White Fluffy Icing

Musings of a reasonably competent home cook.

Posts Tagged party food

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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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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Remember This… and Prepare for the Next One.

Sep 11

Posted by Laura in Food of Love | No Comments

Everyone knows that today is the 10th anniversary of the September 11th attacks.  Like most people, I remember exactly where I was when I first heard the news, and later watching in horror as the second tower fell.  The details are as clear to me as if they had happened yesterday.

Stress produces adrenaline, and adrenaline enhances memory.  That’s a mighty handy trick, considering that stressful events are usually the ones you want to remember and avoid in the future.  It’s a survival weapon, and it’s why most people can remember with great detail where they were when a particular tragedy struck.

While the 9/11 attacks were horrific, and changed the mindset of an entire nation, September 11 is also the anniversary of another disaster — one that happened much closer to home.

Fifty years ago, on September 11, 1961, Hurricane Carla roared ashore in Calhoun County, Texas.  With a central pressure of 931 mbar and estimated wind speeds of 150 mph, it was the most intense landfall of any Atlantic hurricane on record.   Let me say that again: It was the most intense landfall of any Atlantic hurricane on record.

The Saffir-Simpson Hurricane Scale hadn’t yet been introduced, but Carla is now considered to have been a Category 5 when over open waters, and was a Category 4 at landfall.

We obviously didn’t have our modern day forecasting models for hurricanes back then, either.  So while meteorologists knew this monster storm was out there — in fact, it covered the entire Gulf of Mexico — they had no accurate sense of where it might hit.  To make matters worse, the weather planes couldn’t safely venture into the massive 110 foot wide eye of the storm because of the thousands of birds that were trapped inside of it.  Consequently, Texas officials enacted an evacuation of over half a million residents all up and down the Texas coast, which at the time was the largest peacetime evacuation in U.S. history.  Those efforts are credited with the fact that only 46 lives were lost.

Although the eye of Carla made landfall near Port Lavaca, Texas, my hometown of Danbury (about 100 miles up the coast) was pummeled by the “dirty” side of the storm, which brought a 22-foot surge and spawned one of the largest hurricane-related tornado outbreaks in recorded weather history, including an F4 tornado that ripped through Galveston.

To read a harrowing eyewitness account from a Texas highway patrolman who was on duty in Brazoria County for Carla, look here.  For other recent coverage about Carla, look here and  here.

My parents were both thirteen years old at the time.  I don’t really know what Mom’s family did during the storm (which reminds me that I should ask Aunt Denise), but Dad evacuated with his mother and his siblings to his mother’s family’s house in Houston.  Grandpa stayed behind to ride out the storm and mind the house and the farm.

It took several days for the floodwaters to recede, during which there was no way for them to know how Grandpa had fared — no phones, no news, no nothing.  It had to have been a tense few days for Grandma, being holed up with all those kids at her parents’ place (no video games! no Internet!), and no word from her husband.

Dad recalls making the one-hour drive home from Houston, and says that the car got more and more quiet the closer they got to home.  I know from experience how drastically a landscape can change from a storm — lakes where yards and pastures had been, trees completely absent from their long-held posts, blown over fences opening up unnatural-looking panoramic views.  It is a sudden, surreal, and eerie feeling, and for them, it was coupled with suspense: what about Daddy?

Almost immediately, the kids spotted Grandpa’s favorite straw hat floating in the floodwater across the road from the house.  My dad, the baby of the family, remembers feeling a pang of shock, thinking, Something must have happened to Daddy — he’s never without that hat.

They parked and rushed into the house, where they found Grandpa, without a scratch.  And with his typical demeanor, he brushed off all their concern… What’s all the fuss about?  It was just a storm.

But actually, it was much more than that.  The crops growing on the acreage around the house had all been blown over and destroyed.  The financial impact of losing an entire season was too great — it was the last cotton crop he would ever plant.  The family farming business was gone, and life would never quite be the same.

I’m reminded of an article I just read in Business Week about catastrophes, which mentioned: “In Japan, stone tablets mark the high-water marks of past tsunamis.  They all send the same message: ‘When we are gone, remember this flood.  And prepare for the next one.’”

My generation knows full well about Rita, Ike, and their ilk.  But are we really aware of the devastation a storm like Carla can bring?  And are we prepared for the next one?

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There were two ways to go for choosing a recipe for this entry.  The first was the hurricane party route, where friends and neighbors gather to share the contents of their thawing refrigerators and freezers.  (The smart ones cook as much of it as they can before the power goes out, and manage afterward by mastering the finer points of cooking on a grill.)

The second, and perhaps more obvious route, was the classic hurricane cocktail. When the options are freezer-burnt mystery meat vs. delicious and historic cocktail, which would you choose?  Yeah, I thought so.

According to this article from nola.com, the Hurricane came to be thusly:

In the mid-1940s, … there was a shortage of bourbon and scotch, and the whiskey companies sent “missionary men” out with regular salesmen and coerced bar owners into buying large quantities of a not-so-popular, hard-to-unload booze — rum — in outrageous amounts, 50 cases or so, in order to get the bourbon and scotch they wanted.

Four ounces of the booze nobody wanted, through trial and error, made its way into a glass shaped like a hurricane lamp with fresh lemon juice, passion fruit syrup and crushed ice — and became the most famous drink in the most famous bar in the city.

(You know, I’ve had my fair share of Hurricanes, and it never occurred to me that the glass was shaped like a hurricane lamp.  DUH.)

Pat O’Briens World Famous Hurricane
from the Pat O’Briens website

1 oz vodka
1/4 oz grenadine
1 oz gin
1 oz light rum
1/2 oz Bacardi® 151 rum
1 oz amaretto almond liqueur
1 oz triple sec
grapefruit juice
pineapple juice

Fill a hurricane (or any other tall glass) 3/4 full with ice. Pour all the alcohols in first, then follow with equal parts of grapefruit and pineapple juice. Serve and enjoy!

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Stay Hungry. Stay Foolish.

Aug 29

Posted by Laura in Food of Love | 2 Comments

To commemorate Steve Jobs’ recent resignation as CEO of Apple, the Wall Street Journal reprinted the text of the commencement address he gave at Stanford University in 2005.  I was just as inspired as the first time I read it, and I thought you might enjoy reading it, too.

I am honored to be with you today at your commencement from one of the finest universities in the world. I never graduated from college. Truth be told, this is the closest I’ve ever gotten to a college graduation. Today I want to tell you three stories from my life. That’s it. No big deal. Just three stories.

The first story is about connecting the dots.

I dropped out of Reed College after the first 6 months, but then stayed around as a drop-in for another 18 months or so before I really quit. So why did I drop out?

