The tasty side of growing up

Today, two months and one day shy of 25, I finally became an adult. Or so I thought about eight hours ago.


The day started well: my shiny, brand-new American passport came in the mail. I know that doesn't sound like a big deal, but oh boy, it is a symbol of so much growing up. For one, I am a one-week-old American. I was naturalized last Tuesday and I'm sure something has changed inside of me since I was sworn in eight days ago. As if that weren't enough, I got that passport, and my citizen-status, all on my very own, not piggy-backing on my parents as I would have if I were a mere teenager. Quite grown-up of me, wouldn't you say?

Next, I made a very difficult grown-up decision: UC Berkeley, here I come! I see this less as a fulfillment of my childhood dream of being a California girl - complete with mussed up surfer hair, neon flip flops and a flippy West Coast accent to match - and more of a super responsible first step into the rest of my life. Super responsible. I swear.

And finally, there was the bread. Only adults make bread, right? You never see little boys and girls standing on chairs over a ball of dough. Mixing pancake batter? Sure. But kneading bread? I think my point is clear.

I've always considered bread one of my callings - eating bread, that is. I like sweet, sour, chewy, grainy. I like it warm and crusty, cool and stale at the point just before fuzzy little creatures start to call it home. I like it with melty Plugrá, goopy Nutella, and pretty much any kind of cheese. Hell, I like it plain, and I'll fight anyone willing to mess with me in order to get the nubby end of a French baguette.

But baking bread was aways another matter completely. Honestly, I thought it was something only done by "big people:" People that were taller than me and had darker circles under their eyes than me. People who had come to the conclusion that they're too old for birthday parties (gifts and cake included). People who knew the difference between "adobo" and "saffron." (I still don't think I should have been blamed for seasoning my grilled cheese sandwich with the the contents of a reappropriated, mislabeled spice bottle.) The big people would make the bread and I, very happily, would pick every last crumb off my plate with my fingertips.

Last night when, just home from a too long day at work (if that's not a grown-up thought, I don't know what is!), I caught sight of a recipe that had been hanging on my fridge all winter: Jim Lahey's No-Knead Bread. I had had the brilliant idea of serving up fresh bread over the holidays, but my enthusiasm dwindled quickly when I discovered I'd need a heavy cast-iron pot. I didn't have one.

Then, in February, my no-nonsense cousin Louisa caught wind of my troubles. Two days later I had a pot. A big, beautiful, candy apple red Le Creuset look-alike. I was thrilled. I couldn't stop taking pictures of it. But still, no bread. I guess I just didn't have that other calling.

Until last night.

I know a lot's been said about the recipe since its debut in 2006, and even in the past few weeks there seems to have been a renewed interest in Lahey and his home-baked delights. (Here, and sort of here and here.) While the recollection of Pim's "No flavor!" warning filled my heart with icy fear when I scanned the recipe last night, I felt I had to follow through should the calling fall silent once again. It was time to grow up, I thought, flavor be damned!*

The dough came together very easily before bed and 20 hours later, I arrived home smug and big person-y, ready to forge ahead. I took a peek into my plastic-covered bowl and inside was just a lump. A very lumpy lump covered in bubbles, looking like it had contracted some kind of horrible, open-sored skin disease.
First, I panicked. Then came the profanity. I couldn't help it. I felt so betrayed. I mean, look at it! Finally, I looked at the recipe. The bubbles and lumpiness were normal, desirable even. I calmed down and, red in the face from embarrassment, apologized to my lump, who by this point I was calling Bear. Suddenly, I didn't feel like a grown-up anymore.

When Bear came out of the oven, he was beautiful. Brown and golden all at once, a hard crust hiding a dense, chewy center that, lo and behold, had flavor in leaps and bounds. (I used whole wheat flour instead of the all-purpose listed in the original recipe.)
As I sliced Bear up, I couldn't help but think that being a big person is overrated. After all, it's hard to win at hide and seek in the backyard if you're too tall. And there is nothing, nothing good about under-eye circles. And I know how to identify saffron now.

And and and I have no desire whatsoever to say goodbye to birthday parties, gifts or cake (ahem, July 1), and no amount of growing up, or bread-baking, is going to take that away from me.

*Flavor should never ever actually be damned.

