White Fluffy Icing

Musings of a reasonably competent home cook.

Friendship (Through the Narrow Aisles of Pain)

Jan 7

Posted by Laura in Baking, Food of Love | 2 Comments

A friend is a second self. –Aristotle

Planning a funeral is a lot like planning a wedding, only on three days’ notice. For Dad’s funeral, I needed a church, a priest, lectors, altar boys. Instead of groomsmen, I needed pallbearers.

I needed something to wear. I needed something for Dad to wear. I needed four thousand tissues and a metric ton of makeup.

When I took Dad’s best suit to the funeral home, I forgot to include a rosary to be placed in his hand. I intended to bring one to the wake service, but in the sad chaos of it all, it slipped my mind then, too. It was a small detail — nothing more than a symbol, really — but praying the Rosary was an important part of both my parents’ lives. Burying each of them with one was meaningful.

Thankfully, I remembered to bring it to the church on the day of the funeral. There were unending details to attend to that morning, but I managed to find five minutes that would allow me this indulgence, this one moment of closure. The funeral director wasn’t anywhere nearby; he was coordinating bigger pieces of our somber ritual, probably in the back of the church with the priest. I could have spent my precious five minutes tracking him down (and been diverted seven times in the process), or I could figure it out myself and know with certainty that it was done.

In our thirty five years together, Dad and I shared a lot of moments in that little church. During Mass, he would always offer me his hand, and I would always take it – a silent gesture of affection that we’d share during the Bible readings and through the homily.

Looking down at our clasped hands, it was almost comic how different they were. Mine are pale with transparent skin that shows a highway system of bluish green veins beneath.  Dad’s hands matched his dark complexion and were rough from a life spent working on tractors and cars. My hands are fairly long and slender; his, thick and compact – like the jaws of a vise. A gentle vise. A gentle vise that liked to be held and examined.

I don’t know how many Masses we attended together, holding hands, but that was our routine. Our little routine in this little church.

I was in robot mode when I walked over to place the rosary with Dad, more focused on all the remaining things to be done than on what I was actually doing. I was looking at his hands, trying to remember how a rosary is supposed to look, and then… I saw his hands. I snapped to the moment, and I really saw them. They were handsome, bordered by the cuffs of his suit jacket, those gentle calloused hands I had held so many Sundays and countless other times. His hands. Tears stung my eyelids; I thought my knees might buckle.

I tucked the rosary in as best I could, threading the beads through his palm and letting the crucifix lay gently across his knuckles. My fierce intent to make it look natural was ironic, given how entirely unnatural it all was. I hovered, staring, overanalyzing. Suddenly, Aunt Denise was standing next to me, saying that it looked perfect, just perfect. I felt reassured.

My work was done, but I wasn’t ready to leave him. I reached out and touched his hand again. It was ice cold — much colder than I had expected — but I didn’t care. It was still his. I examined it, for the last time. His calluses were still there, his skin still weathered and tough. His hands.

I felt feminine, nurturing – a woman looking after her father. I was making sure he was comfortable, while acutely aware that he wasn’t actually there. I was nurturing the shell of a man that I had known well and loved deeply.

I could have stood there for hours with him, but it was nearly time for the funeral to begin.  The priest and the family were waiting. I took a deep breath, turned — and literally walked into my friend Meredith. She’d been standing behind me when I thought I was all alone.

I looked up to explain, but her soft eyes told me she understood. She wrapped her arms around me and I lost my composure for a brief moment as she held me close.

We both knew it would be the last time I would see my father.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When the ceremony was over, our family shuffled out of the church behind the priest, ahead of everyone else. We were suddenly standing in the sunshine; a beautiful day.

I felt a little lost, unsure of what to do next.

I turned and saw Lisa standing in the church yard with her infant son. She must have had to step outside to change him, or shoosh him, not realizing that she was planting herself exactly where I would need her a few moments later.

Her eyes were big, brimming with tears. I can’t imagine, her eyes told me, silently. But when I try, my heart aches and the tears come and I just really hurt for you.

I went to her and she pulled me in tight, her strong embrace having plenty of room for both me and her sweet boy. She touched my hair; it was invigorating to be loved like that, in that moment.  The rest of the day, including the burial, stretched out before me, and I was more than willing to borrow her strength.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I can recount a dozen more stories of how my friends rallied around me when Dad died.

How Leah instantly grasped the grief I was too shocked to yet feel.

How Andy held my hand that day.

How Jamie inspired me to somehow find paradise in the midst of my sorrow.

How Shana talked with me about things that only daughters who have lost their fathers too soon can really understand.

In the opening lines of her poem Solitude, Ella Wheeler Wilcox wrote, “laugh and the world laughs with you; weep and you weep alone.”  I love that piece for its harrowing insights about grief, but bless her heart, Ella must not have had friends like mine.

I weep, but I do not weep alone.

My second selves weep with me.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Solitude
By Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Laugh, and the world laughs with you;
Weep, and you weep alone.
For the sad old earth must borrow it’s mirth,
But has trouble enough of its own.
Sing, and the hills will answer;
Sigh, it is lost on the air.
The echoes bound to a joyful sound,
But shrink from voicing care.

Rejoice, and men will seek you;
Grieve, and they turn and go.
They want full measure of all your pleasure,
But they do not need your woe.
Be glad, and your friends are many;
Be sad, and you lose them all.
There are none to decline your nectared wine,
But alone you must drink life’s gall.

Feast, and your halls are crowded;
Fast, and the world goes by.
Succeed and give, and it helps you live,
But no man can help you die.
There is room in the halls of pleasure
For a long and lordly train,
But one by one we must all file on
Through the narrow aisles of pain.

 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I learned from my mother about the importance of having deep, meaningful friendships.  All her life, she maintained a wide and varied circle of people that she loved, and they loved her right back.

There’s a story about Mom and a lemon cake she encountered while on an outing with a group of girlfriends.  She and her friends loved the cake, and she vowed to replicate it when she got home, which she did.

Linda, one of the friends that was there that day, contributed the recipe for the lemon cake to our church’s 100th anniversary cookbook, in Mom’s honor.  She called it “Girlfriend’s Lemon Icebox Cake,” which makes me smile every time I see it.

I was inspired by this story of friendship to make mom’s icebox cake, but it calls for lemon cake mix and lemon instant pudding, which I don’t keep on hand.  What I did have on hand was a raft of Meyer lemons from my neighbors Joe and Janet — so I made these cupcakes instead.