It started before I was born. My biological mother was a young, unwed college graduate student, and she decided to put me up for adoption. She felt very strongly that I should be adopted by college graduates, so everything was all set for me to be adopted at birth by a lawyer and his wife. Except that when I popped out they decided at the last minute that they really wanted a girl. So my parents, who were on a waiting list, got a call in the middle of the night asking: “We have an unexpected baby boy; do you want him?” They said: “Of course.” My biological mother later found out that my mother had never graduated from college and that my father had never graduated from high school. She refused to sign the final adoption papers. She only relented a few months later when my parents promised that I would someday go to college.

And 17 years later I did go to college. But I naively chose a college that was almost as expensive as Stanford, and all of my working-class parents’ savings were being spent on my college tuition. After six months, I couldn’t see the value in it. I had no idea what I wanted to do with my life and no idea how college was going to help me figure it out. And here I was spending all of the money my parents had saved their entire life. So I decided to drop out and trust that it would all work out OK. It was pretty scary at the time, but looking back it was one of the best decisions I ever made. The minute I dropped out I could stop taking the required classes that didn’t interest me, and begin dropping in on the ones that looked interesting.

It wasn’t all romantic. I didn’t have a dorm room, so I slept on the floor in friends’ rooms, I returned coke bottles for the 5¢ deposits to buy food with, and I would walk the 7 miles across town every Sunday night to get one good meal a week at the Hare Krishna temple. I loved it. And much of what I stumbled into by following my curiosity and intuition turned out to be priceless later on. Let me give you one example:

Reed College at that time offered perhaps the best calligraphy instruction in the country. Throughout the campus every poster, every label on every drawer, was beautifully hand calligraphed. Because I had dropped out and didn’t have to take the normal classes, I decided to take a calligraphy class to learn how to do this. I learned about serif and san serif typefaces, about varying the amount of space between different letter combinations, about what makes great typography great. It was beautiful, historical, artistically subtle in a way that science can’t capture, and I found it fascinating.

None of this had even a hope of any practical application in my life. But ten years later, when we were designing the first Macintosh computer, it all came back to me. And we designed it all into the Mac. It was the first computer with beautiful typography. If I had never dropped in on that single course in college, the Mac would have never had multiple typefaces or proportionally spaced fonts. And since Windows just copied the Mac, it’s likely that no personal computer would have them. If I had never dropped out, I would have never dropped in on this calligraphy class, and personal computers might not have the wonderful typography that they do. Of course it was impossible to connect the dots looking forward when I was in college. But it was very, very clear looking backwards ten years later.

Again, you can’t connect the dots looking forward; you can only connect them looking backwards. So you have to trust that the dots will somehow connect in your future. You have to trust in something — your gut, destiny, life, karma, whatever. This approach has never let me down, and it has made all the difference in my life.

My second story is about love and loss.

I was lucky — I found what I loved to do early in life. Woz and I started Apple in my parents garage when I was 20. We worked hard, and in 10 years Apple had grown from just the two of us in a garage into a $2 billion company with over 4000 employees. We had just released our finest creation — the Macintosh — a year earlier, and I had just turned 30. And then I got fired. How can you get fired from a company you started? Well, as Apple grew we hired someone who I thought was very talented to run the company with me, and for the first year or so things went well. But then our visions of the future began to diverge and eventually we had a falling out. When we did, our Board of Directors sided with him. So at 30 I was out. And very publicly out. What had been the focus of my entire adult life was gone, and it was devastating.

I really didn’t know what to do for a few months. I felt that I had let the previous generation of entrepreneurs down – that I had dropped the baton as it was being passed to me. I met with David Packard and Bob Noyce and tried to apologize for screwing up so badly. I was a very public failure, and I even thought about running away from the valley. But something slowly began to dawn on me — I still loved what I did. The turn of events at Apple had not changed that one bit. I had been rejected, but I was still in love. And so I decided to start over.

I didn’t see it then, but it turned out that getting fired from Apple was the best thing that could have ever happened to me. The heaviness of being successful was replaced by the lightness of being a beginner again, less sure about everything. It freed me to enter one of the most creative periods of my life.

During the next five years, I started a company named NeXT, another company named Pixar, and fell in love with an amazing woman who would become my wife. Pixar went on to create the worlds first computer animated feature film, Toy Story, and is now the most successful animation studio in the world. In a remarkable turn of events, Apple bought NeXT, I returned to Apple, and the technology we developed at NeXT is at the heart of Apple’s current renaissance. And Laurene and I have a wonderful family together.

I’m pretty sure none of this would have happened if I hadn’t been fired from Apple. It was awful tasting medicine, but I guess the patient needed it. Sometimes life hits you in the head with a brick. Don’t lose faith. I’m convinced that the only thing that kept me going was that I loved what I did. You’ve got to find what you love. And that is as true for your work as it is for your lovers. Your work is going to fill a large part of your life, and the only way to be truly satisfied is to do what you believe is great work. And the only way to do great work is to love what you do. If you haven’t found it yet, keep looking. Don’t settle. As with all matters of the heart, you’ll know when you find it. And, like any great relationship, it just gets better and better as the years roll on. So keep looking until you find it. Don’t settle.

My third story is about death.

When I was 17, I read a quote that went something like: “If you live each day as if it was your last, someday you’ll most certainly be right.” It made an impression on me, and since then, for the past 33 years, I have looked in the mirror every morning and asked myself: “If today were the last day of my life, would I want to do what I am about to do today?” And whenever the answer has been “No” for too many days in a row, I know I need to change something.

Remembering that I’ll be dead soon is the most important tool I’ve ever encountered to help me make the big choices in life. Because almost everything — all external expectations, all pride, all fear of embarrassment or failure – these things just fall away in the face of death, leaving only what is truly important. Remembering that you are going to die is the best way I know to avoid the trap of thinking you have something to lose. You are already naked. There is no reason not to follow your heart.

About a year ago I was diagnosed with cancer. I had a scan at 7:30 in the morning, and it clearly showed a tumor on my pancreas. I didn’t even know what a pancreas was. The doctors told me this was almost certainly a type of cancer that is incurable, and that I should expect to live no longer than three to six months. My doctor advised me to go home and get my affairs in order, which is doctor’s code for prepare to die. It means to try to tell your kids everything you thought you’d have the next 10 years to tell them in just a few months. It means to make sure everything is buttoned up so that it will be as easy as possible for your family. It means to say your goodbyes.

I lived with that diagnosis all day. Later that evening I had a biopsy, where they stuck an endoscope down my throat, through my stomach and into my intestines, put a needle into my pancreas and got a few cells from the tumor. I was sedated, but my wife, who was there, told me that when they viewed the cells under a microscope the doctors started crying because it turned out to be a very rare form of pancreatic cancer that is curable with surgery. I had the surgery and I’m fine now.

