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julia chews the fat

Category Archives: Holidays

Italy, condensed – Pt.1 – Roma

16 Saturday Jul 2016

Posted by julia chews the fat in Food Away From Home, Holidays

≈ 8 Comments

How do you distill the most important bits of a three-week trip, without lazily listing the highlights and making your audience feel like they’re forced to watch an endless stream of blurry slide-projector photos? I’ve been back home for nearly three weeks and have quickly slipped back into the daily routine, making the memories feel like they’ve piled up into one, big messy tangle, as opposed to a clean, chronological narrative. There are blips of recollections that contain everything from the scent of citrus fruit and diesel, to the sound of swallows and broken plates.

Where do you even start?

Without quite knowing how to come at this, I decided to rely on my travel journal – that flimsy, grey blotter that I dutifully towed alongside me every day, to jot down notes on park benches, in noisy tratorrie, and on bumpy buses. For better or worse, the journal seemed like a good way to introduce these places to you. There’s a lot more information, images and ideas from the trip still percolating in my brain, but it’ll take a bit more time to coax them into the proper channels (recipes! oh god, all the recipes!). So in the meantime, I’ve selected a few journal entries (tweaked for the sake of coherence), along with some photos to help flesh things out. There will  be a post on Rome, then Palermo (and surrounding areas), then one on the writing workshop with Rachel Roddy and Luisa Weiss at Case Vecchie (Anna Tasca Lanza Cooking School) in Sicily.

I hope that these glimpses and echoes of stories will nip your wanderlust square on the bum and encourage you to explore more – be it geographical, cultural, gustatory, or in any way you see fit.

Baci, Julia x

—–

Italy Part 1 // Rome // 4.5 days

Testaccio, Rome
Friday, June 10th, 9:45pm
Tratorria Da Bucatino

Yelling. So much yelling. The Romans are having dinner and it’s as though each thought, each string of words is as important – if not more so – as the last. Their hands and shoulders move in gestural waves – broad movements in competition with their own voices for airspace. The spectacle is punctuated by peals of laughter, a roll of the eyes, or a fist coming down hard on the table to further prove a point. It’s like a playful exercise of sensory one upmanship, where the men – with presumably a fair amount of vino and/or grappa circulating through their veins – are definitely winning.

Da Bucatino is the kind of place that instantly draws you in, largely thanks to its one-part Godfather, one-part Twin Peaks mystique. There are several dining rooms, each connected by small doorways which the waiter guides me through until we reach a table in the centre of the room. It has a “riservato” sign on it, which he hastily removes and shoves into his pocket. He catches my eye and winks, Non l’ho visto, l’hai visto ? (“I didn’t see it, did you?”). I shake my head, “no”, wishing I had the words to compliment his impromptu magic trick.

After a quick glance at the menu (which is in both English and Italian, with a wine list bearing only two dubious-looking, albeit succint, descriptors: “red” or “white”), I can’t tell if this place is a total racket or one of Testaccio’s best kept secrets. After a little while, it becomes clear that it’s somewhere comfortably in the middle – not ultra-gimmicky, not sublime, but a lovely in-between. The neighbourhood tratorria, the kind of place you come to with your family or your friends on a Thursday night, to eat platefuls of gnocchi, veal coda, and stewed fagioli, all while getting nicely looped on a carafe of wine called “red”.

I order the pici alla gricia, hand-rolled pasta the size and shape of thick shoelaces, slicked in a savoury sauce of pan-fried pancetta, fresh baby artichokes and a dusting of sharp pecorino. The pici get twirled happily into clusters on my fork, until there isn’t a single slippery noodle left in the bowl. It’s the kind of simply-prepared, unfussy pasta dish that hits all the right buttons, especially for the weary traveller who’s had nothing to eat all day, save an in-flight, cellophane-wrapped slice of banana bread, an oily square of potato pizza and an apricot.

To avoid the dearth of vegetables that’s beginning to slink into my tourist diet, I also order a 6 Euro plate of stewed chicory with the pici, which the waiter is quick to clarify will only come after the pasta, “Dopo il primo piatto, okaaye?”, as per Italian dining customs. I try to act with blasé assurance, “Sì, sì…perfetto“, but secretly wish he’d bring it all to the table at one time so that I won’t be stuck eating a mound of chicory meant for 2-4 people, all on its own (and all on my own). When it comes – a large, conical pile of tangled greens, swimming in garlicky stewing juices – the undertaking seems larger than expected. I dig in, like an obedient child, forkful after forkful, until the mound slowly diminishes, using the bread from the bread basket to mop up as much of the leftover juices as I can. It’s really tasty; just far too much for one person.

