Victoria Tea Cake

Alright, alright, I know it is Lent and we aren't supposed to be gorging ourselves on all manner of sweet things, but I am making an exception for this lovely cake because there is no frosting on it.  Goodness knows that no frosting on a cake automatically throws it into the realm of austere (and therefore penitential) and rather boring, no?  But let me just tell you -- this is probably the first cake I've ever made that Emilia devoured.  Even Michael noticed, 'Wow, she's actually going to eat the whole thing.'  (The 'whole thing' would be her slice -- and not actually the whole cake.)  But it is true, the girl loved her 'Torian Sandwich' and has already been asking to make it again.  I'm shocked.

The recipe comes from My Kitchen Table: Mary Berry's 100 Cakes and Bakes, but this is not actually where I found it.  I found it on that scourge that is Facebook.  When Michael goes out of town, I seem to spend a lot of time on-line, very late at night, doing nothing in particular, when I really just ought to be in bed.  And last month when he was in St. Louis, I sat up one night looking at who knows what, and ended up with a fat-wad of 'likes' on my Facebook page.  Anyway, one of those 'likes' (and probably the only one worth a damn) is Boden (you're shocked, I know), and they are the ones from whence I got the recipe for 'The Perfect Victoria Sandwich'.

The cake is a breeze to make as it is essentially a pound cake.  You know: one pound butter, one pound eggs, one pound sugar, one pound flour, all mixed up.  You just need to make sure that all ingredients are at room temperature.  I suppose that you could easily swap out the raspberry jam for whatever floats your boat -- lemon curd, for example, but I have currently gone anti-yellow.  Every picture I take in our kitchen these days looks yellow and it makes me want to hurl.  One of Emilia's favorite things to do is to take pictures with the camera, and I'm fairly convinced that she 'fixed' it somehow so that all the pictures look nasty.  Governor has turned into one of her favorite subjects, and we now have nearly a hundred yellow photos of his hairy ol' can to look at.  Seriously, she thought it was hilarious.  'Look!  I take a picture of Governor's bum! hehehaha!' Or, it could be that Michael put two extra tubes of nasty ol' fluorescent lighting in the kitchen, as per my request, and since then the kitchen makes me nauseous and grumpy.  Everything I cook now seems to look revolting.  Every time I ask him to please please take them out, he rolls his eyes and calls me an eejit.  'But you asked me to put them in!'  Yes, well, I digress.

We had the cake after dinner (which is my least favorite time to have cake, particularly of this varietal), but Michael and Emilia seemed to be happy as clams, so who am I to complain?  But really, I prefer mine in the afternoon with a big cup of tea that is so hot I inevitably burn my mouth and can't taste the cake anyway.

Happy New Year! (and a Sticky Persimmon Pudding)

And so, for your reading enjoyment, I will now supply you with a list -- a New Year's Resolutions kind of list. 

1.  Read David Copperfield
2.  Sew one thing a month, including that damn dress and new drapes for the study
3.  Make Coq au Vin (very well), trying Julia Child's recipe, Anthony Bourdain's recipe, Ginette Mathiot's, Joy of Cooking (if there is one is that book), and maybe Larrouse Gastronomique's, as well
4.  Read another country (either China or India) in the way that I read Africa last year 
5.  While I'm at it, read another book or two on Africa
6.  Man-up and go to confession, all proper-like -- no more sit-down sessions with a priest, unless I've got a serious doozy
7.  Take Emilia to the Space Needle
8.  Go somewhere -- Maine, Napa, London, Sevilla, Roma, Jackson, MS, or wherever, as I'm not really all that particular at this point
9.  Go for a visit (i.e. a roadtrip) to Utah, with a brief visit in Salmon, Idaho
10.  Less time on the computer screwing around and doing nothing
11.  Start mulling over the idea of researching and writing another paper/article
12.  Try a Side-Car and an Old-Fashioned
13.  Sing in church (for some reason I turn into a mute whenever there is singing in church)

 Sorted. 

Do Not Fear the Marmite! (Otherwise Entitled: Spaghetti with Marmite)

Marmite has fascinated me for years.  What can I say?  I'm obviously not British, so I did not grow up eating the stuff.  But I am someone who has a tendency to pay attention to all things British.  That is why when I heard ages ago that there is a spread ... that comes in a jar ... that is a yeast extract ... filled with B vitamins ... and considered so wholesome that children of all ages should be eating it up ... I paid attention.  But really.  Yeast extract?  Pardon me while I gag.

