Lemon Capri Torte and Meyer Lemon Curd

Egads, I can't stand January.  It is the dreariest and most dismal month that ever was.  And the longer it seems to drone on, and the greyer it seems to get outside, my longing for something (anything) citrus seems to mirror it*.  There is, after all, something very cheery and alive about a clementine or satsuma, is there not?  And Emilia loves to sit at the table and peel one in the morning.  She slowly removes every bit of peel and then breaks the orange in half.  She hands half of it to me, and then sits back, tucking into her own half, and chatting all the while.  ('Do you like pith, mama?'  The answer is no.  'Grandma Jo likes to eat the peel.  That's crazy!  I don't like to eat the peel.  Do you like to eat the peel, mama?'  The answer to this is not unless it comes from Fran's and is covered in chocolate.  Then I find it tolerable.)  See what I mean?  Cheery.

But my favorite citrus in all the world is the Meyer Lemon.  I still remember the first time I saw one.  It was in my favoritest** grocery store that ever was -- Zagara's, in Marlton, New Jersey.  And when we lived in Haddonfield, we would go there all the time.  (This is despite the fact that my mother-in-law claimed it was quite elitist of us, and that after Michael finished law school he was going to have to get two of those jobs, in order to pay for his wife's habit of fancy food things.  I still say that isn't the worst idea I've ever heard***.)  Anyway, no matter what time of day it was, Michael and I would go and get an enormous cup of Viennese Cinnamon coffee, some rugelach, and whatever else happened to be on our list that day.  In the winter months I gravitated to oranges and lemons, along with sundry other items.  (For example, these nasty raviolis filled with tofu.  Seriously, doesn't that sound revolting?  Oddly, they weren't half bad.) 

And so, we would load up on Meyer Lemons and, when they had them, these Sicilian blood oranges.  They were actually from Sicily, mind you, and half of them came wrapped up in papers with a picture of some Italian mamasita right across the front.  The flesh was the color of a raspberry and they were exquisite.

Cutting into a Meyer Lemon is one of the loveliest fragrances in the world.  It smells of lemon, with a just little bit of orange -- the scent is unmistakable and oh so wonderful.  It reminds me of my Grandma Aileen's backyard in California when I was a kid.  She had lemon trees scattered all around and we would ride our tricycles all around them, feeling pretty slick, no doubt.  Anyway, I digress.

Pear & Ginger Muffins for a Wisp of a Breakfast

Oh, how I have lamented so many times over the years the fact that I am not a morning person.  Wouldn't it be great to be the kind of person who springs right out of bed in the morning, five minutes before the alarm clock even goes off, with a great big smile across my face, and singing songs about sunshine and all that crap?  It would.  But alas, it is not so.  I am an outright, grade-A, bonafide grump in the morning -- every morning.  It's awful, but there it is.

Anyway, this morning was no exception.  I woke up, wandered into the study, sat in front of the computer for about five minutes, and then stammered off back to bed.  And as I lay there, I thought about three things:

1. Michael off at work, sitting at his desk and being tired because we went to bed so blasted late last night. (This made me feel rather guilty.  It also made me imagine him slightly in the manner of Bob Cratchet -- you know, all cold, hunched over, with holes in his mittens.) 2. What in sam-hell are we going to have for breakfast this morning because I am sick sick sick of everything I've been cooking up.  (This made me feel depressed, yet oddly inspired.) 3. If I'm quick, I can probably conjure up a batch of those muffins I've been eyeing before Emilia wakes up.  (This thought put a fire under my bum and made me spring back out of bed and rush to the kitchen, not all sunshiny, but out of bed, nonetheless.)

Miss Dahl's Tawny Granola; Or, How to Chanel Your Inner Hippie

I was standing in the kitchen last week making dinner and talking to Michael about his day at work, when Emilia comes running in, slams her doll on the floor with a bang, and declares, 'Her need her legs waxed!  She do!'