Right around the time I start to feel like John Candy in the steak scene from The Great Outdoors, a new batch of patrons rolls in through the front doors. It’s 10:45pm. The waiter asks if I want a dolce; I clutch my chest, “No, grazie, non posso” and ask for the cheque instead.

After heading out – or perhaps more accurately, rolling out of Da Bucatino, I make my way down the block to Piazza Testaccio a block for a gulp of fresh air. The piazza is nearly empty, except for a family of four with two gangly kids out for a late-night stroll. I notice they have cones of gelato in their hands. My midriff – the one that, just moments ago, felt like it was bursting at the seams, the one that said, “No, grazie, non posso” when offered dessert by Mr. Magic-Trick waiter – is suddenly keen for a frozen slurry of milk, cream and sugar. Not too far away is a gelateria, glowing in a halo of neon lights.

As I make my way over, I start to wonder how many times I’ll be able to use the excuse “when in Rome” before I fall flat on the floor.

Piazza Testaccio

—–

Testaccio, Rome
Saturday, June 11th
Caffè Barberini, Nuovo Mercato di Testaccio, former Mattatoio al Testaccio

Breakfast starts with a cornetto and macchiato at Barberini, on Via Marmorata. In Italy, a lot of cornetti (the Italian interpretation of a croissant) are made with vegetable shortening, but Barberini is apparently one of the only places in the city that makes theirs with real butter. No mucking around.

This hot tip came from Natalie, when I mentioned I was heading out for breakfast near the apartment in Testaccio. She also said they made good coffee – which they do. Like most Italian coffee bars, the baristi are exclusively men, decked out in white button-up shirts (some also wear grey vests and bow-ties), expertly navigating the line between flirtation and professionalism with their female clients. Regulars breeze in at different intervals, greeting the barista with a quick salve! as they lean up against the bar. Seconds later, the barista slides their espresso toward them. They don’t even need to order; he knows them that well. They chit chat for a couple of minutes, the client knocks back the final sip of their espresso (there are about three total) and they wish eachother a buongiorno! goodbye.

I’ve been to Italy before; I’ve seen this dozens of times. But it’s a ritual that never fails to impress me with its simplicity – the two minutes spent chatting with your local barista while you sip your coffee, before heading off to work or running errands. To the Italians, there’s nothing precious about this routine – to them it’s just that – routine. And that, I suppose, is what makes it all that more alluring to the outsider.

Testaccio, Rome

Around lunchtime, Rachel takes me round the Testaccio market (Nuovo Mercato di Testaccio). Nuovo, because it opened in 2012, migrating from its original location in Piazza Testaccio, where it stood since the 1920s. The new building has the same squeaky-clean brightness that causes a lot of modern architecture stick out in older, urban settings, making it feel strangely anachronistic. Rachel tells me that the new market was initally met with a good dose of skepticism, mainly because of the squeaky-cleanness of the new structure and the additional walking distance from the more central square where it used to reside. I can empathise with Romans who are resistant to change when it comes to their markets; when I think of my own outdoor market back home – Marché Jean-Talon – I realise how apprehensive I am when changes are made to the stalls and producers (where the heck did my Madame Laitue go? Why have they replaced the produce stalls with bougie artisanal products?). I feel like the rug has been pulled from under me on those days. Some Romans probably do too. Because when something so important to your daily life gets shifted around like that, it can throw you for a loop (especially for all us octogenarians at heart).

As we move along the pathways of the market that connect each stall, Rachel points out her favourite produce man (one of the few remaining farmers at the market that sells the produce he actually grows himself), her fish monger (he might be the most vocal vendor there), and her bakery, Da Artenio, which makes these lovely little pizzette – small, oval-shaped pizzas no bigger than the size of an out-stretched hand, with simple toppings like tomato sauce, or sliced potato, or red onion. In provision of lunch later in the day, I order a half loaf of bread and a bag of ciambelline al vino e finnochio, circular biscuits made with wine and fennel seeds and a coating of sparkly sugar crystals. They’re meant for dessert, but I like to dunk these in wine or beer (like the Moretti that’s quietly chilling in the fridge back at the apartment).