I remember I even sent an email to my Scottish friend, Polly, asking her all about it.  'What is this Marmite and Vegemite stuff I keep hearing about?'  To which she responded, 'It's nasty and I don't think you'd like it.'  Well, alright then, enough said. 

But then it started appearing in all the grocery stores in the area: Whole Foods, QFC, Metropolitan Market, and the like.  And as I walked through one of those stores with Emilia a month or so ago, I couldn't help but be drawn in -- that jar is quite attractive.  It just looks so marvelously British that I can't help but like it.  So, naturally, we bought a jar.  And then I put it in the pantry and proceeded to stare it down -- every time I opened the door.  Hmmm, what is one to do with the stuff anyway?  Because I'll tell you right now -- smearing it on a piece of toast in the morning does not sound appetizing.  At all.  Not even a little bit.

Lo and behold Nigella's new cookbook came in the mail a week or so ago (I reallyreallyreally must stop doing the pre-order on new cookbooks before our checking account explodes), and as I sat thumbing through the pages, I saw it: Spaghetti with Marmite.  The recipe comes complete with pictures of children eating it up and everything.  And, according to Nigella (who is so gorgeous it makes me downright irritable), she has never met a child who does not like it.  Sold!

It's now a week or so later and I've already made it twice.  The first time was when Michael was out of town and I wanted to test it out on Emilia.  Do you know, I cooked this up and served it alongside roasted cauliflower and sauteed kale (because that is what we had in the fridge)?  Emilia ate every bite.  (Gasp!)  And then she asked for more.  So did I.  And when I pulled the jar out a few days ago to make it again, Emilia saw it on the counter and said, 'Mama cooking Marmite!  Yummy!'

I'm not sure if this means that the girl is a fellow Anglophile, or if she just has a taste for Marmite. Either way, I'm content.

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.

Swiss Chard & Saffron Omelettes

The two things I heard last night as we sat down to dinner: 'That a frittata.  I going to spit it out!'; and, 'This looks marvelous!'   Thank goodness for Michael and his exceptional taste, is all I have to say.  On the bright side, though, I did manage to get about five or six bites into Emilia's mouth before she drew the line.  (She knew we had a gorgeous carrot cake sitting on the counter -- just waiting for us to finish our dinner.) 

Emilia has mastered the trick of blocking my fork by hurrying to get her glass of milk up to her little mouth in lightening speed.  (The twerp.)  However, last night was much easier than the last two times I made these for dinner.  (Yes, I've tortured her with them three times now, alright?)  Anyway, she usually holds to her word, and literally spits out each bite I give to her.  She then proceeds to wail like a banshee in between.  Poor thing.  I know she loathes potatoes and parsley, and what do I do?  Give her (what she believes to be) an extra-large serving of both.

As for the rest of us in the house?  Well, we love the dish.  And, unfortunately for Miss Milia, the recipe has made it into my new dinner repertoire.  I'm sorry, but it really is delicious and quite good for us.  We've been serving it with just a green salad and a loaf of bread.  It is one of my favorite concepts in a recipe -- very simple ingredients put together in an interesting sort of way.  (I really must hand it to Ottolenghi -- he is never ever boring.)  It is nice to start with just a few fresh quality ingredients, and end up with an incredibly flavorful meal. 

Quinoa and Grilled Sourdough Salad

It has been a very difficult past couple of days around here.  Emilia seems to have discovered the fine art of throwing fits and testing her limits, and it has been making me absolutely crazy.  I admit that I am not the most patient person in the world, though, and I really ought to work on that.  But, really, I'm at my wits end over here!  And to top it off, my sister has been on a road-trip for the past while, so I've not been able to call her and give her an earful about it.  I already know what she'd say though: 'They all go through it.  It's only a phase, so stop bothering me.  Don't you know I'm busy -- and try dealing with seven of them!  Call me when you've got a real problem, lightweight!' Or something like that anyway.  Besides, I am well aware of the fact that having seven kids will hardly conjure any sympathy for one with a (usually) very easy two year old.** 

So, last night we sat down to a lovely dinner: salmon on the grill and this marvelous quinoa and grilled sourdough salad.  It was divine.  And we ended up eating so much of the salad that we were fit to burst.  That is, Michael and I ate it.  Emilia spent the whole of dinner declaring that she was finished and needed to get down.  It is the oddest thing, the girl loves vegetables, I swear.  But she has drawn the line with a few things: potatoes (even mashed potatoes), cucumbers, anything with parsley on it, lettuce, and anything resembling a salad, particularly if it has dressing on it.  But she will eat broccoli, asparagus, zucchini, green beans, tomatoes, and on and on, until the cows come home. 