***

Whole Wheat No-Knead Bread

Adapted from New York Times, adapted from Jim Lahey, Sullivan Street Bakery

3 cups whole wheat flour (original recipe calls for all-purpose or bread flour)

¼ teaspoon instant yeast

1¼ teaspoons salt

Extra flour, cornmeal or wheat bran as needed

In a large bowl combine flour, yeast and salt. Add 1 5/8 cups water, and stir until blended; dough will be shaggy and sticky. Cover bowl with plastic wrap. Let dough rest at least 12 hours, preferably about 18, at warm room temperature, about 70 degrees.

Dough is ready when its surface is dotted with bubbles. Lightly flour a work surface and place dough on it; sprinkle it with a little more flour and fold it over on itself once or twice. Cover loosely with plastic wrap and let rest about 15 minutes.

Using just enough flour to keep dough from sticking to work surface or to your fingers, gently and quickly shape dough into a ball. Generously coat a cotton towel (not terry cloth) with flour, wheat bran or cornmeal; put dough seam side down on towel and dust with more flour, bran or cornmeal. Cover with another cotton towel and let rise for about 2 hours. When it is ready, dough will be more than double in size and will not readily spring back when poked with a finger.

At least a half-hour before dough is ready, heat oven to 450 degrees. Put a 6- to 8-quart heavy covered pot (cast iron, enamel, Pyrex or ceramic) in oven as it heats. When dough is ready, carefully remove pot from oven. Slide your hand under towel and turn dough over into pot, seam side up; it may look like a mess, but that is O.K. Shake pan once or twice if dough is unevenly distributed; it will straighten out as it bakes. Cover with lid and bake 30 minutes, then remove lid and bake another 15 to 30 minutes, until loaf is beautifully browned.

Cool on a rack.

Yield: One 1½-pound loaf.

I'll crumble 4 ya

I stink at writing headlines. At work I rely on the obvious ("Council approves budget") and not so obvious ("MICU comes home") for pathetic, usually last minute, inspiration. It is with the hope that you'll keep this in mind that I apologize for the title of this post, which is, all things considered, quite creative, don't you think? Bah, fine. George Michael, forgive me.

Another thing I just can't get a handle on is seasonal ingredients. Today I was supposed to make a crumble, a recreation of the rhubarb and apple version my mom swooned over at Chez Panisse a couple of weeks ago, the one I promised her I'd remake. I was sure I'd seen rhubarb stalks at the supermarket, which may be the root of the problem.

As a lifelong supermarket, rather that farmer's market, goer, I'm used to having access to pretty much whatever, whenever. I know the basics - pumpkin in fall, peas in spring, strawberries in summer, or something like that - but for the most part I buy what I find with little thought to what season it was when the item was snatched from it's home.


I was perfectly confident that rhubarb would be no problem to find. I'd seen it, for one, and Chez Panisse only serves food in season, for another. Sadly, this was no guarantee. Nary a rhubarb to be found at the Emerson Shop Rite or even Westwood's Trader Joes. Not even in the frozen section! What are supermarkets coming to these days?

But I had crumble on the brain and a lack of rhubarb wasn't about to derail me. The best part of crumbles is that they work with any fruits. Pineapple and mango? An option but the cool, cloudy New Jersey day didn't really warrant a tropical crumble. Strawberries? There were plenty at the store but it just seemed too easy. I finally settled on a combination of frozen cherries, blueberries, raspberries and blackberries, really just because they looked pretty in the picture on the bag. They were even lovelier in the pan, like melty rubies and amethyst bubbling around a crust of gold.

I hadn't tasted anything so delightful in ages: Sweet fruits. Tart lime. Nutty whole wheat topping. The only thing keeping me from polishing off the remaining half tonight is the oh so happy thought that I can devour it for breakfast tomorrow morning.

Oh crumble, I'll tumble 4 ya. (I couldn't resist.)

***

Berry-cherry crumble

Filling
1.5 lbs frozen mixed berries and cherries (available at Trader Joe's)
2 tablespoons granulated sugar
Juice of 1/2 lime

Crumble
1/2 cup whole wheat flour
1/2 teaspoon baking powder
3 tablespoons granulated sugar
3 tablespoons brown sugar
Butter, cold and diced, as needed (about 3-4 tablespoons)

Preheat oven to 375 degrees F. In a saucepan, combine fruit, 2 tablespoons sugar and lime juice. Stir occasionally until heated, about five minutes.

