Coming to terms with the Fourth

My reconciliation with the Fourth of July has been a long time coming. 

Childish as it may sound, most of my childhood memories of the nation's birthday involve the Fourth stealing my thunder. The "cool girl" in third grade couldn't come to my somewhat belated birthday party because her actual birthday was on July 4. Fireworks always upstaged even the sparkliest, un-blow-out-able candles. My mom told me the fireworks were for my birthday, but I knew she was lying. They were for America, and I didn't like it. I mean, let's face it, America has had her fair share of birthdays and was pretty old compared to me. She had her shot - time to step aside so I, a mere 7- (err 24-) year-old could get my proper birthday glory.

But this year was different. For one, on July 1 I turned 25, which is kind of a grown-up age no? And, more importantly, this was my first Fourth as an American citizen. That's right, after 20 years of living happily as an all-American child, this spring I became a bonafide American adult with the passport to prove it. 

I figured it was about time to settle my score with America and come to terms with sharing the Fourth. So, I baked her a cake. And she gave it back to me, candle and all, to share with my family as fireworks cracked softly in the distant night. 

***

Blueberry and Blackberry Galette with Cornmeal Crust

Adapted from Cooking Light, July 2008

I really messed this up. I'm not sure where I went wrong, but somehow a recipe that should have yielded 10 servings was enough for just me, my mom, my dad and Sandy. We're a family of mouths and bellies, but seriously...

Pastry:

1 cup all-purpose flour

3/4 cup whole wheat flour

1/3 cup granulated sugar

1/4 cup cornmeal

1/4 teaspoon salt

1/2 cup cold butter, cut into small pieces

1/3 cup fat free buttermilk

Filling:

4 cups blueberries

2 cups blackberries

1/2 cup granulated sugar

3 tablespoons all-purpose flour

Juice of 1 lime

Topping:

2 tablespoons fat-free milk

1 large egg white

1 1/2 tablespoons granulated sugar (or turbinado sugar, if you happen to have it on hand)

To prepare pastry, lightly spoon flour into dry measuring cups, and level with a knife. Combine flour and next three ingredients (through salt) in a food processor; pulse two times. Add butter to flour mixture; pulse 4 to 5 times or until mixture resembles course meal. With processor on, slowly add buttermilk through food chute; process just until dough forms a ball. Gently press dough into a 4-inch circle on plastic wrap and cover. Chill 30 minutes.

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. 

Unwrap and place dough on a sheet of parchment paper. Roll dough into a 15-inch circle. Place dough and parchment on a baking sheet.

To prepare filling, combine berries and next 3 ingredients (through juice) in a medium bowl; toss gently to coat. Arrange berry mixture in center of dough, leaving a 2-inch border. Fold edges of dough toward center, pressing gently to seal. Dough will only partially cover berry mixture. 

Combine fat-free milk and egg white in a small bowl, stirring well with a fork or whisk. Brush dough with the milk-egg mixture; sprinkle sugar evenly over dough. 

(My dough wouldn't stay sealed over the berries, so my mom and I wrapped it in the paper using toothpicks to secure it. Let it bake like this for 10 minutes until the dough sets and can hold its own shape, then remove toothpicks, undo the paper wrap, and continue to bake.)

Bake at 350 degrees for 1 hour or until pastry is golden brown. Let stand for 30 minutes then cut into wedges. 

Will serve 10 (or 4). 

For my birthday...

... all I wanted was a cupcake. I didn't know when, or from where, or what kind, and, as expected, my cupcake found me unexpectedly. In Philadelphia. Two days early.



It was delicious, filled with lemon curd, and adorable, capped off with the first of many flowers that would come my birthday's way.



And best of all, it was perfect for sharing. Just like birthdays.

***

Sour Cream Lemon Cupcake

Brown Betty Dessert Boutique

1030 No. 2nd Street

Philadelphia, Penn.

My dad's favorite things - Part 2

Every little girl has a particular archetypal image of her dad. It might be a powerful king, or a brave, armored knight. There's usually something shiny, be it a crown or shield for dad, and hopefully many shiny things for daughter. And a sword. Yes, there's almost always a sword, probably to help dad look like he can fight daughter's request for said shiny things.

But in my mind, my dad was no king and no knight. No siree, my dad was a cowboy. He was quiet and intense, had a penchant for slim cut jeans and getting his hands good and dirty. And rather than bestow on me shiny things, he gave me something far more valuable: a taste for beans.

While my sister pushed beans of all kinds - black, kidney, lima, chickpea - around and eventually off her plate, I watched my dad try to rescue them. He tasted something earthy and special in them, and while I couldn't sense that myself, I knew better than to leave them behind.

Today, I can taste what he tasted, and there really is something magical about them. They're meaty without being meat. Nourishing without being leafy. They can snap and they can be soft, warm or chilled. The key, as my dad taught me, is in the seasoning.