This was the closest I’ve been to facing death, and I hope it’s the closest I get for a few more decades. Having lived through it, I can now say this to you with a bit more certainty than when death was a useful but purely intellectual concept:

No one wants to die. Even people who want to go to heaven don’t want to die to get there. And yet death is the destination we all share. No one has ever escaped it. And that is as it should be, because Death is very likely the single best invention of Life. It is Life’s change agent. It clears out the old to make way for the new. Right now the new is you, but someday not too long from now, you will gradually become the old and be cleared away. Sorry to be so dramatic, but it is quite true.

Your time is limited, so don’t waste it living someone else’s life. Don’t be trapped by dogma — which is living with the results of other people’s thinking. Don’t let the noise of others’ opinions drown out your own inner voice. And most important, have the courage to follow your heart and intuition. They somehow already know what you truly want to become. Everything else is secondary.

When I was young, there was an amazing publication called The Whole Earth Catalog, which was one of the bibles of my generation. It was created by a fellow named Stewart Brand not far from here in Menlo Park, and he brought it to life with his poetic touch. This was in the late 1960′s, before personal computers and desktop publishing, so it was all made with typewriters, scissors, and polaroid cameras. It was sort of like Google in paperback form, 35 years before Google came along: it was idealistic, and overflowing with neat tools and great notions.

Stewart and his team put out several issues of The Whole Earth Catalog, and then when it had run its course, they put out a final issue. It was the mid-1970s, and I was your age. On the back cover of their final issue was a photograph of an early morning country road, the kind you might find yourself hitchhiking on if you were so adventurous. Beneath it were the words: “Stay Hungry. Stay Foolish.” It was their farewell message as they signed off. Stay Hungry. Stay Foolish. And I have always wished that for myself. And now, as you graduate to begin anew, I wish that for you.

Stay Hungry. Stay Foolish.

Thank you all very much.

 

When I read that last line, I knew I would post it here.

Starting this blog was one of the more foolish things I’ve done.  I was a new mother at the time, and my own mother was dying.  I had a job I liked and a husband I love.  I already had 42 hobbies.  I had never written anything for public consumption, and quite honestly, I generally hate everything I write.

I had no business starting WFI.  It was foolish, but I’m better off for having done it.

Is there something foolish you’re hungry for?

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Appetizers are meant to whet the appetite, not quench it. (Stay hungry.)  And by the looks of the ingredient list for these lettuce wraps, only a fool would make them… but what a happy fool you’d be if you did!  (Stay foolish.)

Several years ago, my friend Meredith and I learned to make these from Dorothy Huang at a cooking class at Sur La Table.  I’ve modified the recipe only slightly.  It doubles easily and holds up fabulously as leftovers.

p.s. Football season is upon us… this would make perfect party food for a game day.  Chinese food goes great with beer, and what a departure from the usual burger/brat routine!  Pick up some egg rolls and dumplings from your favorite place, and make these.  Your low-carb buddies in your fantasy league will love you for it.

Dorothy Huang’s Lettuce Wraps

½ pound chicken breast, boneless and skinless

Marinade for chicken:
2 teaspoons cornstarch
1 tablespoon soy sauce
1 tablespoon pale dry sherry (cocktail “drinking” sherry)

Seasoning sauce:
1/8 teaspoon freshly ground pepper
1 teaspoon cornstarch
3 tablespoons water
1 teaspoon dark soy sauce (preferably Wei Chuan brand, or sub 1/2 teaspoon soy sauce and 1/2 teaspoon molasses)
2 teaspoons soy sauce
1 tablespoon oyster sauce (preferably Lee Kum Kee brand)

3 cups cooking oil for deep-frying (I use peanut oil)
1 ounce cellophane noodles, loosened (aka bean thread / glass noodles)
1 tablespoon chopped garlic
1 teaspoon minced ginger
1 cup chopped water chestnuts
1 cup chopped green onions or garlic chives
¼ cup almond slices
8 iceberg lettuce leaves*, washed and drained, cut into bowl shape
¼ cup chopped red bell pepper
2 tablespoons toasted black sesame seeds

Spicy Sauce**, for serving (recipe below)

 

Cut chicken breast into ¼ inch dice. Add marinade ingredients and toss to coat thoroughly. Refrigerate for at least 30 minutes.  Meanwhile, combine seasoning sauce ingredients in a bowl.

Heat 3 cups oil in a wok to 375°F. Add cellophane noodles. When they puff up (in just 2 seconds), remove with a strainer to drain on paper towels.

Remove oil from the wok to a heat-proof bowl. Heat 3 tablespoons oil over high heat, add garlic, ginger, then chicken. Stir-fry for 1 minute. Add water chestnuts, and green onions (or garlic chives). Stir for another minute. Pour in seasoning sauce. Stir until thickened. Toss in almond slices.

Divide the contents into 8 lettuce bowls (about ½ cup each).  Spread some fried noodles on top. Garnish with red bell pepper and sesame seeds.  Serve with spicy sauce (below) on the side.

 

Spicy Sauce*

1 tablespoon chili garlic sauce (more or less depending on desired scorch level)
2 tablespoons soy sauce
2 tablespoons white vinegar
½ teaspoon sesame oil
1 tablespoon water

Combine all ingredients in a small bowl. Stir. Yum.

 

*I don’t care much for iceberg lettuce.  As you can see from the photo, I used green leaf lettuce this time, which was prettier and tastier, but in no way did any sort of wrapping work whatsoever.  We had to fork and knife it — it basically became a tasty Chinese chicken salad.  So do as I write and not as I do — stick with the iceberg.

**The spicy sauce is handwritten by me on a typed copy of this recipe.  I have no idea if I found it elsewhere and added it, or it was part of Dorothy’s instruction.  Probably the latter.

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How To Grow A Nine Pound Baby

May 13

Posted by Laura in Food of Love | 4 Comments

There are lots of babies in my world at the moment. My dear friend Lisa just had her third a few weeks ago, Matt’s first cousin Danielle just had her first mere days ago, my sister-in-law Melissa is expecting her third in a few short months, and in April, three of my first cousins, one being dear Leah, each had babies within about 18 hours of one another. I hope your family and friends are procreating, dear readers, because my network is plotting a full-scale planetary takeover. (Luckily for you, we’re a pretty nice bunch.)

Of course, hearing all the requisite stories from the front lines of pregnancy and childbirth reminded me of my own experience incubating and birthing a nine pound baby.

Yeah, you read that correctly: The Boy was nine pounds at birth. Texas-size, ya’ll.

Outside of the pure genetics involved, it was mostly my fault. Oh, I didn’t set out to grow a gigantic baby, of course, but lacking any real sense about how this should all go, bathing one’s zygote in a stout formula of nutrients and calories seemed like a motherly thing to do.

My primal maternal cravings helped: a glass of whole milk, ice cold, was just about the most exciting thing going in those days. Fruits and vegetables were high on my list, too, along with brown rice, quinoa, and every kind of legume under the sun. I also had the healthy fat thing covered – wild salmon was in the weekly rotation, olive oil abounded, and my go-to snack at home was to halve an avocado, ditch the pit, sprinkle with a little kosher salt, and grab a spoon.

