Esprit de Cookie

Some women stockpile shoes, a socially acceptable semi-closeted addiction which supports crammed toes clad in sleek leather perfection no matter the price. Well my Achilles' heel is infinitely less glamorous or costly; it comes in the unassuming form of the humble cookie. My house is a haven in large part because of the stash momentarily secure in my tea drawer. In actuality this large cupboard of comestibles is a microcosm of my ideal world. There is a rotating appearance of goodies from thoughtful friends hailing from exotic locations and local haunts. It is hospitable place where sweet and savory nibbles unite over an enticing hot brew, respectful of both private reverie and fanciful fun. Blueprints for the tea drawer actually started quite young. While some girls dreamt about their trousseau whilst playing with Barbie, I was planning the future many-splendid-things-I-would-eat and the very big chest needed to safely stow those treasures away. From the looks of my well padded cupboard, I would say I have finally arrived.

But the teas, honeys, and spreads really just set the stage for the convivial cookie ever ready to play. Ever since kindergarten snack time when we wee tots were given one chocolate cream biscuit with a half pint of milk, my Pavlovian response to the pale thud of cookies sprawled upon a ready surface has been less than ladylike. But mind you, there are rules to follow nonetheless. First, there must be a handful-- at least three, neatly stacked preferably sans plate to keep a casual handle on things. For the cookie that is cupboard tin worthy, it must be of modest size and easily cupped within the palm of the hand for discretion. It also must be able to be stuffed within the mouth in one fell swoop (for the sheer joy of restrained gluttony) or at most two bites. The one cookie limit pretty much ended in kindergarten. There is strength in numbers and while I pretty much don’t care for even digits, four is a particularly desirable CQ (cookie quantity). This may be redundant information but it also dovetails into issues like “over-the-topness”, and that is the giant Mrs. Field’s type confection crammed uncomfortably full with superlatives, white chocolate, cocoa covered raisins, marshmallows, toffee bits, and frosting-- is completely and utterly rejected. The sugar beast is at least 5 bites wide and to my estimation if four of those bad boys were to be consumed; there would be serious gastrointestinal debt to pay. There is no dignity to tell tale chunks of goo left behind on the face, keyboard or lap. One would pretty much graduate from the restrained glutton to the full fledged and cherished well behaved guests would justifiably stare.

Well providence showered down upon my tea drawer these past few weeks as experimentation with chickpea flour turned towards the sweet. In stupefying swiftness, a North African honey hued delight crossed the Atlantic to become new house favorite. Ghoreyba soumsoum is not only whimsical word sound but is a shattering mouthful of sandy textured crumbs which perfectly conjures a mirage of palm trees amidst dry desert heat. A few cupfuls of hot tea would make good travel companion to quell parched throats and unravel any remaining discernable tension. Additionally appealing, the creation of this exotic treat is a delightful breeze leaving more uncensored moments for cookie dreaming and eating. Flour to flame unleashes earthy color from within as the raw taste of legume is exchanged for a substrate toasted and nutty. Melted butter and oil combine and then are quickly turned into a handful of other unremarkable ingredients. One, two, three- fetching, soft dough is born and quietly exclaimed over before rolling, slicing, and baking. Yes, there will be a few moments of wait in cooling, but think this breeds patience and possibly a few other virtues. Mark this moment in your mind, as this cookie obliterates all others that came before. It is the power of the flour, the perfect crumble of sun and sand, simplicity, and rich lingering taste that will elicit eternal allegiance and firm standing in any tea drawer. Dessert it is not- the good natured cookie needs no fan fare, no doily, no runcible spoon…only nibbles and a few pauses for pleasure.


Ghoreyba soumsoum: Adapted from Is that my buréka? Thanks to burekaboy for permission to re-tell/interpret his recipe. Check out his post for more detailed information and directions. There are also a lot of interesting recipes on his site, like pickled turnips! Back to the cookies…

Ingredients:
1 ½ C toasted chickpea flour
½ C spelt flour
¼ C tsp. baking powder
½ C sugar

¼ C grapeseed oil
6 Tblsp. melted unsalted butter
1 Tblsp. water

½ C sesame seeds

Directions: Spread the chickpea flour on a shallow pan and toast in the oven watching closely for the color to darken somewhat and a nutty smell to emerge. Cool and sift with the remaining dry ingredients into a large bowl. Mix the wet ingredients together and pour into the dry- giving a good stir and then turn the mixture out to give it a light knead. Cut the dough into 4 balls and roll into ropes approximately ¾ inches thick. Place sesame seeds into a shallow dish and roll each rope in the seeds. Cut the ropes into slightly bigger than ½ inch diagonal slices. Place the slices on parchment covered baking sheets and bake at 325 degrees for about 15 minutes. Cool.