Triple Lemon Cupcakes

(Adapted from Peace Meals, a gorgeous cookbook published in 2008 by the Junior League of Houston, a copy of which was given to me by my good friend, Jamie)

Cupcakes:
3 1/2 cups all-purpose flour
2 teaspoons baking powder
1 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 cup (2 sticks) butter, softened
1 1/2 cups sugar
2 teaspoons pure vanilla extract
3 eggs, room temperature
16 ounces sour cream, room temperature
2 teaspoons finely shredded lemon zest

Lemon Curd:
5 egg yolks
1 cup sugar (if you’re using Meyers, taste them — if they’re sweet, you may want to cut the sugar back to 3/4 cup)
4 lemons, zested and juiced
1/2 cup (1 stick) butter, cut into pats and chilled

Frosting:
1 cup (2 sticks) butter, room temperature
3 cups powdered sugar
2 tablespoons Coffee Mate powdered creamer (it cuts the sweetness!)
3 teaspoons milk
1/4 cup Lemon Curd

For the cupcakes:
Preheat the oven to 350°F. Line 24 standard muffin cups with paper baking liners (I prefer Reynolds brand double layered liners, foil with paper inside). In a medium bowl, whisk or sift the flour, baking powder, baking soda and salt. In the large bowl of an electric mixer, beat the butter on medium high speed until creamy, about 30 seconds. Gradually add the sugar; beat on high speed until lightened in color and texture, at least 2 minutes and up to 5 minutes. Add the vanilla and then the eggs one at a time, beating well after each addition. Add the flour mixture in three parts, alternating with the sour cream in two parts, beating on low speed after each addition just until combined, creating a thick batter. Stir in the lemon zest. Spoon about 1/4 cup of the batter into each prepared cup. Bake about 20 to 25 minutes or until a wooden toothpick inserted in the center comes out clean. Cool completely.

For the lemon curd:
Combine the egg yolks, sugar, and lemon zest in a medium stainless steel or enamel saucepan. Whisk until smooth lightened in color, about 1 minute. Measure the lemon juice and, if needed, add enough cold water to reach 1/3 cup. Add the juice to the egg mixture and whisk again until smooth. Add the pats of butter, then cook over medium heat, whisking, until the butter is melted. Continue to whisk constantly until the mixture is thickened, allowing it to simmer gently for a few seconds. Scrape the curd into a clean bowl. Let cool, then cover with layer of plastic wrap directly on the surface of the curd. Refrigerate for up to 2 weeks. (It will continue to thicken when refrigerated.)

For the frosting:
Cream the butter on medium speed until light and fluffy. Gradually add the powdered sugar and powdered creamer, then add the milk and blend until smooth. Add the Lemon Curd and mix until well blended.

To assemble:
Scoop out the center of each cupcake using a melon baller, spoon, 1-inch biscuit cutter, or whatever tool you have on hand that will do the trick. Fill each cupcake center with the Lemon Curd. Top each cupcake with frosting, either piping through a bag (you can use a regular old zip-top bag with one of the corners snipped off) or with a butter knife.

Note: You might be wondering what to do with 24 little scraps of cake.  I had plans to make a parfait from mine, but my husband and my kiddo swiped them before I had a chance.  I imagine you won’t have a problem disposing of yours, either…

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Room In The Inn

Dec 20

Posted by Laura in Food of Love | 3 Comments

There’s a particular dish that, for me, sums up everything that the Christmas season is all about.

Fried chicken.

It’s an odd choice, no?  Perhaps you expected figgy pudding.  Let me explain.

It was roughly twenty years ago, in the early 90s. After a long day’s work, my friend Andy was greeted at his front door by a complete stranger.  Hi, I’m Holly, she said, peering through her glasses.  I’m gonna call you Daddy.  Her disheveled hair was blond; she wore a dirty, well-worn purple dress.  She was five years old, maybe six.

Andy went inside and learned that Holly really was going to be calling him Daddy – she was joining their family as a foster child.  As stressful or momentous as this may sound to you or me, this didn’t faze him much. It wasn’t the first foster kiddo for him and his wife Paula, and it wouldn’t be their last.

To be precise, Andy and Paula cared for exactly twenty children over the course of their foster parenting career, adopting three of those twenty in the process.  Add the two beautiful daughters they had the, uh, old fashioned way, and you’ve got yourself a bona fide brood.  In fact, Andy and Paula raised so many young children that they literally had a kid in kindergarten twelve years in a row.

Let me repeat that: They were parents of a kindergartner for twelve years in a row.

Given that their house was full of social workers, paperwork, and a mild level of general chaos, Andy knew that a home-cooked dinner wasn’t gonna happen on Holly’s first night with her new family.  So he did the sensible thing – he ran out and picked up some fried chicken from the place just up the street.

Later, at the dinner table, Holly’s eyes were understandably wide.  Reaching into the bucket of chicken, Andy asked whether Holly preferred a drumstick or a thigh; she chose drumstick. A few minutes later, Andy scooped some mashed potatoes onto her plate.  That’s when she said the words Andy would never forget:

You mean I get two things to eat tonight?

Now, I wasn’t there, but I’m willing to bet that every heart in the house melted right then.

Andy had no way to explain that their home was an all-you-can-eat kinda joint – it would have blown her little mind.  Instead, the family did their best to make her feel comfortable, welcome, and safe, the same way they’d done with the others who had sat in her place before.

It took a while for her to adjust, Andy told me.  It was months before she stopped raiding the kitchen garbage can for food.  He and Paula would find remnants and wrappers and scraps in the bedroom, leftovers from her late night scavenges.

Makes you think, doesn’t it?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

By now, we’re all familiar with the Christmas narrative:

And [Mary] brought forth her firstborn son, and wrapped him in swaddling clothes, and laid him in a manger; because there was no room for them in the inn.

In one sense, the story of Christ is a story of rejection.  He was rejected by the political and religious leaders of his day, he was rejected by his neighbors and townspeople, and eventually, he was rejected by his closest friends.

That story of rejection actually began the day he was born: There was no room for them in the inn.

Christ taught his followers to feed the hungry, clothe the naked, and welcome strangers.  He preached about caring for the sick and visiting those in prison.  When he left, he commissioned his followers to continue his work, to be his eyes and ears and hands and feet – that is, to be “the body of Christ.”

Sometimes I wonder if I’m truly a part of the body of Christ, if I’m really walking the walk.  It seems like such a tall order.  Is it possible, in this modern age, to do what he asked of us?

Then Christmas rolls around, and I think of this story.  There was room in Andy’s inn — for Holly and nineteen others.

Is there room in the inn of my heart?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Once, during an awkward icebreaker exercise with a large group, I was asked what I would choose for my last meal.  Sidestepping the morbid nature of such an inquiry, the answer was easy: my mama’s fried chicken with all the fixin’s.