Outside of listening to what my body wanted, my only rule was to try and eat something of every color, every single day. That may sound easy, but blue is a tuffy, especially in winter. I ate a lot of black beans and smoothies with frozen blueberries.

The other side effect of eating your colors is that by the time you check them all off, you’ve eaten a lot of food. As a reward, if I possibly still had an interest in eating something else, it could be anything I wanted. Ummm, can you say Ben & Jerry’s? Dairy was my friend.

Between all that and the prenatal vitamins, there was no nutrient The Boy went without during gestation. I figured he would suffer quite enough from my complete lack of maternal instincts once he was born, so we might as well make the most of it and spoil him early.

As a result, my pregnant belly looked like the ones on TV that are obviously fake – like I had a huge watermelon under my shirt. At seven months, I looked like I was about to pop. Not swollen, mind you, just… huge. In line at the grocery store, I heard people behind me audibly gasp when I turned to load my things onto the belt – while facing forward, they couldn’t tell I was pregnant. But at a profile… oh… my … God.

During my last month, I couldn’t use a regular bathroom stall if the door opened inward, because once inside, I couldn’t close the door. My belly was too big. Not kidding.

The funny thing was that I gained only the textbook healthy amount of weight. At my checkups, the nurses would point and laugh and give me a hard time, then once I was on the scale, their eyebrows would pop up and they’d say, “Wow, right on track.” It was all baby, baby.

We opted not to find out whether we were having The Boy or The Girl, because I had irrational fears of being inundated with mountains of pink rhinestone-studded bedazzled princessy stuff.

Right before our doctor unzipped my belly during the c-section I never expected, the doctor peered over the curtain and said through her medical mask: “I predict a nine pound baby boy.”

Minutes later, she held him up for us to see. One of the nurses said, “He looks like a MAN!,” and just at that moment, The Boy let out a lusty roar, and let the ice cold air of the operating room fill his sweet lungs.

Hello, World. You will never be the same.

And it never was.

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This time of year, with all the fruit in season, it’s easy to eat your colors.  I know it’s kind of pedestrian, but one of my favorite things to serve at baby showers is fruit skewers — they are beautiful, nutritious, and dead simple to make.  (Spear fruit decoratively with skewers. The End.)  The ones in the photo are regular skewers, but for parties, I actually prefer the daintier 3- or 4-inch skewers.

I played around with several versions of a yogurt-based dip until I came up with one I liked, and it’s super easy, too.  Play around with substitutions… I’ll bet it would work great with sour cream, but I like the tang of yogurt.

 

Vanilla Honey Yogurt Dip

1 cup plain yogurt (I use non-fat… next time I plan to try Greek non-fat yogurt)
1 tablespoon brown sugar
1 tablespoon honey
1 teaspoon vanilla extract

Whisk all ingredients together in a small bowl; refrigerate if not using immediately. Stir again before serving.

Can be made 1 day ahead and refrigerated overnight.

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On Sharing and Stealing

Mar 21

Posted by Laura in Food of Love | 7 Comments

I stole this idea from a guy whole stole it from someone else.

Before I started White Fluffy Icing, I did a good bit of poking around, checking out this whole blogging scene.  One blog I particularly liked (or so I thought) was written by a chef in Australia, whose time in the kitchen with his grandmother inspired his career choice.

His grandmother was such a good cook that people often asked for her recipes.  She would always graciously promise to copy the recipe and send to them as the earliest convenience — without ever actually intending to! — because she knew that that most folks would never follow up.  Second requests were met with more empty promises.  What happened in the rare cases when people really pressed and held her to her word?  She finally gave them the recipe, but intentionally changed a few key ingredients, so that it would never be as good as hers.

There I was, innocently researching food blogs, my jaw hanging open.  I expected a heart-warming grandmotherly profile of courage, and what I got was Cruella de Vil’s E! True Hollywood Story.  I honestly don’t know how that lady slept at night.  I shuddered after reading it.

Obviously, I’m in the opposite camp on the recipe sharing business.  I happen to think a recipe request is one of the truest compliments there are when it comes to home cooking, and I’m happy to share.  After all, my inspiration came from somewhere — believe it or not, I’m not just making all this stuff up.  Who am I to not pay it forward?

This reminds me of The Boy, actually, now two years old.  I was recently replacing the battery in one of his toys, which to him looked a lot like I was playing with it.  He sat next to me, and said, “My turn, please!”  I told him he had to wait, because it was broken and Mama was fixing it.  Ten seconds later, “My turn, please!”  I repeated that he had to wait just a few more moments.  Then he looked up at me and said, “Mama, SHARE.”

This is how I feel about recipes and cooking, in general.  SHARE.

But sharing is one thing; stealing is another.

Would it surprise you to know that you cannot copyright the list of ingredients in a recipe?  It’s just a list, after all.  It would be like copyrighting a grocery list.

And while the directions can be protected, you can simply re-write them “in your own voice” and call it your own.  Even if your version is only different by a sentence or two, you’re technically in the clear.

For recipes included in cookbooks, which are copyrighted in their entirety (ingredients included), all you would have to do is make a slight change to an ingredient or a proportion.  Adding an extra half-teaspoon of vanilla to a cookie recipe, for example, would get you off the hook.

I’m not advocating ripping off anyone’s recipes, mind you — I’m just calling attention to how easy it would be.  While the actions described above are not criminal acts, I personally think taking someone else’s stuff and passing it off as your own is unethical, and on par with ol’ Cruella de Outback.

So why am I thinking about the ethical implications of sharing and stealing recipes?  Because of a television show, actually.

On a recent episode of Top Chef: All-Stars, Richard Blais made the mistake of showing his food journal to another contestant, Mike Isabella.  Richard is one of those molecular gastronomist types, and he apparently documents both dishes he’s done, for posterity’s sake, as well as concepts for new dishes that he wants to execute someday.  It’s his little black book of food, which I think is pretty cool.

So cool, in fact, that I would want to show it off, just like Richard did.  Mike flipped through the pages and stumbled across a diagram — it was a fried “chicken oyster,” served on an oyster shell as a kind of play on words.  The accompanying sauce included the oyster meat.  It was clever.  Very clever.

Their next competition round (a “quickfire challenge”) involved impressing guest judge Paula Deen with a fried dish.  “I don’t wanna see the same ole, same ole.  Be clever, ya’ll!” she drawled.

Richard went for Paula’s proverbial judging jugular and prepared — wait for it — fried bacon with fried mayonnaise.  Um, yeah.

And Mike, being the total goober that he is, stole Richard’s chicken oyster concept… and won.  What a joke, right?  But it certainly made for some good TV.

So, bottom line:  Be neither a Cruella nor a goober.  Share.