Anyway, as I've mentioned before, I happen to take vegetables very seriously around here.  So I didn't take it too kindly when Emilia put one bite of this delicious salad into her mouth, and then started gagging like she was being tortured by some mean and nasty person.  I mean, really.  And I particularly didn't appreciate when she decided that the bread chunks were tofu and, therefore, not to be touched.  I suppose, in the poor girl's defense, this salad was loaded to the gills with items on her Do Not Eat list.  But even so, hmpf!

A Mrs. Beeton-esque Beef & Barley Soup

Yes, well, I realize this is more suiting for the dead of winter and all that.  But, despite it being August and all,  it is cold and rainy in our blasted state.  And to be perfectly honest, I'm getting so sick and tired of it.  I've been threatening to go and put up a For Sale sign at the top of our driveway, but that would require me putting on a long coat, a hat, boots, and then tracking down the umbrella, in order to do so.  Besides, we don't really have one of those signs lying around the house.  Maybe as soon as Emilia is up from her nap we can do some 'cutting' and some 'art' and make our own.  (It's really the oddest thing, too, because it was so warm last week.)

Anyway, for some reason or another I've been craving beef and barley soup for about two years now.  My sister made some for us a handful of years ago after I'd gone in for a random surgery, and I remember feeling so grateful.  Beef and barley soup is so comforting and oh-so cozy.  But when I asked her for a recipe last week she said she usually just wings it.  Not helpful.

I searched high and low for a recipe, but I guess that beef and barley soup just isn't in high demand these days -- it's not very fashionable, I suspect.  In fact, in my entire library of cookbooks, the only one that had a recipe at all was good-old Mrs. Beeton.  I figure this is quite appropriate as it does make me want to sit in some thatched cottage in the Cotswolds.  Actually, Mrs. Beeton lived in London the majority of her very short life.  Nevertheless, I still think of pastoral England when I think of her.  Or I think of the grubby London that Dickens wrote so much about.  I can't help it.  What a fascinating woman though!  If you don't believe me then pick up a copy of Kathryn Hughes book: The Short Life and Long Times of Mrs. Beeton.  I've been slowly, slowly, slowly making my way through.  (Sorry, it's just not in my nature to plow through biographies, no matter how interesting.)

The Absolute Best Carrot Cake Ever -- No Jet Plane Required

'Do it again!  Do it again!' is what Emilia says every time we are out on the trampoline bouncing around.  She loves to hold my hands (or dada's hands) and bounce in a circle singing, at the top of her lungs, 'Let's go fly a kite!  Up to the highest height!  Let's go fly a kite and send it soaring...'**  And at the end of the song we fall back, landing in a heap and staring up at the sky.  On sunny days, Emilia thinks it is quite hilarious to try to quote something I said to her on a very sunny day not so long ago: 'I don't want the sun on my face!  It's going to make me look old enough to be your mother!'  Now, really, I find that a rather funny thing to say.  But for the life of me, I can't figure out why she does. 

Anyway, while we are lying on our backs looking up at the sky (preferably Michael is right along beside side us) Emilia will point out all the planes that go by.  She is very good at deciphering between a sea-plane and a jet-plane, and every time she hears the latter, she happily exclaims, 'It's going to the airport!  Maybe we should go to the airport, too!'  Talk about a little girl after my own heart.  (I think she was just over a year and a half when she told me one afternoon, completely deadpan, and while holding my purse, the keys, and a Neiman Marcus shopping bag, 'I be right back, mama.'  'Oh, where you are going?'  'I going to the airport!  I going to Georgetown!')

And so, one evening the three of us were lying on the trampoline and gazing up at the sky (Governor was off barking at a squirrel somewhere), and we saw a plane high up in the sky.  Immediately I started singing, 'I'm leaving on a jet plane, I don't know when I'll be back again...'***  Michael quickly joined in, and once Emilia picked up enough words, she started singing, too.  And there we were, the three of us on a lovely summer evening, looking up at the sky and belting out one of the best songs ever.  It was quite nice, if you must know.  Now Emilia calls it 'her song' and randomly sings, 'Oh babe, I hate to go.'