Unlikely Bed Fellows

Sometimes I suspect that pâté is the glue that binds my being together. Its savory richness is a recurring echo good naturedly chasing my thoughts. While I do not indulge nearly enough, every cell is dialed into that lingering flavor in deep recognition. From varieties with guttural stick-to-your-rib names like ‘Braunschweiger’ or ‘liverwurst’ to kingly ‘foie gras terrine’, these pastes of organ bits, trunks and ankles were no doubt the brainchild of one resourceful cook determined to coax strong flavored scraps into manageable palatable form. In the end a triumphant blend emerged; protein, wine, and herb lustily delivered upon a flavorful raft of fat. Some have pronounced the satiny spread a veritable mink blanket for the eternal soul and I without pause- agree.

Still there are foes to fat amongst us: breatharians, dieticians, and cardiologists to name a few. But they are not the only contrary ones. Surprising a turncoat on occasion I find myself- eschewing the cornichon and capers, mere accessories before hurtling past the baguette loaded with liver. It is my inner ascetic hard-at-work delivering a well crafted sermon, scornful of things opulent and earthly, which gets me waffling.

“And again I say unto you, It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle, than for a rich man to enter into the kingdom of God.” Matthew 19:24

As necessity is the mother of invention and pâté essential for happiness, I find myself in search of something that creates an umami rich blend with pleasing mouth feel that can be indiscriminately scooped and slathered onto crisp bread while boosting body and soul. In quick divinely inspired succession, “tofu…miso…tempeh” started a search that revealed, necessity struck the heart of former porcine loving vegans as well.

Tempeh is that thin rectangular block stacked patiently next to the tofu. One must be forewarned that the appearance is unusual and a touch off putting if caught unaware. The first time I bought it, the package hung in the back of the cold cut drawer for an uncomfortably long time, an irksome reminder of things-good-for-me-to-do. Rescued just before the expiration date I uncovered a mottled, ever so slightly moldy looking, shiny in some parts, beige-ish pressed form. This fermented Indonesian “meat” loaf is after all the result of partially cooked soybeans inoculated with Rhizopus oligosporus. It is a complete protein, full of fiber, B vitamins, and calcium- and hard to overlook. Unlike tofu its mild mannered cousin, tempeh is a more assertive form of soy announcing glutamate rich top notes as well as undertones of ‘shrooms and nuts. This heterogeneous toothsome textured mat lends itself well to being sliced, diced or grated while providing physically gratifying chew. Tempeh works hard to fill the gap that animal meat leaves behind.

While I look for ways to reduce, stretch, and recycle- an abstemious way of life will alas, never be mine. No doubt I will always eye the Saint-André and smack my lips at the thought of Lardo di Colonnata; but now at least I can finally say I am tempted and for the moment, tempered- by tempeh.

Tempeh Pâté: Adapted by The Vegan Chef, Beverly Lynn Bennett

Ingredients:
8 oz. multigrain tempeh, crumbled
12 oz. crimini mushroom, chopped
1 onion, chopped
2 Tblsp. Olive oil
3 garlic cloves, minced
2 tsp fresh rosemary, finely chopped
3 Tblsp. Bragg Liquid Aminos
3 Tblsp. Red wine
1/8 tsp. fresh ground black pepper
Scoop of Mayonnaise, few blocks of silken tofu, and/or handful of finely chopped walnuts

Directions: Heat up a medium sized skillet to medium hot and add the oil. Sauté the onion, 2 cloves of garlic, and the mushrooms for several minutes to get a bit of color going. Add the crumbled tempeh and continue cooking and moving the mixture about for another 5 minutes. Add the rosemary, liquid aminos, red wine, and black pepper and lower the heat continuing to cook the crumbled bits. Allow the mixture to cool a few minutes before blitzing up in a food processor. I made mine in two stages allowing one half to be mashed up into a smoother paste, while leaving the other half slightly chunkier. Remove to a bowl and stir in the remaining minced garlic clove. Refrigerate for a few hours and taste. Without hesitation I felt that a good scoop of mayo was just the thing to get the right mouth feel, but that would un-veganize things. I think a reasonably good alternative would be to add a bit of silken tofu or chopped walnuts to the food processor while blitzing. This is an appealing pâté that can be easily adjusted to capture the right taste/texture. Who knew?