(P.S.  The final episode of the Top Chef: All-Stars is Wednesday, when the winner will be chosen among the final three “cheftestants”: Richard, Mike and Antonia Lofaso.  I don’t watch much TV, but Top Chef is totally addictive.  I watch every single week.  You’ve been warned.)

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Stolen or not, I was completely intrigued by the fried “chicken oyster” dish.  Actual oysters are among the loveliest and most complex of all seafood, and chicken “oysters” are the best part of a bird.  In fact, any time I roast a chicken, I immediately flip it over and slip the oysters out of their little divots (on the ilium bone, to be exact) — a perfect little amuse-bouche for the cook.

Luckily, Bravo posts most of the recipes seen on the show, and this one was there for the taking.  I had to interpret and adapt it pretty heavily to get a functional recipe — these guys are obviously waaaaay more into cooking than writing recipes.  The original recipe is here, if you’d like to compare.

 

Fried Chicken Oysters with Mustard Gravy and Oyster Liquor

For the fried chicken:
4 chicken oysters, taken from two chickens (for more info on how to find them on the bird, look here and here)
1 cup buttermilk
Peanut oil, for frying
1 cup flour
1 tablespoon mustard powder
1 tablespoon salt
1 tablespoon cayenne
2 tablespoons butter, room temperature
2 tablespoons flour

For the oyster sauce:
1 cup chicken stock
1 bay leaf
2 sprigs thyme
1/3 cup milk
1 tablespoon whole grain mustard
1 tablespoon capers, chopped
1 tablespoon dill
Zest of half a lemon
2 oysters, shucked, meat chopped, liquor reserved, shells cleaned and reserved for presentation

Soak chicken oysters in buttermilk. Place a deep, heavy skillet (preferably cast iron) over medium high heat. Add enough peanut oil to measure about ¾ inch deep. Preheat the oil to 375°F.

Combine flour, mustard powder, salt and cayenne pepper in a shallow dish. When oil is ready, add the chicken to the dry ingredients and toss to coat. Shake off the excess flour and gently place the chicken oysters in the oil and fry until golden brown, turning once. Remove the chicken to a rack set over a baking sheet, or a plate lined with paper towels.

For the sauce, combine the butter and flour to make a paste. In a medium saucepan, combine the chicken stock, bay leaf, and thyme and bring to a boil, then immediately reduce the heat and simmer for five minutes.
Whisk the butter/flour mixture into the stock, then whisk in the milk. Continue simmering for an additional five minutes, whisking often.

Remove the sauce from the heat, and add the mustard, capers, dill, lemon, chopped oyster meat, and oyster liquor.  Season to taste with salt and pepper.

Place the oyster shells on a serving plate, open side up. Spoon a small amount of the sauce into each oyster shell, and top with a fried chicken oyster. Drizzle with additional sauce and serve.

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(In Search Of) King Cake!

Mar 7

Posted by Laura in Baking, Food of Love | 10 Comments

I have lived all of my years in the Lone Star State, save for three — and in those three short years, Louisiana stole a piece of my heart.

Right out of college, Matt took a job at a company called CAMECO in Thibodaux, Lousiana (which is now part of John Deere).  I still had a year to go at Southwestern University, and some day I’ll tell you the story of how we “met” (hardly the right word when you’ve known someone your entire life), fell in love, and eventually married — but for purposes of brevity, I’ll just say that I finished school, spent a year working in Houston, and then got hitched and moved to Louisiana.  We’d heard that living in the same state ups your odds of staying married, at least in the first year or two.  Not knowing any better, we were willing to try it.

People back home often asked me how I liked it “over there,” and my pat answer was that it was like living in an entirely different country.  How a place we share a state line with can be so different, I cannot say — but it’s true.  And I loved it.

Of course, one cannot comment on the peculiar culture of Louisiana without mentioning Mardi Gras — and as you’ve probably guessed by now, that’s exactly where I’m going.

It all begins with the three wise men — you know, the ones from the second chapter of Matthew’s gospel.  Every January 6th, the Catholic Church celebrates the Solemnity of the Epiphany of the Lord — that is, the revelation of Jesus to the Gentiles.  I won’t go into the theological details, but let’s just agree that it’s a pretty big deal, and therefore, worthy of a party.

On the Church’s liturgical calendar, Christmas season technically begins on December 25 and runs through Epiphany, on January 6th — what we all simply know as the Twelve Days of Christmas.  Europeans traditionally celebrated Epiphany with huge Twelfth Night parish parties, which featured a king cake.  In honor of the three kings, or wise men, of the Epiphany story, hidden in the cake would be three beans or coins, and whomever found the prizes were crowned the kings and queens of the day.  While the royalty were being outfitted for their office, the Christmas tree was taken down and “plundered,” which means the ornaments were removed, the branches were stripped, and it was stored until Lent, when it was made into a processional cross.  Meanwhile, the kings and queens held court… which is to say, they partied till the break of dawn.  Cheap beads imported from China may or may not have been involved.

I'm ready for my close-up...

These days, Epiphany still marks the end of Christmas season, but it also signifies the beginning of Mardi Gras season.  Along the way, the beans and coins turned into ceramic charms, and then into plastic babies.  Parades were added.  Krewes were formed.  Inappropriate behavior and overindulgence ensued… but one thing still holds true: the king cake.

And that’s all very well and good, you see, but here’s the thing: in the entire time I lived in Louisiana, I met many an expert home cook.  But never, not once, did I have a homemade king cake.  They’re kind of like doughnuts, in the sense that everyone picks them up at a bakery or grocery store, and next to no one makes them at home.  Is it me, or is that odd for a confection with such a rich cultural heritage?

For years, I’ve been casually looking for a good king cake recipe, but never found one compelling enough to warrant an attempt.  Then recently, I made the acquaintance of Jim Gossen, a perfect Cajun gentleman that lives here in Houston, but grew up in Louisiana and still has a home on Grand Isle.  Certainly he’d have a recipe for king cake, right?

Right.  Jim very graciously shared with me that his family enjoys the French version in Julia Child’s Mastering The Art of French Cooking: Gateau des Rois.  Of course!  The recipe I’d been searching for had been under my nose all along.  I eagerly consulted my 2003 anniversary edition of Mastering, and I’m ashamed to say, I couldn’t find it.  Before you suggest it, yes, I checked Volume II, too.  Either Julia can’t write an index, or I can’t read.  Maybe both.

Just as I finished turning every page of the desserts section of both volumes of Mastering, the universe reached out to me.  John Besh shared his king cake recipe via a link on Twitter, and when I clicked through, get this: it was this article by the Houston Chronicle‘s very own Greg Morago.  Sure, John is no Julia — no one is — but the recipe was from his beautiful My New Orleans cookbook, which is basically a love letter to Louisiana and its food culture.  So I had to try it.

As you can see, I went a little over the top with the tri-colored glazes and the beads, and Matt walked in just as I finished utterly destroying our kitchen.  But a funny thing happened when I cut him the first slice and handed him a fork.  He started talking about Louisiana.