Now then, why am I going on about a trampoline and airplanes and John Denver, you ask?  Well, it's really quite simple.  One of the cheapest ways to travel somewhere is to cook.  Sounds silly, but it's true.  You want to get to know a place, then eat its food.  Of course it isn't the same as actually being there, but it is the best substitute I've ever found. 

Pan-Fried Curried Cod

So I was on the phone with my mom earlier today when she tells me about the 'diet dinner' she recently made.  'Honey, it was cottage cheese, sliced bananas, pineapple, and toast.  David was so mad.' 

Now then, I don't mean to take sides or anything, particularly when it is with the one who didn't slave in the kitchen making said diet-dinner.  However, I will say this: I am not a great lover of cottage cheese myself.  And I say this knowing full well that it was one of my grandma's favorites (in the diet-food category), and we should all do our absolute best to live up to Grandma Jo's standards.  (Cottage cheese aside, this can be rather difficult sometimes...)  Anyway, I suppose it wouldn't be so bad for breakfast, or lunch, or a snack of sorts. 

Sometimes breakfast food for dinner is exactly what is called for.  After all, it gets very annoying having to plan meals every single day of the stinking week -- day after day and week after week.  And sometimes it is best just not to be bothered with it at all -- hence a bowl of cereal or something.  In fact, this is the very reason I have become such a fan of frittatas and omelettes and such for dinner, they are very easy and don't take very long.  The Coquette's Eggs we did last week (twice, in case you were wondering) is a perfect example of this -- very simple and ultimately meant to be breakfast. 

I suppose where my problem lies is in the idea of diet food.  There are so many foods that could qualify as 'diet', I suppose, if we simply looked at them differently.  And this is where I annoyed the daylights out of my poor mother (whose cottage cheese dinner was probably very nice).  I told her about our 'diet-dinner' we had last night; although we are not on any diets around here -- despite the fact that my jeans are all wicked tight these days because I haven't felt like running.  Anyway, our 'diet-dinner' consisted of cod fish and rice and asparagus, and it was a breeze to make.  Michael and I loved it.  However, I can promise you that Emilia would have preferred being at grandma and grandpa's house having cottage cheese and fruit.  The only way I could get her to keep the fish in her mouth was through ice-cream bribery.  (Her new favorite thing is chocolate ice-cream.  Can't say I blame the girl.)

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. 

Soba Noodles with Aubergine and Mango

A few of the things my husband said regarding Ottolenghi's Soba Noodles with Aubergine and Mango:

'This dish is preposterous ... but it's so good.'

'That eggplant one astonished me.  I had no hopes for it.'

And there you go, a truly bizarre dish that is a great success!  To be honest, the main reason I decided to make it was because we had a pile of fresh basil in the fridge, and I was needing to use it before it went bad.  (You know how sometimes you look for certain recipes just to use up a particular ingredient that you'd really rather not just stare at while it goes bad...)  Anyway, as I copied out the ingredients we needed to get from the store, and later as I began to cook it all up in the kitchen, I had a few twinges of guilt.  I knew this was not something that Michael would have picked for dinner ... ever ... in a million years.  But I thought it looked good. 

For starters, Michael claims to loathe mangoes (odd man), and he also doesn't typically go for any sort of noodley-dish that is not steaming hot.  Also, he does not harbor any fondness for tofu.  (Ottolenghi suggests adding fried tofu to the dish if serving it as a main course, which I did — and which Emilia, for one, would not touch.  Again, 'Mia don't like it!')

Anyway, this is what I love about the Ottolenghi cookbooks.  The recipe for Soba Noodles with Aubergine and Mango comes from the brand-spanking-new and hot off the presses Plenty.  Plenty is a completely innovative vegetarian cookbook with a strong emphasis on just that: vegetables.  The book is absolutely gorgeous — fresh, diverse, and never boring.   It is filled with the oddest (when combined) assortment of fresh ingredients that, even if you may have a few doubts going in, always turn out spectacularly well.  Michael's assessment is spot-on, if I do say so myself.

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.