I found this to be perfect timing, because just a few short hours earlier I had been in the kitchen making granola, and was dangerously beginning to feel like a hippie.  When I first pulled out Sophie Dahl's cookbook and was looking at the list of ingredients to make her Tawny Granola, I was feeling quite pleased with myself and rather smug.  That's because we had literally every single ingredient that she calls for -- quite impressive, I say.  Because, really, how many kitchens are fully stocked with agave, pumpkin seeds, coconut, etc?  Maybe I should clarify that a bit.  What I actually mean is: how many 'non-hippie' kitchens are stocked with such items?  And that is when it started to hit me -- and, unfortunately, it wasn't good news: I had officially morphed into a hippie.  Ah, crap.  Don't get me wrong, I've nothing against hippies or anything, but I'll be damned if I want to be one.

The glamorous Miss Dahl says she feels like a 1950s housewife while making granola.  (I feel like that on a daily basis, only without the glamour.)  But my head kept getting filled with images of hairy legs and VW buses as I stirred all the ingredients together.  And I am very sorry to report that I was the proud owner of both at the moment.  On the bright side though, our VW is not actually a bus.  It's just a boring old car.  And we do not have any fringe curtains hanging in it.

Coquette's Eggs

I will admit that what drew me to this recipe was the name.  However, what made me actually pull all of the ingredients out of the fridge was the simplicity of it, and the sheer fact that it just sounded good.  Sophie Dahl (yes, this is another of her recipes) has it filed under the Spring Breakfasts section.  But as it calls for feta cheese, I thought this sounded a bit strong and rather rude first thing in the morning.  So instead we had this for dinner, and I think I made the right call.

What I did was this: I got a Picolo Como loaf of bread at the store, sliced it, brushed the slices with olive oil, put them on a baking sheet, and then popped it in oven for a few minutes.  I also roasted asparagus, excellent choice, if I do say so myself.  And I poured two glasses of wine (one for me and one for Michael, respectively), and I poured a small glass of sparkling water for Emilia.

It is true that Michael spent half of the dinner worrying about his dental work.  But other than that, it was very good — extremely simple and quite a nice little dinner, really.  (Apparently the crusty loaf of bread got a little too crusty for him in the oven.  And he has never forgiven me for once serving him a bean dish that sent him to the dentist the next day.  In my defense, it didn't occur to me that rocks would actually be included in the bag of dried beans I bought from the store.  I rinsed them thoroughly and cooked them up according to the recipe, but I neglected to look for rocks.  What can I say?)

Anyway, back to the recipe at hand.  The whole thing takes no time at all, but it's probably best to start with your peppers. Sophie Dahl suggests using roasted red peppers from a jar, but I actually like to roast peppers myself. It is very easy, all you have to do is put the pepper on a lined baking sheet, plonk it in the oven under the broiler, and turn it with tongs as needed. Once it is all blackened up, put it in a bowl and cover tightly with saran wrap. After a few minutes, remove the plastic wrap, and the skin from the pepper should come right off. Then slice it up and use it accordingly. Simple as that. And I think much better than anything you can get in a jar.

As for the coquette aspect of the dish?  I'll leave that for you to decide.  If nothing else, you can't deny that the name gives it a certain charm. 

Miss Dahl's Flourless Chocolate Cake

Hmmmm, well ... not really sure what to say about this one exactly.  It is a rare thing to come across a chocolate cake that I actually dislike.  Particularly one of the flourless sort that is made with nice quality chocolate.  However, this one ... well.  Maybe you should try it and get back to me.

Emilia and I made it last week, after we stocked up on Green & Black's chocolate from the store (Sophie refers to this chocolate elsewhere in the book, so I figured we may as well try it here.)  And after dinner that night I pulled it out of the fridge, whipped some cream, rinsed some raspberries, and served it up.  (She suggests crème fraiche, but I opted for sweetened cream).  Anyway, Emilia ate the raspberries and cream, Michael (being the dear that he is) ate his whole slice, while managing to agree that it was clearly not one of the best attempts at a chocolate cake.  And then he went on to say that maybe I should write a letter to Sophie voicing my complaints.  He suggested writing something like this:

'Dear Hot Dame (his words, not mine), Maybe your wee-one liked this cake...' 