While I did the dishes, he told me stories I hadn’t heard before, about his time there before I arrived.  He was a young engineer, still wet behind the ears and from out of state, much less out of town.

At the CAMECO offices, a lady named Pat traditionally brought the first king cake of the season, on January 6th.  Knowing that Matt didn’t know a king cake from his elbow, Pat stopped by his desk and told him to be sure and get a slice, which he did.  And sure enough, when he cut into the cake, he hit something rock hard.  Oh no, he thought.  What’s wrong with this cake?!

Immediately his co-workers started exclaiming, He got the baby!  Big Tex got the baby!  Hey Matt, that means you gotta bring a king cake tomorrow.

Great.  Not only was there a foreign mass in his slice of cake, which he would have to somehow politely ignore, but he had no idea why his colleagues were going on and on about a baby.  Or how he was going to produce a king cake on less than 24 hours’ notice.  Knowing him like I do, I’m sure Matt turned beet red while he tried to figure it out.  And having later gotten to know many of the folks that were in the room that day, I’m sure they lapped it up.

What an outstanding example of how food connects us to a time and place. Laissez les bons temps rouler!

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p.s.  While I greatly enjoyed Mr. Besh’s king cake, I still want to try Julia Child’s recipe.  If any of you have time to point a dim-witted food blogger in the right direction on how to find it in a book she already owns, please let me know…

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Beach House! Part I: The Setting

Jul 26

Posted by Laura in Food of Love | 8 Comments

 

Matt, Paul, and Marc conducting a wine tasting.

For the second summer in a row, our friends Marc and Jamie invited us to travel with them to the Alabama coast, to visit Marc’s father, Paul. (Remember back in December when I told you I wanted to be like Paul when I grew up? Same guy.) And for the second summer in a row, my mind nearly exploded from all the foodie inspiration, and my heart almost burst with gratitude for being there.

And actually, if it weren’t for the beach house, this blog might not exist. I once mentioned to Jamie that I was daydreaming about starting a blog, and in my daydream, it was called White Fluffy Icing. I can’t remember why it came up – I think perhaps we were extolling the virtues of the blog’s namesake over our annual New Year’s dinner or something. But months later, during our first stay at Paul’s beach house, I mentioned something about how Food & Wine magazine should do a piece on Gulf Coast entertaining featuring Paul (he’s a fantastic host, cooks a great meal, and has an out-of-this-world wine collection). And I think I said something how it was too bad I wasn’t freelance writer on the side, or I’d write it myself.

That’s when Jamie remembered my silly drivel from months before, and she referenced my imaginary blog by name: “Laura, when are you going to start up White Fluffy Icing? I really think you should!  Paul, Laura really is a terrific writer and she’s going to start a food blog…”

That little nudge blew me away. Even now, no one remembers the name of my blog (is it White Fluffy Frosting? Fluffy White Icing? Puff the Magic Dragon?), and here Jamie was, recalling it perfectly, before it even existed. I spent the rest of the trip mulling it over… maybe I could write a food blog, not just daydream about it, and maybe people really would read it, and maybe I can write worth a darn. When I got home, I started poking around about how to start a website, and the rest is very recent and so far unproven history.

In addition to being the swift kick in the rear I needed, that moment also got me thinking about how even the smallest things we say, for better or worse, can have a big impact on people. Aren’t friends magnificent?

During our first stay at the beach house, The Boy was a whopping five months old, and couldn’t even roll over yet. (I would put him on a blanket to let him “practice”, which really only ticked him off… and the older kids would cheer him on and give live rolling demonstrations, which would make him giggle and forget what he was trying to do.) 

I was in a post-partum haze back then, and had only been back at work for two months. Mom was very sick, and had just been through some serious episodes that we weren’t sure she’d survive. My point is that, even though the beach house was gorgeous and I desperately needed a break, I didn’t really have the right mindset to fully enjoy it.  I was thrilled to get a second shot.

This year, we arrived at the casual hour of 1:30 AM, after a ten hour drive. Upon realizing that the answer to “Are we there yet?” was finally YES!, all three kids (Marc and Jamie’s two, plus The Boy) were wired and ready to play. I think we were finally all in bed around 3:00.

The next morning, The Boy awoke at his usual early hour, which made me think that we might have been better off just pulling an all-nighter. Marc and Jamie’s kids were also up-and-at-’em (Are all kids early birds? That was not in the parenthood brochure…), and not only that, their daughter had a stomach bug and had already “lost her lunch”, so to speak.  (Hmmm.  Barfing on vacation. Also not in the brochure…) 

Jamie and I had a quick mommy huddle and agreed that, based on the general lack of sleep of all parties, not to mention the potentially contagious barf bug, the strategy for the day was to just survive it, no matter what that meant in terms of schedule changes, co-sleeping, or television viewing.  Readyyyyy… break!

You may have noticed that grocery shopping and cooking were not on that list of survival techniques. Enter Paul and his hospitality skills: he’d already stocked the pantry and fridge with the essentials. Score! And not only that, he’d made a batch of both his pimiento cheese and chicken salad, which meant that breakfast and lunch were no problemos, amigos.  Goal!  (Actually, we’d all noshed on pimiento cheese and crackers at 2:00 AM the night before… that stuff was a life saver.)

I love breakfast in all its guises, but I hear some folks don’t want anything sugary in the morning. While my raging sweet tooth doesn’t allow me to personally understand this concept, having homemade pimiento cheese on a toasted “everything” bagel that first morning convinced me that they might not be missing out too much.

It was the first of many meals to be had on Paul’s back porch, overlooking the water.  Life is great when you’re an omnivore on holiday, especially one under the care and feeding of such an incredible host.

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Like his son, Marc, Paul cooks more often from intuition and feel than from a recipe.  See the resemblance to Marc’s mussels “recipe”? 

Paul’s Pimiento Cheese

Paul: “This is basically what I remember and do that Carole did to make pimiento cheese (which by the way was probably from her mother, Leckie!).”

1 block of “black” [label] Kraft extra sharp (white in color I think)
1 block of “red” [label] Kraft extra sharp (yellow in color I think, I like the contrast)
A few tablespoons cream cheese, if I am in the “Highlands Bar and Grill” mood
1 jar roasted red peppers, based on your taste, (substitute jarred pimientos if the black “roasted specks” offend you – personally I note very little difference in the taste but like the black flecks)
Mayo to taste and consistency (or “Miracle Whip” if you prefer that flavor and a more “Southern” twist)
A splash of Carole’s sweet pickle brine and 3-4 chopped pickles, if the spirit moves you
Finely chopped pickled jalapeno peppers +/- a diced chipotle in adobo sauce if you like “heat”
A splash of vinegar, to taste (may not want if using Miracle Whip)
A teaspoon of sugar, to taste
Salt, to taste

Important points:

  • Hand grate the cold cheese using large holes of a box grater (keep grated cheese in refrig or freezer if you are delayed procuring or chopping the other ingredients).
  • Coarsely chop the red peppers and finely chop the pickle, jalapenos, and chipotle (avoid the food processor for the cheese “grating” and blending, etc unless you really prefer a “smooth” texture).
  • In a large cool bowl, gently fold the cheese with red peppers and mayo until you like the consistency – I like a “coarse” consistency.
  • Then add the other ingredients “to taste.” 
  • Mix just enough to combine ingredients.
  • Keeps in refrigerator for a couple of weeks and freezes well.