Hot Cross Buns for Good Friday

Now really, I've never understood why it is that we are meant to eat Hot Cross Buns on Good Friday when we are also meant to be fasting. Particularly since I have a tendency to let my hunger override my piety. As it turns out, Hot Cross Buns were originally intended to be eaten when one broke their Good Friday fast. (That would be in the evening after skipping the first two meals, in case you were wondering. And not what one is supposed to eat with a giant bowl of very strong tea for breakfast, even though that is when they sound heavenly.)

Anyway, I suppose this does make me feel a bit better. After all, I can still keep my image of Jo (from Bleak House) running about the streets of Charles Dickens' London with a little Hot Cross Bun in his hand. Although, I should really choose a different character — one not so tragic and who may have actually stood a chance of procuring one of these delectable little buns, perhaps. (How about Guppy? Is that any better? No, it's not — I'm sticking with Jo.)

If we are striving for accuracy, however, we should bump ourselves over to the Tudor period (1485-1603, give or take) when Hot Cross Buns originated. Apparently they used to be sold throughout the year. However Queen Elizabeth I decided to put her foot down (in her attempt to stamp out Catholicism) and restricted their selling to Christmas, Good Friday, and burials. (Not that I can blame her. I suppose little buns with images of crosses on them are rather menacing.)

Nowadays, if you happen to live in England, you can get Hot Cross Buns year round. (Or so I have read. I've never actually wandered into a Sainsbury or Tesco in hot pursuit.) Yet it is still considered traditional to eat them on Easter. But if you are trying to be right-proper, then the evening of Good Friday is the ticket. And not a moment too soon, if you're like me. Because by that time your head will be throbbing, and you're mad at everyone for absolutely no reason at all, and you have lost all energy to even be bothered with making dinner. And you will be frustrated because what you are supposed to be doing is thinking about Jesus on the cross. (See, I told you I wasn't a very good faster.)

I have actually tried my hand at these two times before with very disappointing results. And I very nearly skipped them this year altogether. I have Michael to thank for their presence, as he gently reminded me that seasonal cooking is, in fact, my thing, so snap the hell out of it. Or something like that anyway. This year they were divine, and I'm not sure if it was the recipe I used (that would be Nigella's) or allowing the dough to raise in the oven. Probably both, I suspect. That being said, they are actually a lot of fun to make. The recipe is rather long, but don't let that deter you. In fact, you are supposed to make the dough and then plunk it in the fridge overnight. That way you can get on with it the next day — in between grousing about and feeling very badly about the fact that you've been grousing about.

Also, every recipe I've looked at has called for bread flour, as opposed to all-purpose. Nigella seems to sum it up the best: 'There's no point going through all this effort and ruining your chances of success over such a small but significant point.' So there you go. Live dangerously if you'd like, but my lovely husband offered to run to the store for a bag and I'm very grateful that he did.

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.

Beef and Guinness Stew

For the past few weeks we have been listening, from morning till night, to Frank Sinatra's Jingle Bells and either Lena Horne's or Harry Connick Jr's version of Rudolph the Rednosed Reindeer — over and over and over again. This is on account of the fact that Emilia has taken a fancy to these two songs, and says, time and time again, 'One more time, Jingle Bells! One more time, Reindeer!' In fact, one morning last week as I went to get her out of her bed, I could hear her jumping up and down in her crib, yelling, 'So excited! Rudolph Rednose Reindeer! So excited! Lights!' (The lights to which she referred are those on the tree...) And thus began our day.

I am so envious of Emilia's sheer joy in the morning, and wish so much that I, too, could capture it. It is a truly magical thing to witness. Her hair is a wild mess (if you ask her what her hair is doing, she will proudly make an explosion sound for you), and her little face is glowing. Whereas my typical morning is wild hair accompanied by a glower.

Anyway, the Christmas season is in full-swing at our house. We have: a very colorful and brightly lit tree; stockings hung by the fireplace; 24 hour Christmas music (I've been trying desperately to throw on Charlie Brown's Christmas or Bob Dylan's new Christmas album, whenever Emilia isn't looking); four nativities; and all the rest of the Christmas trappings imaginable — including a prominently displayed picture of Miss Milia screaming her head off on Santa's lap (goes nicely next to last year's screaming picture, if I do say so myself). The only thing we needed on Sunday evening in order to complete the scene was a hearty, stick-to-your-ribs, kind of dinner. And since I had been quite literally craving beef and Guinness stew for days on end (obsessing over it, really), that is what graced our table. It put a smile on all of our faces, gave a lovely feeling of contentment, and warmed us up head to toe (Governor included).