For Father's Day, dad got my version of beans. Black beans from the can, sure, but all gussied up in a mix of olive oil, lime juice, chili pepper and cumin. A little chopped onion for flavor, red bell pepper strips for crunch, and a quick chill in the fridge for good measure, the salsa-style bean salad was a perfect match for the brisket. And for pretty much every other meal we had that week. Like my dad, I always make too much.

***

Chili bean salad
There isn't much of a recipe for this. I used a can of black beans I found in the pantry and tossed it together with whatever I could find. Here's an approximation, but don't feel obligated to stick to the prescribed measurements. There aren't any supposed to's when a cowboy and his girl do the cooking.

Black beans
Onion, chopped
Red bell pepper, chopped
Fresh lime juice and olive oil, enough to make a dressing
Cumin, chili powder, salt and pepper, to taste

Combine lime juice, olive oil and seasonings. Mix with vegetables. Refrigerate until chilled.

My dad's favorite things - Part 1

I love my dad. He loves me, too, but I figured Father's Day was the perfect chance to clinch his paternal adoration. And to make up for recent bouts of early morning exercise-induced grumpiness. And help him forget that I'm leaving home for California of all places (is this every father's nightmare?) in a month.

My dad isn't really one for ties, and I've run out of identifiable tools and technological knick-knacks to bestow upon him. He is, however, one for food, intense food that some shy away from for silly reasons like "health" and "hurts my tongue" and "oh, my stomach," food like red meat and chiles and beans and dark chocolate and butter. Did I mention I love my dad?

Now, as tempted as I am to start with dessert, I won't. My mom didn't let me and my dad start with dessert on Sunday, and I feel like I'd be breaking a sacred rule of dinnertime propriety if I start with dessert.

Instead, I'll start with the main course. Did I mention my dad isn't really an appetizer kind of guy? When it's time to eat, it's time to eat - with no need for snacks to take up valuable belly room that could be used for main event.

And so, without further ado, I present to you the meat.

***

This dish was originally supposed to be the Southwestern Barbecued Brisket with Ancho Chile Sauce featured in the latest issue of Bon Appetit. But, unable find a large enough piece of meat, ancho chile powder or ancho chiles - and discovering that there was no gas left in the tank of my gas grill - I had to abandon "supposed to be" in exchange for "kind of like but not really." Still, generic chile powder and a trusty oven did the trick, turning my "too small" slab of meat into a moist, succulent, flavorful, melt-under-your-fork brisket.

Chile-rubbed brisket

Adapted from Bon Appetit, July 2008

2 teaspoons coarse kosher salt
1/2 tablespoon brown sugar
1 teaspoon chile powder
1/2 teaspoon ground cumin
1/2 teaspoon coarsely ground black pepper
1 2 1/2-pound flat-cut (also called first-cut) brisket
2 large (roaster) disposable aluminum pans

Mix salt, sugar, chile powder, cumin and black pepper together in small bowl.

Rub spice blend over brisket. Wrap brisket in plastic; refrigerate at least 2 hours and up to 24 hours.

Heat oven to 250°F Unwrap brisket and arrange fat side up in an aluminum pan. Cook brisket uncovered at 250°F for about 1 hour and 15 minues. Baste brisket occasionally with pan juices.

Remove pan from oven, and discard the pan and juices. Wrap brisket tightly in two wide sheets of heavy-duty foil. Place in clean aluminum pan and return to oven at 250°F for an additional 45 minutes.

Transfer brisket in pan to rimmed baking sheet and let rest about one hour.

Carefully unwrap brisket, saving any juices in foil. Transfer juices to small pitcher or bowl and thinly slice brisket across the grain on a work surface. Transfer to a platter and serve with juices.

A funny thing happened

When I travel, I let my appetite lead the way. It's been like this for at least my entire adult life, and probably from way back when I was a little, hungry thing. On road trips from New Jersey to Virginia, my little sister and I would insist on hitting up our favorite rest stops for fried chicken and cinnamon buns, often adding a couple of hours to the typical 4 to 5 hour drive. Even short family jaunts up to nearby Bear Mountain or to my beloved Natural History Museum meant outdoor grilling and classic New York hot dogs gussied up with sauerkraut and plenty of hot mustard. (Respectively, of course - I'm not sure museum curators would have appreciated a cookout under the T-Rex.)

The trend continued as I grew older: There was the 1997 trip to Switzerland, the first journey my sister and I made by ourselves at the ages of 14 and 12. I remember the gooey cheese crisping and crackling on the raclette pans set up in the middle of my Aunt Rafat and Uncle Karl's dining room table, the freshly fried frites that I have come to know as Karl's specialty. I remember the too strong smoked salmon and pasta dish that made me woozy on our first afternoon in Lugano, followed by a wine and cheese party (who's 14?) in the garden of our hilltop hotel. And then there were the McDonald's fries that Sandy and I treated ourselves to everytime we were let loose on our own in Zurich.