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Eat Food. Except This Sunday.

Feb 1

Posted by Laura in Food of Love | 18 Comments

By now, many of us have heard the seven-word guideline that sums up Michael Pollan’s influential 2008 book, In Defense of Food: An Eater’s Manifesto.

In case you missed it, here it is:  “Eat food. Not too much. Mostly plants.”

Easy enough, right? Not too shocking, right?

I mean, we all know that too much food is a bad thing, even too much of the good-for-you kind. And by now, even die-hard meatatarians recognize that there are major health benefits to be gained from a diet rich in vegetables. That covers the last two phrases, and the first make the whole thing kinda catchy.

Oh, wait. Turns out that “eat food” part is the trickiest of the three.

You see, by “food”, Pollan is referring to the old-school kind of food our grandparents and great-grandparents ate. The real stuff, the way God made it. Not, as he points out, “edible food-like substances”, like processed and refined foods.

As a science dork and a home cook, I find this topic fascinating and instructive. I’ve long been a lover of whole foods – it’s part of why I love cooking – so his seven-word mantra fits right into my food philosophy.

Michael Pollan wrote an essay titled Unhappy Meals for New York Times Magazine about this topic in 2007, and while it’s long, it’s worth the read, especially if you want to gin up on the current debates in the food world without having to read tome after tome on the subject.  He also did this Q&A interview with Tara Parker-Pope (I miss you at the WSJ, Tara!) to discuss his follow up book, Food Rules: An Eater’s Manual.

All that being said, I’m afraid I won’t be signing up as an overly fervent disciple of Pollan’s philosophy.  Oh sure, I already incorporate a lot of his insights, and I’ll continue to strive for improvements… but I’m a baker.  It’s in my blood.  I can’t… not… bake.  And what’s the longest arrow in my baker’s quiver?  All-purpose flour – quite possibly the most refined, most processed, least nutritional substance in our pantries.  And Pollan will only be able to pry my canister of flour from my cold dead hands.  So there.

My guess is that, like me, most Americans have at least one or two edible food-like substances they feel just as strongly about.  And for lots of people I know, the fake food at the top of their list is… wait for it… Velveeta.

We are six days away from a very special holiday in America: Super Bowl Sunday. The uninformed may think that this day is dedicated to football.  Slightly more insightful types may realize that it has just as much to do with catchy advertising.  But there’s a third leg on the stool of this annual fête, and that is football food.

Super Bowl Sunday is the one day a year when even the most sophisticated foodies partake in the major food groups of college-age males:  beer, chips, pizza, and Velveeta.

If you want to throw a lame Super Bowl party, serve only whole foods.  Even better, get all preachy about nutrition and the relative virtues of going organic.  Sure, I love those topics.  Part of the whole “food of love” thing includes serving the people you love food that won’t kill them.  But there’s a time and a place for everything, and in front of a flat-screen on Super Bowl Sunday is neither of those.  So this weekend, give the people what they want.

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My good friend Alyson has THE best way to knock out two of the four Super Bowl food groups: Killer Dip.  If you’re trying to behave, your best bet is to resist this stuff entirely – once you taste it, the old reptilian brain kicks in and you’re in for the long haul. The beauty of it is that it’s so easy to make.  When I asked her for the recipe, she wrote:

Glad for you to post it, everyone I know already has asked for it. The nickname came from Willie saying it was “Killer” stuff  – nobody could eat a little (like the potato chip ad, no on can eat just one).

This is so easy even college kids can make it (and many have). For about 20 years now, it has been what I am asked to bring everywhere from Christmas parties to mountains, lakes and ocean-front places.

I first had Killer Dip fifteen years ago, and I’ve honestly never been to a party with Alyson in attendance where Killer Dip was not on the menu.  You’ve been warned!

Killer Dip

1 medium onion, chopped
1 pound 80% lean ground beef
1 pound hot ground sausage
Garlic powder, to taste
2 pounds Velveeta (regular or low-fat)
1 can cream of mushroom soup
1 can Ro-Tel tomatoes (variety depending on desired degree of heat)
Tabasco, to taste
Chips, preferably scoops

In a skillet, brown the onion, ground beef, and sausage together, sprinkling with garlic powder as it cooks. Once browned, pour off the fat.

Combine the Velveeta, mushroom soup, Ro-Tel, and Tabasco in a microwave-safe bowl and microwave until melted, stirring occasionally.

Combine the meat and cheese mixtures and serve warm with scoops. A crock pot is handy for keeping the reserves warm to refresh the serving bowl.

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Pizza, Prosecco, and Playtime

Jan 25

Posted by Laura in Food of Love | 10 Comments

Many of you know that I’m a huge advocate of celebrating milestones, big and small.  I’ve already mentioned my innate tendency to over-hype things, even to the point of inventing special occasions – so you can only imagine what happens when a real reason to celebrate comes along.  If you even so much as hint at some good news, I’ll stand and tap my glass with a fork, asking whether I may have everyone’s attention please, so that I can extol your many virtues.  To me, it’s part of what life is all about – holding hands during the lows, and singing praises during the highs.

I’d already made plans to write about homemade pizza this week, at the request of my good friend Ryan.  (College student + proud new Kitchen-Aid owner + pizza dough recipe = one immensely popular guy.  Not that he needs any help…)  But the topic really began to take shape Thursday night, when Meredith called to say that she’d sealed the deal on a huge promotion at work.  As in, look-out-world-here-I-come, huge.  As in, remember-the-little-people-when-you-get-to-the-top, huge.  And guess what one of Meredith’s favorite foods in the world is?  Pizza, baby!

We compared calendars, and we made plans for her to drive down just two days later, with her two beautiful girls in tow.  I felt like Hannibal from the A-Team… I love it when a plan comes together.

Time to get to work.  Pizza for dinner, but now, it needed to be more than just interesting enough to write about here.  I needed to  jazz it up enough to celebrate Meredith’s impending domination of the corporate world, and it had to be kid-friendly enough to not resort to PB&J for the girls.  Considering the short lead time and the fact that our weekend was already a bit crammed, it also had to be relatively simple.

Let’s do this! (I was almost pumped enough to start jumping and chanting “pants on the ground!”, but since there were no mullet-bearing defensive ends nearby, I was able to contain myself.)

