Popovers For a Birthday (or Two or Three)

Here's the thing of it, popovers are very easy to make.  So, really, apart from burning them, the only real downside is that they take so blasted long in the oven.  This is why I found myself trying to quietly whip up a batch Saturday morning -- the birthday of yours truly.  I put all the ingredients in the food processor and stepped out onto the deck, making sure to close the door tightly behind me.  I then plugged the processor in and loudly whirred to my heart's content.  (I also do this when the small girl is still sleeping and I need to grind coffee beans.  Works like a charm, too.  Now, if only I could come up with a trick of silencing the damned microwave, we'd be in business.)

Anyway, I plonked the popovers in the oven, and then dashed to the computer with my blue-light and large cup of coffee in tow.  And I sat and waited.  And waited a bit more.  When it was getting closer for the timer to go off, I started causing a bit of a racket -- just to wake everyone up.  After all, it was going on 9:30 and we had a very busy day ahead of us.  Michael needed to yell at the telly for the Army/Navy game (Go Army, Beat Navy!, which clearly did not happen...), and we needed to load ourselves in the car and drive to the hospital.  My oldest sister had twin boys the day before -- weighing in at 4lbs 11oz each.  They are teeny-tiny little things, born a whole month early, and they remind me exactly of baby birds.  Well, apart from their legs, those look more in the manner of little frogs, if you must know.

A Lazy Sod's Pipérade

Well, I've finally done it.  I've made our daughter throw-up due to my cooking.  Nice, right?  It went like this: we got home from church on Sunday and while Michael was talking to his parents on the phone, I was cooking up lunch for Emilia -- and it was something entirely new.  We bought these glass noodles from Uwajimaya a month or so, intending to use them for an Ottolenghi recipe.  However, that never happened, so I decided to quickly cook some of them up for the girl's lunch.  Now, mind you, I've never cooked with glass noodles before, so I had no clue what I was doing.  So, I treated them the same way I would regular spaghetti.  Big mistake. 

Once the noodles were cooked, I drained them, tossed them with a bit of olive oil, fresh tomato, and salt.  And let me tell you, revolting does not do it justice.  I couldn't even look at them, let alone eat them.  I tried, but spit them out.  And so, before tossing them in the trash, I asked Emilia (who was standing in the kitchen and at me looking like, 'why are you throwing away my lunch!') if she wanted to try them.  To my astonishment, the girl said yes.  I gave her a little bite, and she chewed, and she chewed, and then she started to look quite nauseous.  Two seconds later she threw up on the kitchen floor.  Michael was yelling, all mad-like, 'what did you feed her?!'  'Her lunch!' was all I could say before I started to laugh.  Poor thing.  I could hardly blame her -- after all, they made me sick just looking at them. 

This incident aside, I tend to get quite annoyed when Emilia refuses my cooking.  (She would have been smart to refuse it that particular time, though.)  Dinner ends up so stressful when I spend the whole of it trying to cram healthy things into her little mouth.  So when I decided to cook up Julia Child's recipe for Pipérade (which warrants another check-mark in my cookbook), I also cooked up some chicken for the girl, because otherwise I knew it would be a battle.  Any sort of frittata/omelette/quiche/eggy-dish turns into way too much of a headache.

The pipérade was so good, though.  The girl didn't know what she was missing -- well, apart from the bacon.  She happily ate as much of that as I would put on her plate.  It was also so easy to make -- perfect for an evening of putting up the Christmas tree and all that jazz. 

Leek and Potato Soup, à la Julia Child (To Help One Master the Art of Fitting One's Trousers)

A few nights ago I had a dream that Emilia and I flew to LA so that we could go to this cupcake shop.  The cupcakes were gorgeous -- all covered with exotic flowers and such.  So, in my dream, we bought five.  And I actually thought to myself, 'How are we going to eat all of these before they go bad?'  Anyway, we didn't dwell too much on that because we had to catch a plane back to Seattle before dada got home from work.  I was trying to work out in my head how we could get around telling him we went to LA for the day, and that it only cost $123 for our tickets.  But, in the manner of dreams, all of a sudden he was in the cab on the way back to the airport anyway, so it didn't really matter.

And then a week or so ago I dreamt about ice cream.  We were on a bus and it crashed up on this sidewalk.  While everyone was scrambling around, I looked out our window and saw the most beautiful ice cream shop.  It was filled with these enormous tubs of ice cream, and the one I reallyreallyreally wanted was the blackberry gelato, with a layer of white chocolate gelato on top, and a layer of dark chocolate gelato on top of that.  And then, going again with the theme, there were more of these amazing and gorgeous smelling flowers all over the top of it.  Oh, and some coconut shavings, too.