I’m not great at frying food, and I’m even worse at making gravy, but I’m learning.  Here’s a basic recipe.

Buttermilk Fried Chicken
adapted from the Joy of Cooking

3 to 3 1/2 pounds chicken drumsticks or thighs
1 1/2 cups buttermilk
3 teaspoons salt, divided
2 teaspoons black pepper, divided
Sriracha or other hot sauce to taste (optional)
2 cups all-purpose flour
1/2 teaspoon ground red (cayenne) pepper, optional (or substitute your favorite Cajun seasoning blend (e.g., Tony Chachere’s)in lieu of the salt and the cayenne)
About 3 cups solid vegetable shortening
Nearby box of baking soda and/or fire extinguisher, just in case (seriously!)

Rinse the chicken pieces and pat them dry. In a large bowl, combine the buttermilk, 1 teaspoon of the salt, 1 teaspoon of the pepper, and Sriracha or hot sauce, if using. Add the chicken to the buttermilk and turn to coat. Let stand for at least 15 minutes, or in the refrigerator for up to 12 hours.

In a large paper grocery bag, combine the flour, the remaining 2 teaspoons salt, the remaining 1 teaspoon black pepper, and cayenne pepper, if using. Shake to mix, then add the chicken pieces to the bag and shake until well coated.

In a large cast iron skillet (12-inch or larger), heat the shortening over medium-high heat to melt it. The goal is to have a 1/2 inch depth of hot melted shortening to fry in, so use more or less as necessary.

Heat the shortening to about 375 degrees, or until a small amount of flour sprinkled into the shortening bubbles furiously. Carefully lay the chicken pieces skin side down into the hot shortening. Cook for until browned on the bottom, about 10 minutes, checking frequently and repositioning if they are coloring unevenly. Lower the heat if they are browning too quickly.

Turn the pieces with tongs and cook an additional 10 minutes or so, until the second side is browned and the meat is cooked through. Remove the chicken to a wire rack set over a baking sheet. Hold in a warm (170 degree) oven if not serving immediately.

Lagniappe: I Saw You

Nov 28

Posted by Laura in Lagniappe | No Comments

I saw you, Dad.

I saw you through the screen door of that house I don’t know.  I was on the second floor, up on stilts, so we must have been on the coast somewhere.  You were sitting in a lawn chair, facing the house. I don’t know why.  When you saw me, you waved, casually.  Here I am, you said with your wave, simultaneously trying to catch my eye and still telegraph your nonchalant style.  If you’re looking for me, here I am… not that it’s any big deal.

I was looking, Dad, out of the screen door of this strange coastal house.  I saw you.

I bolted through the door and screamed down those rickety stairs, watching with some measure of disbelief at how quickly my feet were moving.  I arrived safely at the bottom, fighting the urge to glance back at my accomplishment – but I didn’t want to take my eyes off of her.

I wanted to run to you and to fall into your arms, Dad, but she was there, right beside you.  And Dad, it’s been so long since I’ve seen her, I’m sure you understood why I went to her first.

I sprinted the fifteen yards or so from the stairs to where you both were sitting.  She tried to stand up, and partially succeeded, but I was there in an instant, crouching down, holding her.  We squatted there, like fools, hugging, and I was overwhelmed with joy and surprise and relief.  I touched her arms and face, inspecting her.  She was thin, and her hair was cropped short, but she was smiling and strong and limber and there.  She was there, and I was there.  We were together, and it was real.

I was desperate for the moment not to end.  So desperate that I actually thought to myself as she smiled at me, Please don’t let this end. Let me stay, at least for a while.

Of course, that’s when I was yanked away.  I startled awake, gasping, cold air filling my lungs.  I was alone in my dark bedroom.  She was gone.

And I missed you.

I closed my eyes again, trying to recreate the scene.  I saw you again, Dad, waving.  You were wearing one of your mesh trucker hats, propped high on your head, and a red plaid button down shirt, with short sleeves.  Your tan legs were crossed, right ankle resting on left knee, making it hard to see your khaki shorts.

Without taking the time to really look, I could see Mom again too, sitting next to you.  She was wearing that beige and white seersucker shirt, the one that, if I’m being honest, I always thought was kind of an odd choice for her.

I bolted again, but when I was about halfway down the stairs, my eyes opened.  The first hints of daylight peeked from behind the blinds.

I kept trying, over and over, and I kept seeing you sitting there, waving. It fell apart each time before I got down the stairs.  And each time I opened my eyes, the sun was a bit brighter.

My opportunity was missed.  The window, closed.

I’ll do better next time, Daddy. 

I promise.

Inferiority

Nov 19

Posted by Laura in Baking, Food of Love | 6 Comments

Life is easier now that we can bake cookies together.

Motherhood doesn’t come easily to me.

Don’t get me wrong, The Boy is thriving and I love him more than I ever dreamed possible, but parenting just isn’t a natural talent of mine.

Remember when you learned to play basketball for the first time, in gym class, and you slowly realized that some people just don’t have any hand-eye coordination?  It’s sort of like that.  When my friends hear my questions and concerns and frustrations about being a mom, they’re thinking, Why can’t she just put the ball in the basket?

An example:  When The Boy was but a wee thing — a month old, perhaps — my friends encouraged me to venture out.  Start small, they said.  Run a quick errand, or get a cup of coffee.  You’ll be surprised at how easy it is.

So I did.  I made sure he had a full belly, then put him in a fresh outfit.  Perhaps more noteworthy, I put me in a fresh outfit.  I packed an extra set of everything and set out for our two mile journey to the nearest coffee shop.

The drive was pleasant enough.  It was a sunny day, and when I looked back every five seconds, The Boy was oblivious, content.

My friends were right, I thought, it’s nice to be out.  We arrived uneventfully at the coffee shop.  I unclicked his bucket seat and carried him in.

It was about two o’clock on a weekday afternoon.  Aside from the baristas banging around behind the bar, it was quiet.  On a momentary break from life, the patrons were all quietly reading or pecking on a gadget or sipping coffee.  It was an oasis.  We had all escaped, including me.  I was out.

I walked to the counter, gently set the bucket on the floor, and dug around for my wallet.  That’s when the dream started to unravel.

Just as the barista asked what she could get for me, The Boy started to whimper.  Oh crap.  I reached out with my foot and tipped the round-bottomed bucket ever so slightly, to make it rock, and then quickly ordered a medium coffee to go.  Maybe if I acted like I knew what I was doing, it would all be okay.