By 'wee-one' he is actually referring to Jamie Cullum, which is rather funny, really, as the two of them are probably the same height.  Oh, and as a side-note, my wee-one (and Emilia) just got us tickets (for Mother's Day, wasn't that nice?) to go see Sophie's wee-one in concert this summer at Chateau Ste. Michelle.  I'm most excited as he is rather fabulous, is he not?

Anyway, I'm not giving up on this cookbook yet, despite the fact that literally every single recipe I've done has required tweaking of sorts.  The recipes do still look good.  In the meantime, I tossed the rest of the cake out yesterday (which was painful) but I simply could not bring myself to have any more.  And then Emilia and I pulled out her beautiful new apron and made cupcakes, which you will hear all about later, I'm sure.

Lily's Stir-Fry with Tofu

It would seem that we are in a terrible rut when it comes to dinner these days.  Every night I appear to be doing some sort of variation on European peasant food.  Spain and Italy (and even France, every now and then) grace our dinner table, in one form or another, nearly every night of the week.

I am told that American peasant food would be a hamburger from McDonald's.  (Or, Burger Burger Burger, if you've seen that old episode of Frasier.)  And there is nothing wrong with that.  (As a sidenote, I highly recommend the book The Omnivore's Dilemma, because I'm actually lying when I say that.  There is something wrong with fast-food for dinner.)  Anyway, most of us eat what we can afford, and unfortunately healthy foods tend to cost a lot.    

Enter Euro-peasant-food.  I do (on a fearfully regular basis) Tortilla Espanola, Garbonzos con Espinacas, pasta (and then more pasta), roast chicken, quiche, frittatas, and soup after soup after soup.  And to be perfectly honest I'm bored to tears by it all.  Me thinks I need to expand the repertoire a bit.

I used to cook with tofu a lot back in the day.  However, I was told to stay away from the stuff during my erstwhile days as a fertility patient.  Not to mention the fact that, in large quantities, soy has been known to turn men gay (or so I hear).  Both my sister and I called our father (who happens to eat tons of the stuff) to tell him about this study after it came out, but he didn't care.  Instead we periodically ask him if he's 'gone gay', as it were.  And for some reason he never seems to think this is as funny as we do.  Anyway, I personally don't have a particular love for tofu, but I also don't loathe it.  I suppose I'm simply indifferent.  (See what I mean, I'm in a rut.  It is very odd for me to be indifferent about anything food related.)

This recipe for Lily's stir-fry with tofu comes from Sophie Dahl's new cookbook.  I made it for dinner last night and Michael and I polished it off in no time (thank goodness I doubled the recipe).  Emilia, on the other hand, put one bite of tofu in her mouth, promptly spit it out, and then declared, 'Don't like it!'  And that was that.  I tried to sneak a bite of the different veggies into her mouth when she wasn't looking, but I got the same results, 'Mia don't like it!'  She can really be a twerp sometimes.

On Naptime, Mini-Feminism, & Theo Chocolates

Every afternoon when Emilia is going down for her nap I put the house into, what I call, Lock-Down.  That means I un-plug the phone and desperately try to make the house quiet-as-the-tombs, as they say.  It can be very hard at times because our house is rather small and particularly noisy.  And once summer really starts up, I will officially be having nervous breakdowns on account of the damned neighbors being so damned loud.

I happened to learn very early on that I need Emilia to have a nap just as much as she needs to have one.  That way everyone ends up much happier by the end of the day.  Yes, I feel like a complete lightweight making such a claim, especially when my sister is running around like a crazed lunatic chasing after seven kids all day, and also managing to write an enormous book at the same time.  But what can I say?  I need downtime.