Typically when I make beef and Guinness stew Michael builds a fire in the fireplace (which he did on Sunday), puts some sort medieval music on the stereo (he's really taken a fancy to Medieval Hour on one of the local radio stations — but, alas, had to listen to Rudolph as he danced around the living room with his daughter), and threatens to start reading Sagas of the Icelanders while drinking a stout (or a scotch, he's not too picky when it comes down to it).

These days I serve this dish with an enormous scoop of mashed potatoes in the bowl. However, you could also turn it into a pot-pie, of sorts, by putting puff-pastry over the top. This is also divine, but not as substantial as mashed potatoes. Either way, I'm virtually certain that it will help you get through several more renditions of Rudolph — and not a moment too soon, either.

Johnny Boden is a Dream

When I was in both elementary school and junior high I had an enormous crush on Ralph Macchio. And, as always the arbiter of good taste, I had pictures of him hanging all over my room. (He looked absolutely smashing next to my Strawberry Shortcake wallpaper, believe you me.) My sister Kari, on the other hand, had pictures of Boy George and Duran Duran. My other sister Tracy was apparently too dignified for such things, and opted to put her name, spelled in little pillows that she made in Home-Ec, across her wall. That being said, Tracy seemed to spend an inordinate amount of time yelling and threatening to literally kill whoever changed them from 'Tracy' to 'Ratcy'. Ahhh, that still makes me laugh. (Oh, and it was my brother Jim who was the culprit, by the way.)

Anyway, who qualifies as dreamy for me nowadays has changed a bit. Obviously I love Edward just as much as the next girl (yes, I realize I am practically old enough to be his mother). But you could also add to the list: Lyle Lovett, the lead guy in Bella, Gregory Peck in Roman Holiday, Peter O'Toole in How to Steal a Million, Bishop Eusebio (of the Seattle Archdiocese; don't judge me, I'm only admiring God's work), and Johnny Boden.

I suppose you should know that as I write this, it is thundering and lightening outside. Emilia has spent the day saying, 'Brrr! Noisy, Pouring, Rain!' But this storm really started yesterday: grey; dark; obscene amounts of rain; and so windy that the power went out last night. Today, lo and behold, has been more of the same. And it certainly doesn't help matters when you consider the fact that it now gets dark at 4:30 in the afternoon, thanks to daylight-savings' ending.

Knowing that the weather will be some variation on this theme until May (or thereabouts), it is easy to let it get you down; as it feels very heavy, and very bleak, and very dreary. And if you have a pre-disposed penchant for wearing a lot of black clothing, then you may as well throw the towel in now.

Enter Johnny Boden.

I know this sounds absolutely ridiculous, but I still remember the first Boden catalogue I received in the mail. (Michael probably does too, as his list of hotties typically revolves around the Boden models — oh, and Sophia Loren.) We hadn't been living in our apartment in Bellevue very long, so it must have been about 8 years ago. (Yikes.) Anyway, it was their winter catalogue — and it was filled with color. That's right, I said it — color. It probably hurt my eyes, no doubt. But keep in mind that Michael had taken to calling me a ninja due to the amount of black I supposedly wore. So, after a pause, I opted to call the colors cheery rather than loud. And I still stand by it, all these years later. Somehow half my wardrobe seems to come from the pages of Boden. (The percentage goes even higher for Miss Milia — MiniBoden is fabulous, so cute and fits well.) Whereas the other half of my wardrobe is still black/grey/or jeans. All about balance, as I've said time and time again.

Truthfully, there is something about Boden that makes me smile. (Maybe now would be a good time to fess up to the fact that I don't know if I've ever actually seen a picture of my dreamy Johnny. But that is neither here nor there.) Anyway, I can't seem to put my finger right on it. Oh, that's a lie. Yes, I can. I like Boden because, not only is it cheery, it's also gorgeous clothing that completely caters to my anglophile side. (There, I've said it.) But I'm not the only one who appreciates the anglophile aspect. My mom was recently looking through my closet and pulled out a green polka-dot dress from last summer and immediately said, 'Oh, I love your spotty dress! Is it Boden?' To which we went on to discuss the many merits of Emilia's baggy turn-ups and her tea-pot top.