For his part, The Boy was not amused.  The whimper quickly turned into a fuss.  My shoulders crept skyward, toward my earlobes.  Please tell me this isn’t happening.

The fuss turned into a cry, which quickly escalated into a howl.  I tossed some money on the counter, grabbed the coffee, and then turned and froze, staring down at my son.  How was I going to carry this heaping bucket-o-Boy and a cup of hot coffee at the same time?  And even if I could manage that, how was I going carry all that AND get my keys out AND unlock my door AND heave him back into the car?  I needed another arm.  (Octopus mamas must have it soooo easy.)

"Coffee shops aren't my thing. I'd rather hang in the kitchen."

The Boy kept howling, red now.  The bubble of our communal oasis had been burst — pillaged, sacked, plundered.  I could feel the intensely hot laser beams from everyone’s eyeballs, staring.  Now that I think about it, this explains why I broke out into a sweat.  Will someone please remind me why hot coffee was a good idea?

I had to get out of there.  I tucked the handle of the bucket into the crook of my strong arm and grabbed the coffee with the other hand.  I lurched like a zombie towards the door — bucket-toting arm lifted for leverage, coffee arm almost fully extended in anticipation of the now-certain spill, which would surely land directly on my infant son’s face and scald him beyond recognition.  Really?, I chided myself.  Hot coffee?

Outside, scorching tears of frustration, embarrassment and ineptitude sprang from my eyes as I ditched the cup in the garbage can and continued toward the car.  Once there, I looked him over.  His diaper was dry, his belly still full.  Nothing was poking or pulling or pinching him.  Why was he screaming?  Had I somehow dislocated his arm?  Were we being pursued by machete-wielding guerrillas, unbeknownst to me?  I looked around, just to be sure.

I eventually gave up, clicked his bucket back into the car, and drove home.  He screamed the whole way.  In fact, he screamed so loud and for so long, that he started to lose his voice.  (I challenge you to find that in a parenting book.)

Against my better judgment, I’m going to be perfectly honest with you and admit to something unflattering and quite uncourageous.  The thought that was going through my head as I pulled into the driveway was this:

I went and had a BABY and now I’m stuck in this HOUSE for the rest of my LIFE.

I’m about as extroverted as they come.  The thought of having to choose between staying home and breaking out in hives from the stress of “being out” was unbearable.  I felt as though I’d just heard my own death knell.

Things got better, of course.  The Boy grew and changed.  I grew and changed.  I went back to work, which helped.  He learned to crawl, then walk, then talk.  He’s no less demanding now, actually, but at least we understand each other.

Here’s another unflattering admission:  When I’m in quiet public places, like coffee shops and churches and movie theaters, and I hear a baby screaming, I secretly like it.  Even more so when it’s a mother, and she looks flustered, mopping her brow.  Isn’t that terrible?!

I’m not taking joy in their frustration, mind you; I’m just relishing the fact that I’m not alone.

Actually, I like to think of it this way: I’m curing myself of a quite-serious inferiority complex, one fussy baby at a time.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

In hindsight, a tiny coffee shop was not the greatest venue for a first adventure – I didn’t realize just how loud a baby could be in small quiet space.

My second mistake was actually ordering coffee.  What I should have done is ask for a cookie – a highly portable, room temperature, easily-scarfed-if-I-suddenly-have-to-carry-my-kid cookie.

The problem is, food at coffee shops is generally miserable.  So The Boy and I made cookies ourselves, which I adapted from the November issue of Food & Wine magazine.

Cranberry Chocolate Chip Cookies

Adapted from Dried Cranberry and Chocolate Cookies, Food & Wine, November 2011

1 1/2 cups dried cranberries
2 cups unbleached all-purpose flour
1 cup quick-cooking oats (or regular rolled oats)
1 teaspoon baking powder
1 teaspoon baking soda
1 teaspoon kosher salt
2 1/2 sticks unsalted butter, room temperature
1 cup light brown sugar
1/2 cup granulated sugar
1 large egg, room temperature
1 large egg yolk, room temperature
1 tablespoon pure vanilla extract
1 1/2 cups semisweet chocolate chips


Preheat the oven to 325°F. Line two baking sheets with parchment paper.  Cover the cranberries in hot water and let soak for at least 5 minutes, but not more than 10 minutes.  Drain the cranberries; set aside.


Meanwhile, in a medium bowl, whisk together the flour, oats, baking powder, baking soda and salt. In a standing mixer fitted with the paddle, beat the butter and both sugars at medium speed until creamy, about 3-4 minutes. Add the egg followed by the egg yolk and vanilla, beating well between additions and scraping down the side of the bowl as necessary.  Add the flour mixture, chocolate chips and cranberries all at once and stir just until combined.


Spoon heaping teaspoons of the dough onto the baking sheets, 2 inches apart. Bake for 12 to 15 minutes, until the cookies begin to brown at the edges. Let the cookies cool on the baking sheets, then transfer them to a rack to cool completely.


Store in an airtight container.

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Go Big or Go Home

Nov 17

Posted by Laura in Food of Love | 2 Comments

This year’s grand prize went to Chef Richard Hawthorne from Grotto Las Vegas, for his “Updated Tiramisu.” Congratulations, Chef Richard!

In my professional life, age has crept up on me.

Early in my career, I kept my head down and my mouth shut.  I watched and learned.  I unjammed the copy machine and befriended the guys in the mail room.  Above all, I made sure there was always a cover sheet on my TPS report.

Then – suddenly, it seemed — people started asking for my expertise.

Wait.  I have expertise?  It occurred to me that I’ve been working for fifteen years.  It occurred to me that that’s a long time; maybe I do know a thing or two about a thing or two.

Huh.

Something really interesting happens on the way up the corporate ladder.  You start taking on projects and making decisions, which usually involves working with a few young guns, and it’s difficult to remember that you’re not one of them anymore.  You think back to the managers you worked with back in the day – they were smart, they were put together, they were… old.  You do some mental math, and it strikes you that they must have been in their mid-thirties at the time.  You gasp as realize that you are in your mid-thirties. You’re “that guy” – that old manager.  See how it creeps up?

Okay, fine.  You’re old and you have more responsibility.  That leads to another realization – you suddenly know full well those young’uns are criticizing you at the water cooler.  You see the way they look at you; those pre-pubescent punks think your job is easy.  They think they have all the answers.

Hey!, you want to shout in their direction as you sprint by the water cooler, late for a meeting, this isn’t as easy as it looks! There are budget restraints and politics and too many board members and not enough minions…

You can’t say that, of course.  Didn’t I mention that there aren’t enough minions?