In a separate bowl, combine flour, baking powder and sugars. Add butter as needed, working into dry ingredients with your hands until the mixtures is crumbly.

Pour fruit mixture into baking dish and cover with crumb topping. Bake about 35 minutes, until fruit is bubbly and crumb is crisp and golden.

Let cool about five minutes, or serve at room temperature, preferably with ice cream.

A whirlwind of the very best kind

The week before last was a whirlwind, a whirlwind of the very best kind. In a matter of six days, I soaked in the warm sunshine of northern California and endured one of Chicago's brutal spring storms. I indulged with an exotic cocktail of gin (always a good start) with honey and lavendar, and countless (just two actually) glasses of warming red wine. I ate rich squab and juicy steak, fresh produce and duck fat french fries and too much chocolate.

But it was only over a glass of wine at Chez Panisse two Sundays ago that it hit me - I'm having dinner at Chez Panisse! Meep!

Then something else hit me, something arguably more important depending on who you ask - I'm going back to school. Smile, sip, sigh.

I never gave much thought to going back to school, least of all journalism school. I figured I'd get my reporting chops up to snuff on the job, working my beat, impressing my bosses. Before long I'd work my way up and out, becoming the most sought after print-slash-video-slash-web reporter-slash-producer in the county. Nay! On the planet!

Needless to say, two and a half years after taking a job at a community paper, I've realized that will never be the case, no matter how many board of ed meetings I cover or freelance film reviews I fumble my way through. So, here I go. This September will be all about new beginnings. I will be back at school in a city I've never lived in with people I've never known. The question is, which school? Which city? Which people? Or, better yet, which farmer's market?

I know I should base my decisions on the program and job opportunities and financial aid - donations are now being accepted - and all sorts of other reasonable, pragmatic criteria. But pragmatic I am not, least of all when it comes to life's important decisions. Go to film school instead of studying international business? Sure! Spend my final undergrad semester traipsing around Paris instead of looking for post-graduation work? Go for it! That pesky voice is chirping in my ear once again and I can't help but find myself considering where I'd live, what I'd wear, where I'd shop, what I'd eat as important factors in my decision. Quite the dilemma. I know. I know.

I guess I'll have to sleep on it. Or maybe eat on it. I've often been told that I bake to forget my problems, but I like to think of it as a way of working through them. Really, nothing gets solved without the input of a good pie or cupcake. And my mom has been asking, begging really, for seconds of the rhubarb-apple crumble from Chez Panisse. This decision could prove to be a real piece of cake.

Pining away

Just a little over two weeks ago, the calendar made a promise - March 21, the first day of spring, the beginning of warmth and color and yummy freshness. But that promise was broken. Instead, northern New Jersey has seen rain and tornado warnings and a chill that only a puffy black winter parka and countless variations of stew can fix, and just barely fix at that.



















And so, I suppose I've been on an unintentional strike. But it occured to me tonight that by staying away from the computer, I haven't shared that meal two weeks ago that instilled so much excitement in me. For, you see, March 21 wasn't just the first day of spring. It marked the beginning of the Persian year, Norooz.

Norooz is probably the biggest holiday for Iranians and in my house, the occasion rivals Christmas. A few weeks before the New Year, spring cleaning begins. We shop for new clothes and new sheets. We plant seeds and buy fresh flowers. The centerpiece of the festivities is the "haft-seen" table, which literally translates to seven s-es, "seen" being the equivalent of the letter "s." The table is supposed to be set with seven dishes representing rebirth, health, happiness, prosperity, joy, patience and beauty.

The symbolic dishes include "sabzeh," or sprouts, usually wheat or lentil, representing rebirth; "samanu," a sweet, creamy pudding of wheat sprouts; "seeb," or apple, representing health and beauty; "senjed," the sweet, dry fruit of the Lotus tree, representing love; "seer," or garlic, representing good health; "somaq," or sumac berries, the color of the rising sun of spring; and "serkeh," vinegar, representing age and patience.