And so today, moments after Emilia had been read to, plonked in her bed, given a drink of water, and so on, I ran to the sofa in the living room and sat -- in dead-silence and waited.  Seriously, if I so much as put on the tea-kettle, I will hear her saying, 'Mama making tea!'  And then she will quickly change from her commentary on tea to singing her favorites from Mary Poppins.  'Mia love Cast off the Shackles!'  That would be Sister Suffragette, in case you were wondering, which is hilarious to hear her sing.  And she will emphatically do this for you upon request.  I still remember her running around saying, 'cut off shackles, mama!'.  I would in turn ask Michael, 'What did she say?  It sounds like she is asking to cut off the shackles!  What an odd little child...'  And then one day it hit me, 'Of course!  You're asking for Mary Poppins!'  Knowing Miss Milia, she probably then said, 'A-doy, Mama!'

She knows every single word and never misses one -- albeit, her words are slightly off as she doesn't exactly know what she is singing.  Over the past couple of months she has gone from singing 'Yemen's Goats' to 'Women's Dotes' to, finally, 'Women's Votes.'  We've a little feminist in the making, I suppose. 

Musician's Bread (For Tea or Breakfast)

As I write, the wonderful smell of freshly baked bread is filling the house. It is amazing how that can instantly make one feel that all is right with the world.

Typically just the thought of making bread is a bit off-putting for me. Not only am I not a fan of kneading dough for half the day, I also am not a fan of putting so much time and energy (and flour) into something that may or may not be very good. I am the first to admit that I have not mastered the art (or is it a science?) of baking bread. Much to my chagrin, too, as my mother used to be a master bread maker when we were growing up. (She even used to grind her own wheat!)

And that is why I find myself this afternoon making bread for the second time in four days. Sophie Dahl's recipe is shockingly, almost scandalously, easy. All you do is mix everything up, give it a good stir, proof it, give it another stir, let it proof again, and bake. No kneading required — just a handy-dandy wooden spoon will do the trick. Also, thanks to the invention of instant yeast, it is relatively fast.

So anyway, as I made breakfast on Saturday morning, I thought it would also be a good time to get the bread going, with the idea that it would be fabulous to have later in the day. My newest trick (just learned on an episode of Cooks Country) is to put anything that needs to raise in the oven. All you do is this: turn the oven to 200°, right when it hits 200°, turn it off, put your dough in the middle of the oven and set about your other business. It works beautifully, too, particularly in a house that seems to run on the so cold go put a winter cardigan on even if it's July mode. While utilizing this brilliant trick on Saturday, I was also using the oven as a pancake warmer. When I reached in to get said pancakes for a very hungry little girl and her dad, I was rather annoyed, to say the least, to see that half the bread dough had fallen on top of our breakfast. I ended up tossing most of the pancakes out while trying to salvage the bread. (Thank goodness I still had lots of pancake batter left. And bacon, for that matter.)

One of the hazards (other than ruining your breakfast) of using your oven for proofing is what to do with whatever happens to be raising in the oven when you need to be pre-heating the very same oven. (I swear, I want two ovens in our next house! Oh, and maybe a bit more drawer space.) For some reason or another, it had seemed like a marvelous (and by marvelous, I mean desperate) idea to simply pre-heat the oven while the bread was still raising in it. Bad idea, I know. I'm open to suggestions. What happens is that the bread comes out terribly flat on the top and I'm sure all sorts of other scientific things happen as well. But even Miss Dahl's looks flat on the top. It just isn't so noticeable when it is placed in what looks like the middle of a gorgeous Anthropologie photo spread.

We ate the disastrous loaf of bread Saturday afternoon with lots of butter and steaming bowls of soup. Then we ate the rest Sunday morning for breakfast. Michael kept saying, 'what a nice little breakfast!', much to my vain heart's delight. And, strangely enough, I totally agreed. Despite the troublesome process, the bread was really very good. Even Emilia liked it. We toasted it with butter and jam, had little cups of yogurt, and broiled papaya with lime (also from Sophie Dahl's cookbook). Not to mention cup after cup of strong tea (for me), strong coffee (for Michael), and plenty of smiles from Miss Milia's happy and jam-covered little face.