I wonder why I am dreaming so much about desserts.  It is not like I have been in deprivation mode.  In the least.  (Did I mention that I was trying to teach myself to make éclairs a few weeks ago, and managed to eat eight in three days?  Meanwhile, I wish so much that we had some of those right now.  All we've got are Christmas cut-out cookies -- not very tasty, if you want my opinion. I'm thinking of trying a different recipe next time round.)  However, I've noticed that my jeans have been a bit, shall we say, snug these days.  And I'm not just saying this because my mom took it upon herself to point it out, either.  I'm saying it because, even though I don't exactly look enormous, I much prefer to wriggle freely from my clothes instead of feeling like a seam is going to burst open whenever I move.  That feels most unpleasant, I must say.

And so, in an attempt not have to go out a buy the whole of jeans from Nordstrom (which are mostly that ghastly skinny sort anyway), I'm trying to whip myself into a bit of shape again.  Nothing drastic, you know.  Just little things like, trying to go running more than twice a year, for starters.  Drinking more green tea -- really ought to invest in some other stuff because what I bought from Uwajimaya a month or so ago tastes exactly the way cow shit smells, er, I mean, nature smells.  It's revolting.  And lastly, eating more French food.  Because everyone knows that the best way to make your jeans fit better is to eat more French food.  (Karl Lagerfeld once said that there is nothing more dangerous in this world than sauces.  He was speaking of French food and his own waistline, of course.  But he must have been mistaken, right?)

Strawberries Part 4 — (Not So) Perfect Génoise and French Strawberry Cake

Yes, well, there is no need to be rude about it.  I'm well aware of the fact that my French Strawberry Cake looks far from elegant (as the recipe promises), and just plain wonky — excuse me, I mean rustic.  This was even my second attempt, if you can believe it.  As we sat to the table eating the first attempt, Michael says to me, 'what kind of crust is this?'  Of course I completely let loose and told him off.  'There is no crust!  It just cake, OK!  A very difficult and rather testy cake, in case you were wondering, not that you were.  And if you think you're so smart then make the damned thing yourself!  Hmpf!'  Or something like that anyway.  And if some of those words were left out of the actual exchange, then I can promise you that they were on the forefront of my thoughts.  I mean, really.  Crust?  For hell's sake.

Anyway, if you happen to find yourself thumbing through Baking With Julia, the ever so marvelous cookbook (and telly show) that Julia Child hosted once upon a time, then you will find yourself stumbling across the recipe for Génoise, or The Perfect Génoise, as it is called.  Apparently anybody who fancies themselves to know anything about cooking at all can whip up one of these little babies in no time.  And everyone then stands back to marvel at your most amazing and adept skill.  That being said, the recipe says something along the lines of this: 'this cake is wildly temperamental.   You must tread lightly and you will still completely fail.  People will probably even laugh at you for it.  So, bearing that in mind, you must make it at least five times in a row if you ever plan to master the concept.'  Well, I never!

The funny thing is that the cake is actually so easy to make.  The second time I made it I did not even pull out the cookbook because I remembered the whole thing. Yet there is still fear and intimidation; because, yes, it is easy — but it also requires a serious understanding of the technique.  And sadly, after all the work you put into it, if it is going to crumble and turn into a 'crust', that bit happens literally within the last thirty seconds of making it.  Drat, to say the least.  However, if it does turn disastrous, then you can always fall back on the divine, heavenly, beyond superb filling that goes in the cake — just sitting on top the crust, if you will.  Essentially you are meant to cut the cake into three, and then sandwich it with layers of macerated strawberries and cream.  It's superb.  In fact, the next time I make whipped cream for anything I am doing it in the manner of this cake — adding two tablespoons of sour cream.  The rest is a given: heavy cream, sugar, and vanilla extract.  After I made it the first time, Emilia and Governor stood in the kitchen cleaning the bowl for me — Emilia with the beaters and Governor with his little head lost somewhere inside the deep bowl.

And so, as my pièce de résistance, here is the last strawberry recipe I am giving to you.  In many ways it is my favorite.  The only problem with it (other than the sheer temperamental-ness of the cake) is that is does not store well in the fridge longer than a day or so.  (This is ironic as you are meant to put the cake in the fridge for at least an hour before you serve it.)  And having a rather small group to feed here, we cannot possibly eat that much cake (no matter how elegant/rustic it may be) in that short of time.  Particularly when you are already doing battle with jam, muffins, and ice cream — all of the strawberry nature.