My family doesn't really know all this. I have to admit I looked up the meanings and realized that our yearly haft-seen includes many other elements: a watch, gold coins, goldfish (or in our case, as all our fish die the day after the New Year, a fish-shaped pendant) and colored eggs. You may also notice my contribution - marshmallow Peeps - because I'm addicted to them as well as hyacinth, called "sonbol" in Farsi, and candles. We usually include sweets like dates and homemade baklava, but I'm pretty sure those were in the process of being eaten by the time these pictures were taken.

After the cleaning, the planting, the shopping, and the decorating comes the party. And oh boy, do we like to party. Norooz 2008 started with a couple glasses of Veuve Cliquot, followed by a parade of some of my favorite foods in the whole world.

Broiled salmon, crusty from a lemon juice marinade and rendered extra sour by virtue of baby dill pickles and a wholly Iranian pickle known as "torshi" ...

Basmati rice, fluffy and scented with heady saffron, layered with fresh herbs like parsely, dill and all those other unidentifiable greens you find in the produce section this time of year...

"Kookoo sabzi," a veggie patty made with those very same spring herbs and vegetables, dotted with chunks of walnut and held together by an egg...

And, my favorite, the homemade baklava that I mentioned before. The one thing I didn't get a picture of. I apologize. But rest assured it will make another appearance on this blog, I promise.

I also promise that when it does, I will have a recipe, something I can't offer at all tonight. These are my mom's recipes, done by feel and taste and from the heart, and no amount of "Wait, let me measure!" could slow her down enough to allow me to take notes. I suppose I'll just have to feel and taste and work my way through the ingredients until I figure out the recipes for myself.

But that's a travail for another time. For now, I'll keep on pining away for spring, maybe adding a little extra vinegar to my salads. That stands for patience, remember? Lucky I get to practice my hand at that virtue in sunny California. Tomorrow I set off for San Francisco and Berkeley, where spring has apparently already sprung. I can't wait.

Wobbly knees and a resolution

It's not everyday I eat a meal that leaves me wobbly at the knees. I try, I swear I do. And the food I do eat (almost) always makes me happy. But I can't remember the last time I ate something that was knee-wobblingly good. And then, last Wednesday, came along Del Posto's Enoteca and everything as I knew it changed. At least as far as wobbly knees go.

Despite a fear of Mario Batalli and a distrust of all that is labelled New York City's best kept secret, I took the plunge in hopes of a celebratory meal that would make me forget the world outside. I clearly had high hopes, and I wasn't let down.

The Enoteca made me realize I have no reason to fear Mr. Batalli (though I do question the Food Network producers that have done him so little justice) and that it is absolutely possible to lose yourself in a meal then realize halfway through that it will end too soon. I wondered aloud if I would be able to keep on eating forever if the food just kept on showing up at the table.

I opted for the $45 prix fixe. My meal started with a plush, fragrant roasted squash and I couldn't help but think that I had died and gone to heaven, then hoped I hadn't because I couldn't get the pillows on the banquette on which I was lounging comfortably positioned. The second course was a duo of pastas, a garganelli with meat sauce and orechiette that found its soul mates (yes, two soul mates, that lucky thing!) in pancetta and spicy peppers, strewn haphazardly across a too-big plate. By the time the beef brasato came my way, I was giggling giddily, and the perfectly chocolatey torta del nonna pushed me over the edge, leaving me making declarations of love for Mr. Batalli and the Bastianich family. And for my wine guy. Because, as you may already have guessed, my musings and passionate exclamations were fueled by four half-glasses of wine. No, not four and a half - four half glasses. Yes, that equals two. Shush.

Which leads me to my resolution: From now on, I must - MUST - ask the the darling person selecting my pairings to write down the names of everything I drink. Especially if he describes one (my favorite!) as "experimental" and serves it in a glass as big as my face and lights up when I tell him I absolutely love it, boldness and all. I've been tempted to call him up and ask, but I have yet to work up the nerve. But I will. Eventually. I think.

So go. Eat. Drink. And don't be afraid to take notes.

(Oh, in case you were wondering, I managed to clonk - somewhat chicly if I do say so myself - past the piano player, out of the restaurant and back out into the world in spite of the wine, and my still wobbly knees.)