The thing is, they’re probably right, at least on some level.  They likely have some really good ideas – fresh takes on old problems, insights on new ones. Heck, they probably even know what cloud computing is. If you’re smart, you’ll tap into those ideas, sift through them, and put the good ones to work.

But how?  The smart kids – the ones with the first-class ideas – know that their safest course of action is to keep quiet.  Speaking up is risky.

In fact, soliciting ideas within your organization is such a prevalent management issue that The Wall Street Journal recently ran a piece about it.  The article, written by Rachel Emma Silverman, discusses methods ranging from the wearisome suggestion box to online idea-submission systems to dedicated ATM-like kiosks situated in high-traffic employee areas.

Those are all well and good, but the best example I’ve seen of a company tapping into the potential of its employees is at Landry’s, Inc.

For those who may not be familiar, the Landry’s empire, headquartered in Houston, is one of the largest in the country.  They operate 35 different concepts, which include over 300 restaurants and entertainment properties, and employ approximately 350 chefs.  They have operations in 31 states.

How do you even begin to manage all that?  How can you possibly keep the ideas fresh?  How do you inspire that many chefs to push the envelope, to keep innovating, to figure out what works best?  More importantly, how do you encourage the best ones to share what they know?

Well, if you’re Landry’s, you appeal to their egos and conduct an invitation-only smackdown.

For seven years, Landry’s has invited its top culinary professionals from across the country to compete head to head in a two-day cooking competition. This year, 36 chefs presented 78 dishes over a two day time period, battling for honors in four categories: appetizer, salad, entrée, and dessert.

The stakes?  Bragging rights, of course, along with the potential for their dish to be featured on menu of a Landry’s restaurant.  And for the first time, this year’s winner for Best Overall Dish won a trip to the annual Food & Wine Classic in Aspen, Colorado.

That’ll get the ideas brewing.

Here’s how it works: Invitations are extended to the company’s top chefs, which require the chefs to register their entries three weeks ahead of the competition.  On a first come, first served basis, the chefs sign up for the category in which they want to compete.

The management team creates a schedule dictating the exact time that each dish must be completed, at which time it is served to a panel of Landry’s executives for judging.  Each entry is scored on a numerical scale for creativity, presentation, and flavor.

The genius of the whole setup is this: the judging is blind.  The executives have no idea who submitted which dish.  In addition to fairness and objectivity, this levels the playing field.  The young guns have an unbiased shot at making a name for themselves.  The reputations of the old dogs and the current darlings bear no weight.  They have every incentive to swing for the fence.

In other words, go big or go home.

Landry’s invited me to observe this year’s competition behind the scenes, which was quite an adventure for this humble home cook. I hadn’t been in a commercial kitchen since my waitressing days, and even back then, I never witnessed anything close to this magnitude.  I had the opportunity to get to know the chefs, learn about what inspires them, why they do what they do, how they developed their technique.  I loved all the trash talk; I loved how much they wanted to win.

It was inspiring.  It made me want to cook.  It made me want to bring my best, in the kitchen and in life, too.

But perhaps most importantly, it made me want to motivate and inspire those young guns back at the office to go big or go home.

 

[Note: A slightly modified version of this post was first published as Motivate Your Employees to Go Big or Go Home on Technorati, which is pretty cool.]

Lagniappe: Letter to Mrs. Bixby

Nov 11

Posted by Laura in Lagniappe | 5 Comments

Today is November 11, 2011.  11/11/11.  Veterans’ Day.

I’m thinking of Dad, and the service he gave to our country during the Vietnam War.  We would have met for lunch today, like we did every year, and I would have thanked him for putting his life on hold when he received his draft letter from President Nixon.  Over lunch, I would have asked him to tell me a story about that time in his life. 

I wish I’d taken better notes about those stories.  I remember him telling me that the cook aboard their ship was a very hip little Vietnamese guy with French culinary training, which made for some fantastic meals.  That guy could make any of those Army rations taste good, he said.  Dad once showed me some photos he took of the chef, which he sent home to Mom.  I’m hoping I’ll find them one day, and I hope the chef’s name is scrawled on the back of one.

Dad also told stories of naval ships occassionally pulling alongside them, full of fresh-faced sailors on their first tour.  They were excited about pulling into port for R&R, ready to find some cheap liquor and a few exotic girls, but they’d been warned that their Navy uniforms were too conspicuous, that they’d be easy targets.  So they would trade the Army guys cases of steaks and lobster tails (?!) for extra sets of fatigues.  That night, Dad and his comrades would dine like kings, thanks to their petite Franco-Vietnamese chef, and they’d laugh at all those sissy sailors who probably still got pick-pocketed in some Saigon bar before they had a chance to find any girls.

But I’m obviously not hearing any stories from Dad today.  Instead, all I can do is express my genuine gratitude to those who served and continue to serve our great country, and try to live a life that honors the sacrifice they made.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Last Easter, Aunt Denise surprised me with a copy of One Hundred and One Famous Poems: With a Prose Supplement, copyright 1924.  She knows I collect vintage books, and she knows I like poetry.  Don’t you wish she were your auntie?  You should.

Sometimes when I want to distract myself from my own thoughts — thoughts about the fact that I’ve heard all the stories I’m ever going to hear from Dad, for example — I like to open up Aunt Denise’s book to a random page and see where it takes me.  I did this yesterday, and I found myself in the brief prose section, which included Abraham Lincoln’s celebrated “Letter to Mrs. Bixby.”  It seemed like something I should share with you today.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

In the fall of 1864, Massachusetts Governor John A. Andrew wrote to President Lincoln asking him to express condolences to Mrs. Lydia Bixby, a widow who was believed to have lost five sons during the Civil War.  According to my book, a copy of this letter hangs on the walls of Brasenose College, Oxford University, England, “as a model of purest English, rarely, if ever, surpassed.”

 

It reads: 

 

Executive Mansion,
Washington, Nov. 21, 1864.

To Mrs. Bixby, Boston, Mass.,

Dear Madam,

I have been shown in the files of the War Department a statement of the Adjutant General of Massachusetts that you are the mother of five sons who have died gloriously on the field of battle. I feel how weak and fruitless must be any word of mine which should attempt to beguile you from the grief of a loss so overwhelming. But I cannot refrain from tendering you the consolation that may be found in the thanks of the Republic they died to save. I pray that our Heavenly Father may assuage the anguish of your bereavement, and leave you only the cherished memory of the loved and lost, and the solemn pride that must be yours to have laid so costly a sacrifice upon the altar of freedom.