One of my most recent Boden favorites is my socks. (It is their dresses that I typically am willing to sell my soul over.) They are the perfect cheery splash of color to wear with my black/grey/jeans ensemble. (Note: I said ensemble — not uniform.) Anyway, they are the grown-up version of what Emilia wore last year — who, by the way, won't seem to leave my new ones alone. I suspect I should have ordered her a box of her own socks. In fact, why I haven't done that already is beyond me. So, if you'll just excuse me...

Soul Cakes

It is All Souls' Day today. And, in honor, I decided to make Soul Cakes. Soul Cakes are an Old English custom, being little cakes (half cake-half biscuit, really) that were given out for 'souling', as it was called, in the 8th century.

Unlike All Saints' Day, All Souls' is not a Holy Day of Obligation. While both days are essentially 'Days for the Dead', as it were, they stand in stark contrast to each other. All Saints' is a celebration of sorts, whereas All Souls' is a very somber day. On All Saints' we ask that the saints pray for us. All Souls', on the other hand, is when we are asked to pray for the dearly departed — to pray for their souls in purgatory, to be precise.

As a convert to the Catholic Church, I always had a not-so-nice view of purgatory, owing entirely to the fact that I simply did not understand it. In my defense, it is rather easy to misconstrue this concept! Strangely enough, now I actually derive comfort in the thought of purgatory. To put it in the most simplistic terms, purgatory is where most of us go after we die. (Some are lucky enough to go straight to heaven. However, I do not anticipate being one of them.) If you have not gone through a purification of the soul before you die — this is your shot. I guess you could say that purgatory is a 'purging' of sorts (it's where the word comes from, after all) — getting rid of the yuck we have accumulated along the way, and purifying both our hearts and minds in the process.

Purgatory (Purgatorio) is not a level of hell in Dante's Inferno either. Rather it is a separate volume comprising The Divine Comedy (along with Paradisio). For some reason, there seems to be a bit of confusion about this. So there is no need to fear pushing a boulder up a hill for all time and eternity. Or even getting your eyeballs plucked out over and over again by some nasty ol' bird. Although, interestingly enough, a level of hell in Dante's Inferno is apparently dedicated to a member of my own family. That's right — I am descended from the line of a horrifying mass-murderer. On par with Hitler, from what I can gather. The story of this lovely 'uncle' can be found in a book called Studies in Ferocity: A Book of Human Monsters by Raymond Rudorff. Ahhh, such pride I must have, I know.

Anyway, back to Soul Cakes. Rumor has it that this is the way that trick-or-treating began, oh, so long ago. In Old England the poor and the children (why do they always get lumped together, I wonder) would go knocking door-to-door, and in exchange for a Soul Cake, they would offer prayers for the dead. One Soul Cake for one soul, or something like that.

Making Soul Cakes is very easy. (Not at all like my disastrous Hot Cross Buns last year.) And I was more than a little surprised to discover that they were, in fact, not just edible — they were actually pretty good. Michael ate his with an oatmeal stout (probably the perfect compliment, truth be told), While Emilia first picked off all the raisins (which she promptly ate), and then proceeded to polish off both hers and most of mine. For some reason, she much preferred these to yesterday's Sweet Beans.

Soul Cakes
2 cups flour
½ teaspoon freshly grated nutmeg
½ teaspoon cinnamon
½ teaspoon salt
generous pinch of saffron
½ cup milk
1 stick unsalted butter, at room temperature
½ cup sugar
2 egg yolks
½ cup currants or raisins

Preheat oven to 400°, and line a baking sheet with parchment.

Combine the flour, nutmeg, cinnamon, and salt in a bowl. Mix well.

Crumble the saffron threads into a small saucepan. Turn on the heat to low and warm the saffron just until barely fragrant. Pour in the milk and heat until the milk is hot to the touch. Remove and set aside. The milk will have become bright yellow. (Something tells me that the saffron is a modern addition, as I can't imagine it being an ingredient readily on-hand in England back in the day. Although, maybe I'm wrong.)

In a mixer, using the paddle attachment, cream the butter with the sugar. Add the egg yolks, one at a time, and mix until thoroughly combined. Add the dry ingredients and mix until well combined. The dough will be very dry and crumbly.

Add the milk, one tablespoon at a time, mixing well after each addition, until you have a nice soft dough. You should not need all the milk.

Turn the dough out onto a lightly floured surface and knead gently. (I had to add a bit of flour here because, apparently, I went nuts with the milk.) Using your scone or biscuit cutter, make as many rounds as you can. You should get about 12 in all.