And ever since, my list of travel food memories has come to include the fresh seafood of San Juan, Puerto Rico; thick, rich beef in Tuscon, Arizone; clotted cream in Cambridge, England; fish and chips in London; fish and chips eaten from a newspaper while stones dug into my back on a galet beach in Brighton, England; macarons and falafel in Paris; marzipan in Lagos, Portugal; perfectly crusted pizza in Milan; miniature green princesstartas in Stockholm, Sweden... and ice cream everywhere. The list is endless, as is the list of people with whom I shared these snacks and meals.

Last month, Sandy and I traveled to Peru. She had a friend living in Lima and I had a hankering to get out of the office. We found cheap flights and made our way down, no plans whatsoever. Ten years since our Switzerland trip, and presumably 10 years wiser, we decided we could figure it out when we got there. I knew I wanted cebiche and roast chicken, and maybe even the deep fried guinea pig. (The most valuable lesson my high school history teacher Mr. Dunn ever passed on was that everything tastes better when it's deep fried. Of course, he wasn't a fan of fresh veggies and referring to dumping whole heads of lettuce into the fryer his wife bought him as a Christmas present my junior year, but I told myself that this principle was sure to apply to rodents.)

And then a funny thing happened: I lost my appetite.

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I didn't think it was possible. Of course I still ate, and ate well, but... I don't know. It just wasn't the same as when I devoured the most beautiful paella known to man (the sangria may have played a part in this particular memory) in a little shack of a restaurant in Barcelona.

So imagine my surprise as I labored through the cebiche and tacu-tacu as well as the lucuma tart and chocolate souffle at hyper-trendy La Mar our first day there.

I know it doesn't look bad, but I swear (!) it was, and the situation only worsened as we set off on our travels outside of Lima. Apparently, higher altitudes (we hit close to 15,000 feet on our hike up the Andes) have an adverse effect on even the heartiest desires to eat. (I have a feeling that marketplaces smelling of rot and rickety, overstuffed minivans serving as inter-city mountain buses didn't help.)

I was surprised to say the least, and even devastated at times. Then I looked around, and I found a country unmatched by my previous travels in the fallen, almost gothicly romantic beauty of its cities; the immensity of its historic monuments; and the grandeur of its natural landscapes. In only six days, I saw so much.

The Lima cityscape is marked even in the richest areas by unfinished construction, old cars, abandoned buildings and animals, the fading facades highlighted by colorful foliage and a dank, ghostly fog that envelops the city in the "winter" months...

The Cordillera Blanca, a range in the Andes where a one-day hike offers a glimpse of a hidden, mountain lake called Laguna 69. There is nothing living in the lake, and the ivory rocks lining the bottom, filled with pure, cold mountain water, creates a shocking reflection of the blue sky above.

Our horseback-riding guide was insane and could not speak any English, and barely any Spanish for that matter. Sandy's horse was suicidal, walking precariously on the edge of the cliffs as we rounded the mountain bluffs. If you look closely, you see pure terror in Sandy's smile.

While there wasn't time for a visit to Machu Picchu, we did make it to a historic site just outside of Lima overlooking the jagged Pacific coastline. We initially thought this group of women was setting up a picnic at the top of a ruined temple, but we soon discovered they were there to make offerings, digging small holes in the dirt and filling them with beans and grains, and annointing the site by sprinkling what looked like water.

And still, this is nothing compared to what I've been told Peru has to offer. Hours before my flight home, I was at once euphoric and disappointed. I knew that five days was not enough, and I had no idea when, or if, I'd ever make it back.

I was also supremely sad that, despite the incredible experiences, I didn't have any poignant culinary memories to take home - save the feast of peanut butter, whole wheat Bimbo bread, cheese-filled Ritz cracker sandwiches, and vanilla wafers that Sandy and I enjoyed on the evening after our hike up to Laguna 69. Clearly even a small drop in altitude was enough to perk up our appetites.

Then it happened: the first pang of intense longing for a food item that I had felt all week. It was a giant pastry that looked like a Napoleon. Except here the layers of crispy mille feuille were separated not my cream, but by manjar blanco - Peru's version of dulce de leche - topped off with a snowy dusting of powdered sugar. It was as if though the heavens had opened up and a supreme being was shining a powerful ray of light through the pastry case.

I ate every last bit and had to contain my excitement so that I wouldn't lick the last bits of manjar blanco off the plate. Nope, I swear I didn't lick. But I did leave the white plate pristine, devoid of the sticky sweet toffee-colored drops that gave the trip of a lifetime a happy ending.