The Art of Cooking Omelettes by Madame Romaine de Lyon

If you happen to find yourself wandering about in the Smithsonian's National Museum of American History, then you will undoubtedly stumble upon Julia Child's Kitchen. And yes, it is actually her kitchen — not a replica — which she donated, in whole, several years before her death.

As you stare through the plexi-glass at Julia's pegged walls, wooden counter-tops, bon appetit! plaque, and her bookcase filled with not much more than a copy of 'Miss Joy', her own cookbooks, and the local telephone directories; you begin to notice the more museum-like features in the room. Outside of the kitchen, photographs, quotes, and various memorabilia line the walls. A television screen plays either a perpetual biography/tribute to Julia Child or an episode of The French Chef. Incidentally, if you happen to sit and watch The French Chef for a minute, you see that it is her Omelette episode. And if you actually sit and watch this episode, you are struck by how effortless and easy it appears to make an omelette. (Shall we laugh now, or shall we laugh later?)

It requires skill to make an omelette. And I have never in my life seen anyone do it as beautifully as Julia Child. As she works, she is talking and yucking it up for the camera, and all the while the viewer (me) is astounded by how she was almost able to mask the level of her skill with her funny and down-to-earth personality. The whole experience is mesmerizing. You walk away from it thinking, 'Shooot, see if I don't give that a try!' (Meanwhile, even my dried beans were flying across the kitchen...)

Toward the end of this episode Julia recommends two books on omelette making. (See, it must be hard to make an omelette if you have to read books on the subject before actually attempting to make them in your own home.) One of those is The Art of Cooking Omelettes by Madame Romaine de Lyon, originally published in 1963. Let me be the first to tell you — this book is a gem. Shocking, perhaps. But truly — this book is fabulous, and here is why.

'No one comes into the world an instinctive maker of omelettes, and I would not
have you believe that as soon as I could walk, I toddled into the kitchen,
seized an egg and a frying pan, and began at once what was to be my life's
work.'

Thus begins The Art of Cooking Omelettes. It is an extraordinarily well-written book, and I found Madame Romaine's biography to be fascinating. And at times the book is hilarious. However, I don't think that is ever the intention. Rather, I have to remind myself how very important (and serious) omelette-making can be, for goodness' sake!

The Art of Cooking Omelettes is broken down into four sections: Madame Romaine's personal journey (becoming 'the Queen of the Omelette Makers, as they sometimes call me'); instructions on how to cook an omelette; over 500 recipes for making her omelettes; and what to serve with an omelette (salad and wine), and who she has served them to. Apparently she has served many a famous face and is not afraid to let you know this.

Madame Romaine was born in Lyon and grew up working in her parents' restaurant. She learned everything from her mother who was 'an instructive cuisinère, and saw to it that I learned in proper order: first principles; then recipes; and, finally, style.' Madame Romaine lived in Lyon until she married, at a very young age, and moved to New York City with her new husband. She spoke no English whatsoever when she arrived in the US and took a bit of time building up confidence to do so. While still very young, her husband tragically suffered a heart-attack and died. Madame Romaine was then left wondering what to do and eventually opened a Salon de Thé in Manhattan. Her eventual location was at 156 East 56th Street, and I have been very curious to see what is there today. (After looking around a bit, I discovered that Madame Romaine's restaurant is now closed. Switching locations a few times after her death, the new owners were forced to close in 2003 on account of not paying taxes...)

Anyway, the instructions for making an omelette, as per Madame Romaine, are very simple. However, she acknowledges right off the bat that the only way to learn it properly is to do it over and over and over again. According to Madame Romaine, it takes exactly 2 minutes to make an omelette — not including the 25-30 seconds required for beating the eggs. She uses nothing fancy at all in her preparation and claims that 'everyone who cooks should know how to do an omelette.' I daresay she is right. And I daresay that this book is marvelous — whether you use it for a cookbook or just a good read involving many useful tips. May God bless Madame Romaine de Lyon, and of course, Julia Child. (The Art of Cooking Omelettes by Madame Romain de Lyon, Doubleday Publishing, 1963.)

Basic Buttermilk Scones for Tea (or Breakfast)

I find it very comical that Julia Child has become vogue and fashionable again because of that ridiculous book Julie & Julia. I never even knew that she had become unfashionable. Shows what I know, I guess, because I have always been an ardent fan of hers. And really, how could one not be? You don't even need to cook to be a huge admirer. The woman was truly magnificent.