Transfer to your baking sheet, and stud the tops with the currants. I made little crosses on the tops of mine, but feel free to be creative. Maybe try your hand at fashioning my evil uncle, or something. Although something tells me he would have needed more than a few soul cakes.

Brush the tops with the beaten egg yolk (I added a bit of the extra saffron milk to my egg yolk, to good effect.) Bake for 15 minutes until golden. Serve warm. (Recipe from T. Susan Chang, for NPR, October 24, 2007.)

Broccoli Lovers Unite!

I used to belong to the school of thought (and by 'school' I mean 'me', because no-one else would join up) that you could stay perfectly healthy, ward off diseases and random heebie-jeebies, and cure most things if you would only include a few particular things into your every-day-life. That is, you must drink lots of water, eat broccoli and yogurt, and run. Simple enough. And that way it doesn't matter much if you inadvertently sit down and eat damn-near a whole pie ... or yet another one of those blasted Trophy Cupcakes ... or even an enormous hamburger on one of those delicious brioche buns. Because you've already done what your body really needs and wants you to do. It's all about balance.

Now, if this sounds at all crazy to you, talk to my father. It's all his fault. He brought us up to be crazy people when it comes to food and what we put into our bodies. Seriously, the man was a loon (and still is, for that matter) when it came to food and exercise when we were growing up. However, these days he seems to think that we're the ones riding the crazy train. Hmmm. I say, it takes one to know one, but that's just me. The last time I told him about my 'new strict diet regiment', he said, and I quote, 'Give me a break.' But I ask you, does it not sound ingenious to have a cup of black tea, a cup of red tea, a cup of green tea, and a cup of white tea — every day? Just imagine the benefits! Anyway, it didn't last very long on account of the fact that it was a pain (and I don't really like green tea). However, I do still try to adhere to my broccoli et al regiment, for whatever reason.

As you may or may not know, I have become quite the fan of Ottolenghi: The Cookbook as of late. It is a gorgeous cookbook that is filled with fabulous recipes. And it seems that every time I thumb through it I stop on the recipe for Chargrilled Broccoli with Chilli and Garlic — for good reason too. 'If there is a dish that's become synonymous with Ottolenghi, second only to our meringues, it is this one.' And, shocking as it may be, many people go to their London-based shops purely for this broccoli dish. That's right, broccoli. Rather impressive, one might say.

Even if you are not a broccoli lover, you should try this recipe. It is marvelous — and it will undoubtedly cure whatever it is that ails you. Just make sure to throw in some yogurt, water, and running (just not at the same time), for good measure.

Chargrilled Broccoli with Chilli and Garlic

2 heads of broccoli (about 500g)

115ml olive oil

4 garlic cloves, thinly sliced

2 mild red chillies, thinly sliced

coarse sea salt and black pepper

toasted flaked almonds or thin slices of lemon (with skin), to garnish (optional)

Wash the broccoli and separate it into florets, being sure to leave the florets on their small individual stems. Bring a large pot of water to boil and blanch the broccoli for 2 minutes. Do not be tempted to go any longer. Transfer it immediately to a bowl of ice-cold water to stop the cooking process. You may want to do this in batches, depending on the size of your pot. Drain the broccoli in a colander and let it dry thoroughly. It is important to let the broccoli dry completely. (I laid mine out on a flour-sack cloth for a while, just to make sure.)

In a mixing bowl, add 45ml olive oil and a generous amount of salt and pepper to the broccoli. Mix well.

Place a ridged grill pan over high heat and let it sit for 5 minutes or so to ensure that it is very hot. Grill the broccoli in batches because '[t]he florets musn't be cramped.' (Yes, that is my all-time favorite line in a cookbook ever.) Turn them over a few times so that they get char marks on them. Transfer to a bowl and start on the next batch.

Meanwhile, place the rest of the olive oil in a saucepan with the sliced chillies and garlic. Simmer over medium heat until they just begin to brown. Do not let them burn! And remember that they will continue to cook once the heat is off.

Once all the broccoli is all ready, pour the olive oil mixture over it and toss. Taste for salt and pepper.

Serve warm or at room temperature (although, I daresay, it would even be good cold). Garnish with the almonds or lemon. (I used a lemon because the almonds sounded like a pain in the neck, even though I'm pretty sure they wouldn't be.) (Ottolenghi: The Cookbook by Yotam Ottolenghi and Sami Tamimi, Ebury Press, 2008.)