Unfortunately, I was horrified by the idea of eating hummus. For the better part of my childhood, I thought that hummus (ground chickpeas with tahini paste) and HUMUS (fully decomposed soil) were the same thing. I was all for eating the fruits of the earth, but the earth itself? NO WAY.
The connections one makes as a child are truly fascinating, aren’t they?
Now, however, I know the truth. I know that in fact, that extra “m” makes a HUGE and delicious difference. What’s more, hummus is an incredibly easy and inexpensive snack to make.
Colorado doesn’t have to deal with hurricanes. Earthquakes there are rare. Only the occasional tornado finds its way to the ground in the eastern half of the state.
But we do have wildfire.
Well over half of the Centennial State is composed of thick forests, but they are very unlike the humid, deciduous forests that blanket the majority of the Eastern United States. Nearly every summer, odds are good that in some part of the state, plumes of smoke will rise on the horizon at one point or another. My childhood summer memories are speckled with forest fires, some that looked merely like a faint haze in the distance, and others whose flames were visible from my bedroom window.
Each summer brings fire, but some years are worse — far worse — and this is certainly one of them. Following a winter of little snow and a very dry spring, even the tiniest sparks have ignited blazes across the state, many of them near (and advancing into) major population centers. It’s only June, and already the skies are thick with smoke, thousands of acres have burned, and hundreds of families have lost their homes.
Yet while much is lost, the communities affected by these fires band together to protect what they can and to reach out to evacuees, firefighters, and relief workers. Though I am not currently a resident of Colorado, it will always be my home and I still want to help as best I can from 2,000 miles away.
One particularly incredible means of assistance has been created by a coalition of Colorado design businesses: Wildfire Tees. These designers and artists have put together some stellar t-shirts to remember this summer’s devastating fires, and all the proceeds from their sales will go both toward immediate fire relief and toward the arduous rebuilding that lies ahead. I’m hugely inspired by these individuals, who are using the artistic skills and resources they know best to make an impact in this urgent cause while at the same time are providing an easy avenue for others to make an impact, too.
We live in a big world and are faced with many crises, but with each act of generosity toward a neighbor in need, we create a better world for everyone. If you’re able, I encourage you to buy a tee or to support the efforts to fight the Colorado wildfires in whatever manner you can. You can find many ways to help at HelpColoradoNow.org, as well as at the Denver Post. At the very least, send your rain and rainy (though not lightning-y) thoughts toward Colorado. It could sure use them.
After several months of, design and re-design, recipe hunting, cake baking, flavor testing, and technique practicing, I’ve arrived in Colorado to do the real thing. Though the next few days will be long, busy, and full of butter, I’m really quite thrilled to be here. I haven’t seen October in Colorado since my senior year of high school, and it sure is something to see. We don’t have the red sugar maples of the east coast, but golden aspens against evergreens and snow-capped peaks are truly breathtaking. I hope I have at least one evening to take a drive through the mountains and enjoy some Colorado autumn.
But the priority this week is cake. Monday night found me bustling around my apartment packing what may be the strangest looking luggage I’ve ever compiled. In addition to my standard jeans, t-shirts, and socks, I’ve packed 10 cake pans, a quart of pecans, a case of decorating tips, piping bags, a bridesmaids dress, three options for shoes to wear with said dress (I may end up using all three, who knows), two antique glass insulators, four cake knives, one cake layer slicer, a box of parchment paper, two tubes of raspberry filling, a Lazy Susan, a cake turner, a jar of ginger, a roll of blue cellophane, a tripod, a pack of paintbrushes, gum paste, almond paste, vanilla bean paste, and a few other odds and ends that I’ll need to make this cake happen.
I don’t make a lot of pie. I grew up in a cake house, you see. My mom always preferred baking cakes and cookies to pies, and my sister and I expanded on this behavior as 4-H cake decorating students for several years each. Pie, which has taken on a role of symbolic role of domestic culinary prowess in our culture, was simply not something I learned to make as a kid.
The pies my mom did make were never, ever, double-crusted fruit pies. If we did have a pie for dessert, it was typically composed of a pre-made graham cracker crust, a box of pudding mix, and a mound of Cool Whip.
And you know what? I freakin’ loved it.
To this day, while I will certainly eat a slice of apple, cherry, or other fruity pie if it’s presented to me with a sizable scoop of vanilla ice cream, the pies that I dream of are the cold, creamy, pudding-ish pies that I grew up on.
This pie follows in that tradition, though with some notable modifications. First, I love making my own graham cracker crusts. I like a heavier crumb with more crunch, and I like that I can control the level of sweetness and stickiness by adding as much or as little sugar and butter as I like when whirling it together myself.