Yours, very sincerely and respectfully,

A. Lincoln

 

Lagniappe: Looking Back on WFI

Nov 5

Posted by Laura in Food of Love | No Comments

An upside to having been around for two years is the ability to reference what has inspired me in the past.  Instead of just having a foggy sense of what I was up to last year and the year before, I can actually go look.  This must be why people keep journals — a discipline I have never mastered.

Two years ago, I wrote about the opening weekend of deer season, which is actually underway at this very moment.  I shared my own experience of deer hunting and the adventure of aging and butchering the venison at home.  Talk about eating locally!  Check it out here if you’re interested.

Last year, I was testing Thanksgiving recipes and stumbled across a sweet potato meringue pie, which isn’t something you see every day.  The recipe came together so easily and beautifully, that it occurred to me that the experience of making pies is vastly different than the process of creating a cake, which I wrote about here.

That’s also when I learned that Matt doesn’t like booze in his dessert, a fact that still baffles me.  Of course, that didn’t divert me from adding rum to the buttercream filling in the @#$%! ribbon cake, or making ice cream flavored with not one but two liquors.  And based on my dear friend Brooke’s request for bread pudding (in the comments on the apple galette post), I see a hard sauce in his future, too.

It’s a tough life he leads, but I think he’ll survive.

I honestly can’t believe we’re rounding third on 2011.  Hope all of you are well.

Three Phone Calls

Oct 29

Posted by Laura in Baking, Food of Love | 16 Comments

I was in Galveston when I learned that Dad died.

I was having lunch at a restaurant with a big group of people, including my gracious hosts, when the phone rang.  It was a number I didn’t recognize, and not wanting to be rude, I let it go to voice mail.

Ten minutes later, the phone rang again as we were walking out.  This time, it was Matt.  I picked up.

“Are you in a place where you can talk?”

He had his serious, listen-to-me-carefully tone, which told me immediately that something was wrong.  It wasn’t The Boy, though — he was too composed for that.

“Yes,” I said.  Terse.  I know something’s up – out with it.

“I’m going to tell you exactly what I know, because the information I have isn’t very clear,” he said.

“Okay.  What’s wrong?”  Frustrated now, not with Matt, but with the situation.  Trying to control my voice.  Whatever this is, it isn’t his fault.

“I just talked to your brother.  I think your dad passed away.”

I’m walking as I hear this, trailing my hosts at a safe distance.  I stop.

“What?”

My eyes dart from left to right as my brain sifts this information.  I feel adrenaline wash over the lining of my gut like ice water. The coastal sunshine is suddenly intensely bright, the roar of the Gulf suddenly deafening.  Fight or flight.

“I can’t be sure.  Your uncle A.B. called Kirk, and Kirk called me.  All I know for certain is that there was an ambulance at your dad’s house.”

Left-right-left-right-left-right-left-right.

Andy is there, in the crowd with me.  He notices I’ve fallen behind.  I’m looking down, hiding from the blinding sun, but he sees my wild dilated eyes anyway.  Without looking, I reach for his hand.

“Hole up… ho-hole-hole up, guys,” he tells the others.  He stands there quietly, holding my hand. Watching my face.

“That was Matt,” I say, dazed.  “I think my dad died.”

Collectively, the group stands up taller, then steps in close.

“I’m okay to walk.  Let’s walk,” I say, meaning it.  Thankfully, they believe me.

“Andy, can you…?”

“Yes.  I’ll drive.”

**********************

A couple of weeks later, I scraped together all the emotional fortitude I had and made a phone call of my own.  I called Bob, who, to my knowledge, was the last person to see my dad alive.

Dad had been renovating his childhood home, which is a 100+ year old frame house that began its life as a one-room school.  It needed a lot of work, and being retired, Dad needed something to do.  It seemed right.

Bob was one of the contractors Dad had hired to help.  The day he died, Bob had come by the old house to discuss the project.  Bob pulled up in his truck, and Dad came out to say hello, and pretty soon they were standing around with their forearms dangling into the bed of the pickup, as men in these parts are wont to do.

Bob grew up nearby and knew the area well.  However, Bob was several years older than Dad, and despite the tiny size of the community, they’d never met until they started working together.  Standing around the truck that morning, they talked about old times, the history of the place, how much things had changed over the years.  Bob would tell me later that it was like they were reminiscing about a common history they didn’t have, as though they’d skipped rocks and picked cotton and swam in that old rice canal together as kids.

Bob had already completed the first phase of the project, which was to remove all the old existing insulation.  They discussed the next phase, whatever that was to be, and then Dad asked Bob how much he owed him for the work he’d already completed.  Bob told him the amount, Dad paid him, they exchanged a few more pleasantries, and then Bob left.

Some time later, maybe an hour, Dad called a second contractor named Luke.  Bob had recommended him to help Dad work on the windows in the old house.

While they were talking, Dad interrupted and told Luke that he would have to let him go, that he didn’t feel well.  Then Luke heard the phone fall, and the call dropped.

Luke could have done a lot of things at this point.  He could have shrugged and proceeded with his day.  Instead, he called Bob and told him what happened.

Bob was at another job site many miles away by this point, too far away to do anything.  Luckily, he remembered Dad explaining that he wouldn’t be able help with any of the physical labor on the house, because he had a bad heart.

He called 911.

Dad was gone by the time they arrived.

**********************

Calling Bob wasn’t easy, but I wanted to thank him for all he’d done.  I told him about my long-standing fear of something happening to Dad while alone, that he wouldn’t be able to call for help, and that he would suffer.  Thanks to Bob, I have the peace of knowing that his last day was a good one, and that it had happened quickly.

What I didn’t expect was for him to thank me.

He was like an angel, Bob said.  When we met, I saw his peaceful, happy face and I knew he was a man of God.

I must say, this isn’t what one expects when one phones an insulation contractor.

The first time I ever came out to the house, I climbed a ladder to have a look around in the attic.  When I looked down, he was bracing the ladder for me.  I didn’t ask him to, and he didn’t say anything — he just did it.  That thought doesn’t occur to most people, but he honestly cared about making sure I didn’t fall.

He went on.

When he asked how much he owed me, I expected him to say that he’d pay me later, or to give me the old check’s-in-the-mail routine.  But he wanted me to have what I’d earned.  I told him not to worry about it, that we’d settle up when the project was over, but he insisted on paying me on the spot.

Then he told me about their visit that morning, and how he’d never felt such an instant connection to someone he’d only just met.  It was a strange feeling, he said, to develop such a close friendship so fast.

I decided to tell him a few things about Dad, about what it was like to be his kid.  How reassuring and laid back he was, how he never liked to be in a hurry.

That’s when he thanked me.