An Apple a Day

“The effect of her being on those around her was incalculably diffusive, for the growing good of the world is partly dependent on unhistoric acts, and that things are not so ill with you and me as they might have been is half owing to the number who lived faithfully a hidden life.” An excerpt from Middlemarch by George Eliot

She lovingly, thoughtfully brings me some token from the great outdoors every week. V a gardener by profession is a seer of the subtle, ostensibly tending the wildness but in reality, between planting and pruning helps those that “possess” plots reconcile their own true nature. This week’s bounty, rescued side road clippings, assertive dramatic angles of branch punctuated with finials of curved leaf and bud. The uninitiated might swiftly pronounce the whole lot, a tangled confusing mess. But we look upon the handsome striking framework of form against space- and marvel. Hobble bush, Moosewood, Viburnum. And just like that, breath by breath it reveals the changing face of its being from modest angular reserve to blushing baroque majesty.

It is little past spring and far from fall yet anyways, I fumble towards the moist hug and welcome of apple cake. My mother-in-law used to make a particularly good one, if not a little on the sweet side. Regardless of variation and breeding I am perennially charmed and calmed by the thought of this wholesome and usually autumnal bonny bread. Its wrap around goodness reminds me of a combination of two different things; Duncan Hinds Snackin’ cake discontinued from the 70’s, an unusually moist commercial mix snug with its own pan and frosting packet, and a homemade version that my mom made utilizing far too many apples. These days I find myself wanting to curl up around a Cheez Whiz jar due to indiscriminate sensory overload. I’d like to jump back a few decades earlier when the weightiest thing on my mind was how many pieces of toast I wanted to consume with or without cinnamon sugar. Instead, I dream about apple cake.

Usually I try to not think about apples having been plagued by only Red Delicious and Macintosh almost daily in childhood past. Undeterred they’d show up again and again in my lunchbox pummeling the sandwich, even making the rounds to stalk the cornstalks and pumpkins, harbinger of the candy corn and cornucopias to follow. By the time September turned up, apples were okay as long as they were enrobed in candy, smashed into cider or sauce, bobbed or baked. But I exaggerate. The original fruit is a robust and cheery sort and must be in possession of some mysterious allure to be worth leaving paradise over. Still I am a little hard on them, as typical of things taken for granted and I confess too-- this ingratitude has on occasion spilt over into friendships.

See P was that friendly face that was there before the want existed- a little too available, good natured, and too often the brunt of the joke. Yet we became inseparable like best friends or maybe twin siblings, annoyed with each other at times but unmoored without the definite assurance of the other. At a time when my diagnosis, thesis, and resulting insecurities swelled large, I had a crushing need to have P there as I finished my final drawings and presented. There was a distinct sensation of feeling disconnected from my self while being suspended within a hollow metallic void. The only thing that kept me moving one foot in front of the other was the stabilizing presence of this person sitting in the same room.

Stunned to realize that the antidote to my overwhelming fear was in the form of that singular steadfast friend who over time, I had in ways ceased to see. Now when I reach for apple cake and gravitate towards comfort, I know I hunger to see the unwavering goodness that exists within the everyday and little; the friendships, kindnesses, and beauties that are framed by all the rest. I happily eat some as an act of appreciation for all those hidden delights which more than definitely includes, that certain special friend.

Super-Moist Apple Cake adapted from The Arrows Cookbook by Clark Frasier and Mark Gaier

This type of recipe usually has me tweaking and clipping the cream, butter, and sugar content. I was intrigued by the technique and did not have high hopes for substituting soymilk over the top, so plunge ahead I did. Boy was I glad. The texture is a marvel. Use of teeth optional as this is crushingly soft. It achieves what those puddin' cakes from the 70’s tried to create and more. Could be eaten with a spoon!

Ingredients:
1 ½ C sugar
1 ½ sticks unsalted butter
3 large eggs
1 C plus 1 Tbsp. AP flour
1 C plus 1 Tbsp. spelt flour
2 tsp. baking powder
Pinch of salt
¼ C plain yogurt plus ½ C water
¾ tsp vanilla
3 medium apples cored and sliced
¾ C heavy cream
1 ½ tsp ground cinnamon
Turbinado sugar

Directions: Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Grease and flour a 9 inch cake round. Cream butter and sugar in a stand mixer at medium high speed for about 5 minutes until light in color. Beat eggs in one at a time and scrape in between additions. Sift dry ingredients together and put aside. Mix yogurt, water, and vanilla together. Alternately add half the yogurt mixture and then half the dry ingredients to the creamed butter, mixing gently and scraping from time to time. Finish alternating the wet and dry ingredients and mix until just smooth. Do not overbeat. Pour the mixture into the prepared pan and arrange apples in a concentric pattern on top. Pour the cream evenly over the apples and sprinkle with the cinnamon and coarse sugar. Bake for 45 minutes or until a toothpick comes out clean when poked in the center. Of course this could be gilded with a splot of whipped cream or scoop of vanilla, but I suggest you hold off for another time. This cake deserves all of the attention.