To up the ante on the celebration side, I picked up a bottle of Prosecco, which is an Italian sparkling wine and a natural match for the pizza. (It’s similar to Champagne, but Champagne is named after the region in France where it’s made – so by definition, it’s French.)  I am a total sucker for bubbly of any kind, so I got all giddy at just the thought of breaking out the Riedel flutes.  (Celebration element: check!)

Cate's masterpieces.

To mix it up on the pizza front, I decided to try grilling it for the first time.  Four-year-old Cate happens to enjoy cooking with Auntie Laura, so she helped me roll out small individual size portions of the dough as thin as possible* and rub them with olive oil.  Matt tossed the crusts on the grill**, oil side down, for 2-3 minutes over high heat, just long enough to crisp up one side and let it release from the grate. Then we took them off the fire, flipped them over, and Cate topped them with a thin layer of sauce and slices of fresh mozzarella cheese (cheese pizza = kid-friendly and simple.  Check and check!).  They went back on the grill until the cheese was melted, the sauce was hot, and the bottom was crispy.***

Back in the kitchen, the pizzas that were destined for adult consumption were topped with arugula and a few shavings of Parmesan.  (Arugula on pizza?  Interesting enough for the blog.  Check!)

And so it came to be that we celebrated Meredith’s accomplishment in true WFI fashion.  We clinked glasses, enjoyed a twist on one of her favorite meals, caught up on each other’s goings-on, and played with our kids.

Now, to all the rest of you ne’er do wells – get to work!  I need another excuse to drink more Prosseco.


* I actually prefer a thicker crust on my pizza, but I figured out that when grilling, it’s important to keep it thin so that it can cook through before charring.

** I haven’t yet shared the story of why I don’t personally grill anymore.  It has to do with me setting the grill on fire – not once, but TWICE.  I’m not talking about a cute little “oh look, honey, the fat from the butterflied chicken is flaring up!” fire… I’m talking oh-crap, somebody-grab-an-extinguisher, flames-licking-the-side-of-the-house kind of fire.  (Did I mention that I did that twice?)

*** During this experiment, I realized that one of things I love most about pizza is the browned cheese.  I’m that girl that picks the stray over-browned cheese from the edge of the crust – it’s my favorite part.  Unfortunately, being that a grill only provides heat from the bottom, grilled pizza does not result in any browning o’ the cheese: a significant drawback from this particular cooking method.  Be warned.

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I realize that this recipe looks ridiculously long at first glance.  Fear not!  It includes three methods for preparation (mixing by hand, by stand mixer, and by food processor) and two methods for cooking (oven and grill).

Also, If you’re using a baker’s peel or a pizza stone, I assume that you know how to use them and I do not include the specific instructions here.


Basic Pizza Dough
Adapted from Beth Hensperger’s Bread Bible

1 cup warm water (105 to 115)
2 teaspoons active dry yeast
¼ teaspoon sugar or honey
2 ½ to 3 cups unbleached all-purpose flour
(for wheat crust, sub ½ cup whole wheat flour and ¼ cup wheat bran for ¾ cup of the flour)
2 to 6 tablespoons chopped fresh herbs, such as oregano, basil, rosemary, and/or parsley (optional)
2 tablespoons olive oil
½ teaspoon salt
Cornmeal or semolina, for sprinkling (optional)
Pizza sauce and toppings of your choice

1. Measure the 1 cup of water in a 2-cup measuring cup.  Sprinkle the yeast, sugar, and 1 tablespoon of flour over the surface of the water and stir with a fork (which mimics a small whisk and helps break up the flour) until dissolved.  Let stand at room temperature until foamy, about 10-15 minutes.

2. Mix the dough.

To Mix By Hand:  In a large bowl, combine the oil, salt, 1 cup of the flour, the herbs (if using) and the yeast mixture.  Whisk hard until smooth, about 3 minutes.  Add the remaining flour, ½ cup at a time, stirring with a wooden spoon until a soft, sticky dough that just clears the side of the dough is formed.

To Mix with a Food Processor: Place 2 ½ cups of the flour, salt, and herbs (if using) in the work bowl of a food processor fitted with a metal blade.  Add the oil to the yeast mixture and, with the machine running, pour this mixture through the feed tube.  Process until a ball is formed, about 30 seconds.

To Mix with a Stand Mixer: In the work bowl of a heavy-duty electric mixer fitted with the paddle attachment, combine the salt, 1 cup flour, and the herbs (if using).  Pour in the yeast mixture and stir on low to combine.  Add the olive oil.  Beat for 2 minutes, adding the remaining flour, ½ cup at a time, until a dough that just clears the side of the dough is formed.

3. Knead the dough.

To Knead by Hand: Turn the dough out onto a lightly floured work surface and knead to form a springy ball (about three minutes), dusting with flour one tablespoon at a time to prevent sticking.  (If you use the food processor to mix the dough, you can knead it by hand briefly, but I have actually skipped the kneading and gotten great results.)

To Knead by Machine: Switch from the paddle to the dough hook and knead for two to three minutes, until the dough is smooth and springy.  If you press into the dough with your finger, It should hold the indentation.

4. Form the dough into a flattened ball and place into a large bowl greased with olive oil.  Turn it once so that the top is coated with oil, and cover with plastic wrap.  Let rise at room temperature until tripled in bulk, about 1 ½ hours.  Prepare your toppings and set them aside.

5. Preheat the oven or the grill.  20 minutes before baking, preheat the oven to 500.  (Yes, you read that right.  It needs to be smokin’ hot.)  If you’re planning to grill the pizza, fire up the grill to high heat.

6.  Shape the crust by either rolling it with a pin, stretching it by hand*, or pressing it with your fingers.  If you’re planning to grill, you’ll want a thin crust for it to be able to cook through without charring it beyond recognition.  Transfer the crust to the pan of your choice and immediately brush with sauce or olive oil.  Assemble the toppings on the dough. (Aren’t you glad you prepped them back in step 4?)

7.  Cook the pizza.

In the Oven: Bake the pizza until the dough is crisp, the topping is hot, and the cheese is melted.  This can take anywhere from 8 to 15 minutes, depending on your pan, the thickness of your crust, and what toppings you choose.  Check the bottom to make sure it’s browned, then transfer to a cutting board and cut into serving pieces with a pizza wheel or serrated bread knife.

On the Grill: Brush one side with olive oil and grill, oil side down, over high heat, until the crust is crisped and releases from the grate (2-3 minutes).  If you try to move the crust and it won’t budge, give it another minute – when it’s done, it’ll move.  Remove from the grill, flip over, and add sauce and toppings on the grilled side.  Return to the grill and cook until the cheese is melted, the sauce is hot, and the bottom is crispy (anywhere from 3 to 10 minutes).


* I have absolutely no idea how to stretch pizza dough by hand.  There are instructions in Beth’s book, but I honestly don’t see much value in learning this skill… if I’m missing out on something, I expect someone to fill me in!

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