Honey, I know I’m giving you the last pieces to the puzzle for that day, but you’re giving me puzzle pieces, too.  You’re confirming that he was an angel to me.  Meeting him and then losing him so quickly changed my life.  I think about him every single day.

What can you say when you hear that from a stranger about your dead father?  I tossed aside all that silly fortitude and stopped trying not to cry.

“He was a great man,” I squeaked out.  “And I loved him very much.”

I know you did, honey.  I’m sure you miss him.  I know I do.

**********************

About a week later,I was starting to get concerned about not doing my “grief work” — that I was squirreling away all my anguish and sadness to deal with later, and that later might never come.  I didn’t want to be stuck in the fog forever.

That’s when the dream came.

In my dream, I’m in my car, waiting at a red light.  The phone rings.

It’s Dad.

Hi, Daddy, I answer.

“It’s me again, Margaret,”  he says, chuckling.  A reference to the old Ray Stevens song.

I smile.

How are you?, I ask.

“I’m doin’ okay.  How are you?”

I’m alright.  I’ve just been really busy.  (I’m probating your estate, I think to myself – a reality I haven’t yet accepted.)

“How’s The Boy?”

Up to his old tricks, I say.  Still getting in trouble at school for sassing his teacher.

He laughs, hard, then trails off.

The Boy and I stopped by your house yesterday, I say.  This is my way of bringing it up, the fact that he’s gone. He was never good about broaching subjects.

Another pause.

“You’ll be fine, sweetie.”

I know, Daddy.  But I miss you.

“I miss you, too.”

What do we do with all of your things?  Like Grandpa’s old tractor?

“Kirk knows.  Matt can help you.”

I’m crying silently, hoping he can’t hear.

What about the land, Daddy?

“I thought maybe you’d want to put a nursery or an orchard out there.”

And just like that, I’m lying in my bed, awake. Then the real tears come, to match the ones in my dream.  I don’t sob, I don’t sniff, I don’t even blink much.  I stare at the ceiling while my eyes leak.  My pillow is wet.

An orchard.

In my mind’s eye, I see neat rows of trees.  As I walk among them, the rows snap together, longitudinally and diagonally, like the crosses at Arlington National Cemetery.

An orchard?

I see the four of us: Mom, Dad, Kirk, and me, walking with buckets, picking fruit from trees at a farm.  A memory from childhood.  I suddenly remember how much both of them loved trees.

An orchard?

Another flashback:  I see two of my uncles, walking with my parents among the acreage that we called the backyard.  They are carrying branches and putty knives and little pots of goo.

I ask Daddy what they’re doing.  He tells me they are grafting branches from other trees onto ours.

What’s grafting?  I ask.

“It’s kind of like gluing,” he says.

But why?

“Uncle David’s branches have better pecans than ours.  Now our trees will grow his pecans.”

Tree surgery.  My seven year old brain found this odd.

An orchard.

 **********************

I doubt that I’ll become a tree farmer anytime soon, but if I were to plant an orchard, I would probably choose pecan trees.  And what better way to showcase pecans than classic pecan pie?

This is my grandmother’s recipe.  I like it because it’s not too sweet, like many pecan pies can be — you don’t have to fight your way through all the sugar to taste the fruit.  A dollop of lightly sweetened whipped cream sets it off perfectly.

Grandma Peltier’s Pecan Pie

3 eggs, room temperature, slightly beaten
2/3 cup light Karo corn syrup
2/3 cup dark Karo corn syrup
3 tablespoons all-purpose flour
3 tablespoons sugar
4 tablespoons butter, melted and cooled to room temperature
1 teaspoon vanilla
1 1/2 cups coarsely chopped pecans
About 1 cup pecan halves
Unbaked pie shell
Whipped cream or vanilla ice cream, for serving

Preheat the oven to 375°F. Combine eggs, syrups, flour, sugar, butter, and vanilla. Whisk until well combined, or beat on low speed of an electric mixer for about two minutes. Stir in chopped pecans.

Pour the mixture into the unbaked pie shell. Place the pecan halves atop the filling decoratively. Bake at 375°F for 15 minutes, then reduce the oven temperature to 350°F and bake another 15 minutes. Reduce the oven temperature again to 325°F and bake until center looks done (not shaky), about another 25 minutes, for a total baking time of about 55 minutes.

Remove from oven and let cool before slicing, to allow the filling to set.  Serve with whipped cream or vanilla ice cream — or if you’re feeling frisky, rum-brandy ice cream.

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Lagniappe: Let’s DO This.

Oct 25

Posted by Laura in Lagniappe | 2 Comments

When I wasn’t looking, White Fluffy Icing turned two.

TWO.  I find that hard to believe.

I used to be an intensely private person, until I first clicked ‘publish’ two years ago.  I’ve put myself out there, so to speak, flapping in the Internet wind.  And I like it.  In fact, I can’t really imagine life without Whi-FI, as Jamie likes to call it.

I didn’t know when I began how helpful it would be to have this space.  My life was chaotic two years ago — I had a baby, but no idea how to be the mom I wanted to be; I had parents, but no idea how to be the daughter I wanted to be; I had a job, but had no idea how to juggle it all.

When WFI came to be, it was a place to call my own.  I made the rules, I called the shots.  I suddenly had an outlet, a place where I could dump all my feelings out and sort through them.  Rank them.  Examine them.  Make sense of it all.

It helped.  Is helping.  A lot.

Thank you.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Now that WFI is two years old, it’s time to grow up.

What does that mean?

It means that I need to start adapting and developing my own recipes.  It means that I need to take better pictures.  It means that while the writing has always been authentic, it’s time for the rest of the blog to catch up.

It should be interesting.

Let’s DO this.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

To celebrate this happy occasion, I made — what else? — a chocolate cake with white fluffy icing.  The goal was to snap a photo, post it here, and take it to my brother for his birthday, just like I did two years ago.

Except it was horrible.

That’s no surprise really, given my current state of mind and my recent track record with cakes.  The texture was coarse, the flavor was flat, and the chocolate pastry cream flung itself out from between the layers the moment I cut into it, like one of those prank snakes in a can.

But true to it’s formal name, the white fluffy icing didn’t fail me.  It was perfect.

 

Never Fail Swirl Frosting

3 egg whites, room temperature
A few grains of salt
¼ teaspoon cream of tartar
¾ cup sugar
¾ cup light corn syrup
1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract

Beat the egg whites with salt and cream of tartar at high speed until almost stiff. Meanwhile, combine the sugar and syrup in a small saucepan and cook just until bubbles form around the edges.