I suppose that, like everybody else, when you first begin to dabble with Mastering the Art of French Cooking, you make the first recipe in the book — Potage Parmentier, which is potato and leek soup. When we lived in New Jersey a million years ago, I would make this soup all the time — because not only is it simple and good for you, it is cheap to make. Considering I was in graduate school and Michael was in law school at the time, this was very helpful indeed. And if we ever got down about feeling poor, we could console ourselves with the fact that our dinner was French and therefore very fancy. Or, at least I could. Michael was typically just glad when I laid off the lentils for a bit. Incidentally, lentils are another cheap (and very healthy, mind you) soup-making ingredient.

Anyway, what I am trying to get at here (in a not very efficient way) is that many times the simplest recipes are often the best. And that is where buttermilk scones comes in.

I have long been obsessed with the idea of Afternoon Tea, or High Tea, if you will. Not only is it clearly the time of day when one can use a pick-me-up, but there is almost something ceremonious about it. And the idea of deliberately pausing from the daily chaos in order to do this is ingenious. Michael knows a federal appellate judge (who hails out of Texas) who takes High Tea every day. This judge has the right idea, too, because he refuses all phone calls and such during this time. Smart man — no wonder he's got the job he does.

So anyway, getting back to the marvelous Mrs. Child. A handful of years ago I discovered the book Baking with Julia, which was also done as a PBS series. In this, Julia works with the country's best bakers and gives myriad recipes, techniques, and what have you. It is actually a great idea — she scouted out the person who was best known for a particular baked good(s) and invited them into her kitchen to do a demonstration. And the recipe range is spectacular: from Whole Wheat Bread and Bagels, to Espresso Profiteroles and Chocolate Truffle Tartlets, to Pizza Rustica and Milanese Torta. See what I mean? Spectacular. And those are just a few of the recipes.

The recipe for Buttermilk Scones in Baking with Julia is hands-down the best scone recipe I have ever come across. They are a breeze to make, which is nice if you are serving them for afternoon tea, and even nicer if you are serving them for breakfast. Breakfast is now when they usually appear on our table. However, I have recently learned that the baked scones freeze very well. So whatever you have left from your lovely breakfast table you can put in a few layers of heavy-duty aluminum foil and put in your freezer. Then a week or so later you can pull them out in the morning and have them for your tea later. Just be sure to have lots of butter and jam on hand. I have always preferred Bonne Maman's Four Fruit Preserves, although their Strawberry or Raspberry Preserves are also very good. You can find Bonne Maman at most any grocery store, within reason.

Scones

3 cups all-purpose flour

⅓ cup sugar

2 ½ teaspoons baking powder

½ teaspoon baking soda

¾ teaspoon salt

1 ½ stick cold unsalted butter, cut into small pieces

1 cup (approximately) buttermilk

1 tablespoon grated orange or lemon zest

½ stick unsalted butter, melted, for brushing

¼ cup sugar, for dusting

Preheat oven to 425°, and position the racks into thirds in the oven.

Mix flour, sugar, baking powder, baking soda, and salt in a medium size bowl. Add the cold butter and mix it with your hands until it resembles coarse cornmeal. (You could also use a pastry cutter, but your hands are really the best option.) It's OK if there are a few bigger pieces of butter remaining because they add to the flakiness of the scones.

Pour in the buttermilk and the zest and mix with a fork until it is just combined. Do not be tempted to mix it until it looks pretty! Gather the dough into a ball and press it gently so that everything sticks together. Place on a lightly floured surface and knead a few times. Don't go crazy here. When it comes to this dough — truly, less is more.

At this point I flatten the dough until it is about ¾ of an inch thick. Pull out the handy-dandy scone (or cookie) cutter and go to work. Place the scones on a baking sheet, lined with parchment, brush them with melted butter, and sprinkle with a little bit of sugar. Alternatively, you could form the dough into a large circle and cut into triangles, like a pie or a pizza or something. However, my favorite happens to be the rounded scone.

Bake for 10-12 minutes, until both the tops and bottoms are golden. Transfer to a wire rack and let cool slightly. Best served warm.

If you pull these from the freezer, then let them defrost as they are on the counter. When ready to serve them, take off the foil and bake for 5 minutes at 350°. (Recipe from Marion Cunningham via Baking with Julia, by Dorie Greenspan, William Morrow and Co, 1996.)