The newest loaves have just come out of the oven. They still look slightly wonky, but I'm alright with that.

Le Chameau & Miss Dahl's Voluptuous Delights

Michael was thumbing through Food & Wine sometime last month when he stopped and asked me, 'What did Roald Dahl write again?' (Seriously, how can he not know that?) 'Anyway, his granddaughter has written a new cookbook.' My curiosity was piqued for about 10 seconds before I decided to just dismiss the whole thought. Yes, Sophie Dahl is a beauty, kind of in the manner of a 1920s silent-film actress — only much more buxom. And she has published a few works of fiction, not to mention writing the preface to the new edition of Stella Gibbon's Nightingale Wood (which I still have not read, although Cold Comfort Farm was spectacular). But really, why must famous people write cookbooks? It is almost as annoying as when celebrities think they should be 'political consultants' or something. Why can't they just stick with what they know? Alright, I will climb off of my soap-box now.

As I sat in front of the computer late one night using all of my cherished Amazon giftcards on cookbooks, for some reason or another, I decided to get Miss Dahl's Voluptuous Delights. After all, it was getting decent reviews. And what do you know? It would appear that Miss Dahl (actually now Mrs. as she just married Jamie Cullum... what? I'm not allowed to pay attention to these things?) knows quite a bit about cooking. Well, I'll eat my hat.

Speaking of hats, she may also have become my latest fashion icon. As I sat thumbing through her book, my eyes were continually drawn to the fabulous pair of wellies she is sporting throughout. Basic dark green rubber wellies, mid-calf in length, with a logo I did not recognize. Hmmm.

Over the past few years I seem to have developed an aversion to winter shoes, meaning I don't love shoes that require me to wear socks. Instead, I've become quite the fan of the ballet flat and the flip-flop, not to mention everything else in between. Otherwise my Puma sneakers have strangely done the trick. (Sorry, not chasing a 2-year-old around the house in 4" stilettos. Not this week anyway.)

What can I say? We live in the Pacific Northwest where the weather is thought to be mild. However, it does rain a bit and can get quite cold, so going sock-less in the winter months is daft, to say the least. Wellington boots are a great choice. (Miss Milia loves her ladybug boots, because she knows darn well that she is the height of fashion. Besides, she just learned to put them on herself.) Hunter have become extraordinarily (if not preposterously) popular. But I refuse to wear them until they either slip back under the radar or become terribly unfashionable. Besides, they are rather tall, and really, that's a whole lot of rubber to have round your leg. I've also seen too many girls running around in their Hunter's with Juicy Sweatsuits and little dogs in their handbags.

And so, using my carrot eyes, I managed to spy the name of the boot Miss Dahl is wearing. Le Chameau. That's right, they're French! Now I really, really love them! And they are also nearly half the price of Hunter's. (Although once you throw UK shipping onto the bill, it probably comes out even.) Anyway, they came in the mail a few days ago. Emilia helped me open them up and then we both took turns modeling them.

In the meantime, it has been pouring rain here for the past few days, so it is perfect timing, really. Yesterday we both put on our rainboots and went to the grocery store so we could stock up on all the necessary ingredients to make a few dishes from my new (and dare I say lovely?) cookbook. And even though I can't pull off the look, in the manner of Sophie Cullum (née Dahl) that is, I'm hoping I can at least pull off a few of her recipes.

Stay tuned for the recipes, I'm hoping to knock them out this weekend. In the meantime, go buy yourself a nice copy of Miss Dahl's Voluptuous Delights and a pair of Hunter wellies. It simply won't do having my new fabulous Le Chameau's becoming ubiquitous. If you don't mind, that is.