Gradually pour the hot syrup over the egg whites, beating constantly at high speed. Return the syrup to the heat several times during the process, to keep it hot.

Add the vanilla and beat for an additional 3 to 5 minutes, until the mixture is the desired consistency. Use immediately.

 

Paradise

Oct 22

Posted by Laura in Baking, Food of Love | 11 Comments

Don’t let that last post fool you.  I wrote most of it weeks ago, before my life changed.  Before Dad died.

In real time, I’m much more melancholy, as you might expect.  I vacillate between emotional devastation and numbing denial.  In fact, since the funeral, I’ve mostly been an automaton. A zombie. A shell of my usual self.

Apparently my mind wants no part of this whole grieving process, because I can’t string together a coherent thought for all the tea in China.  Call me, my brain said, when it’s over.  I can’t handle anymore.  I’ll be in Bora Bora.

The other day, I went into our guest bathroom without having any business there and randomly washed my hands.  Holding the towel, I asked my mirrored reflection why I had done so.  She didn’t have an answer.

Another time, while getting dressed, I packed a dopp kit for no reason.  Every item I used, I packed.  Shampoo, conditioner, comb, razor, toothbrush. All that.  When I was done, I zipped it up and carried it across the house.

The next morning, I couldn’t find anything.  I didn’t remember that I’d packed it all.  Matt saw my confusion and asked what was the matter.  I can’t find anything, I said, distressed.

“What anythings?”

My deodorant.  My face lotion.  My stuff.

His face softened.  He knew.

“I saw you packing it all yesterday.  I didn’t want to question you.”

I walked out to the garage, where the dopp kit was sitting, alone, in my car.  No suitcase. No clothes.  No real memory of putting it there.

Maybe my brain convinced the rest of me to make a run for Bora Bora.  Who knows.

Automaton.

Zombie.

That dopp kit thing happened two weeks ago.  Now…. now I don’t quite know what to do with myself.  I’m back at work, and everything is pretty much the same.  Except that nothing is the same, and it never will be again.

My good friend Jamie sent me a text.  It read: Paradise in the everyday.  You know that.

I knew, but I hadn’t been seeing it.  I didn’t have to look far.

 

“Mommy?”

Yes?

“I love you.”

Aw, I love you too, Sugar.

“I love you moah.”

Well, I love you all the way to the moon.

“And back.”

Paradise.  Every day.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I liked how the combination looked on Eileen's pretty blue plate.

I’ve never been less interested in eating and more interested in cooking than I have been lately.  I wouldn’t have guessed that.  Honestly, it’s a little weird.

When Mom died, my primary concern was Dad.  What did he need?  How would we manage?  How could I help?  Cooking was not on my radar at all.

I didn’t think anything of it then, but that seems like a luxury now, to have him to be concerned about.

This time, it’s different.  Maybe cooking is a predictable, known thing for me in this strange post-parental world I now dwell in.  Maybe cooking connects me to the memories.  Maybe I don’t know what else to do with myself.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Mom adored homemade ice cream.  Dad loved apple pie. 

Me, I can’t seem to leave well enough alone.  My favorite dish is the one I haven’t tried to make yet.

So it seemed natural to make a an apple galette instead of a perfectly good pie, and add booze to some perfectly wonderful ice cream.  What resulted seemed to me to represent the three of us on a plate. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A galette is essentially a free-form pie, without the pesky dish.  The flavor profile is very simple — just butter, sugar, and cinnamon — and the proportions of crust to filling much closer to 1:1 than with pie.  In my world, that’s a good thing.

Apple Galette

Adapted from Joy of Cooking

Pastry dough for 1 pie crust
3 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted
4 tablespoons sugar, divided
2 large firm apples (I prefer Granny Smith), peeled, cored, and sliced very thinly
1/8 teaspoon ground cinnamon

Position a rack in the lower third of the oven.  Preheat the oven to 425 F.

On a sheet of parchment paper, roll the crust out into a 12-inch round.  Brush the crust with a thin layer of melted butter, and reserve the rest.  Sprinkle the crust with one tablespoon of the sugar.

Transfer the paper with the dough to a baking sheet.  Layer the apples on the crust, leaving at least a 1-inch border around the edges.  If you’re feeling fancy, arrange the apples in a pretty overlapping designs; if you’re not, just kind of toss them in there.  Fold the dough border up over the apples, again making it as pretty as you please.

Combine the remaining three tablespoons of sugar with the cinnamon.  Drizzle all but about 2 teaspoons of the remaining butter over the apples, then sprinkle with the cinnamon-sugar mixture.

Bake at 425 F until the pastry begins to brown, about 20 minutes.  Reduce the oven temperature to 350 F and bake until the pastry is crisped and golden brown, about another 20-30 minutes.

Remove from the oven to a rack.  Brush the apples with the remaining butter, and let cool.  Serve warm or at room temperature.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The alcohol in this boozy ice cream keeps the texture very soft — it’s a perfect accompaniment to the slew of upcoming holiday desserts.  The addition of nutmeg gives it the flavor of egg nog; dial the amount up or down (or leave it out) to suit your tastes. You could also vary the spirits to mix things up a bit.

Rum-Brandy Ice Cream

I stashed some in my in-law's freezer.

Adapted from Williams-Sonoma’s Thanksgiving

2 1/2 cups half-and-half
1 1/2 cups heavy cream
4 egg yolks
2/3 cup sugar
1/2 teaspoon freshly grated nutmeg
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
2 tablespoons dark rum
2 tablespoons brandy

In a heavy-bottom saucepan, combine the half-and-half and cream. Cook over medium-low heat, stirring occasionally, until tiny bubbles start to form around the edges and the mixture reaches a temperature of 170 F.

Meanwhile, whisk the egg yolks until smooth. Add the sugar and nutmeg and whisk vigorously until the mixture is thick and pale yellow. When the cream mixture reaches 170 F, slowly pour it into the egg yolk mixture while whisking continuously.

Return the combined mixture to the pan over low heat. Continue to cook, stirring constantly, until the mixture is thick enough to coat the back of a wooden spoon and reaches a temperature of 185 F. Do not bring the mixture to a boil.

Pour the mixture into a clean bowl and cool to room temperature. Stir in the vanilla. Cover the bowl with plastic wrap, pressing it directly onto the surface of the custard to prevent a skin from forming. Refrigerate overnight, or for a minimum of 2 hours.

Freeze in an ice cream maker according to the manufacturer’s instructions until softly frozen. Add the rum and brandy and continue to churn until the ice cream freezes further. (Again, it will probably not freeze solid and remain very soft.) Transfer to an airtight storage container, cover, and freeze overnight before serving.

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