After visiting the market, we stop for a quick espresso at a nearby tabbacchi. Rachel tells me it’s one of the last remaining tabacchi that also has an espresso bar. I wish I had a better photo to show you – one with a view from the inside, through the beaded curtains that dress the front door. Like the woman who runs it, this spot is an utter gem – time-worn, modest and lovely.

Testaccio, Rome

Adjacent to the Testaccio market is a series of buildings that used to house the neighbourhood’s slaughterhouse. After it shut down in the 1970s, the spaces have been restored and reappropriated by different institutes and collectives dedicated to art, culture, and education, the largest ones being the Macro Testaccio, University of Roma Tre, and Città dell’Altra Economia, the latter featuring a small bio-agricultural market on Sundays that sells fresh produce, cheese and small-batch food products. (It pained me to leave the market without one of those jaw-dropping wheels of cheese in hand, but I had to remind myself – four days. You’re only here for FOUR days.)

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From Città dell’Altra Economia, you can see Monte Testaccio (or Monte dei Cocci), a hill made almost entirely of fragments of discarded earthenware (amphorae) used by the ancient Romans to transport olive oil. It’s quite a fantastic sight – a carefully engineered, ancient garbage dump of sorts. If you look closely (squint, maybe), you can make out the pieces of broken pottery covering the hill:

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When we leave the old slaughterhouse district, it’s mid-afternoon and I realise I haven’t had any lunch. Rachel and I part ways and I head back to the apartment with my market spoils to cobble together something that will sustain me for the rest of the afternoon. In a couple of hours, I’ll be heading out again, this time for a long walk along the Tiber to Latteria Trastevere, to meet Natalie for pre-dinner drinks and salumi (i.e. aperitivo hour).

I can think of worse ways to spend a day.

Testaccio, RomeTestaccio, Rome

—–

Vatican City, Rome
Sunday, June 12th

I have to buy Nonna a rosary at Vatican City today. That was my mission when I left the apartment this morning.

I head out, smeared in sunscreen SPF 110; my skin is still a shade between “snow-capped” and “Canadian-ivory”, which doesn’t exactly help me blend in with the locals. I take it a step further by fashioning my trusty cotton scarf into a makeshift headscarf, to protect my scalp from the hot sun, which by 10 am is already beating down something fierce. (Anytime I try to channel Ava Gardner in Night of the Iguana, I end up looking more like Edie Beale in Grey Gardens. It’s inevitable.). Since I don’t have enough hair to achieve a regal-looking Nefertiti situation, I end up looking vaguely infirm. That, or bat-shit crazy, if you consider the oversized sunglasses that swallow half my face and the canvas bag I’ve decided to cart along – you know, the one that has the outline of a naked woman lounging solo on a shag rug, smoking a bong. Oh and did I mention I went bra-free too?

Way to make an impression there, tourista.

headscarf

Canvas bag

It’s safe to say that sartorial choices such as these will not make you go unnoticed in Vatican City. One positive offshoot is that it tends to ward off the souvenir hustlers, possibly because they don’t quite know what to make of you. If you’re travelling alone, and don’t mind staying alone, I highly recommend it.

(Sidenote: before my Catholic-raised mother has a heart-attack reading this, I should mention that when I was actually in Saint-Peter’s Square (I didn’t go inside the Basilica or the museums), I had the good sense to turn the canvas bag inside out and toss on a long-sleeved shirt.)

—–

Among the vendor stalls outside Peter’s Square, all of them strewn with various forms of religious paraphernalia, I was able to find a couple of things that Nonna might like, namely a plastified card emblazoned with a smiling Pope Francis and a silvery medallion, and a rosary – a simple one made of white beads, with its own nifty pewter case.

I like to imagine grandma keeping these tokens by her bedside, making her feel safe.

Vatican CityVatican CityVatican CityVatican CityVatican CityVatican CityVatican CityVatican City

1:25 pm

About a twenty-minute walk from Vatican City is Bonci Pizzarium – a pizza-by-the-slice counter discreetly located on a sidestreet across Cipro metro. Knowledge of their proximity wasn’t a fluke, or dumb luck; I’d planned these two excusions back-to-back after hearing from a handful of reliable sources (including two Roman-dwelling food pros I’d met – Katie Parla and Natalie Aldern Kennedy) that Pizzarium has some of the best pizza-by-the-slice (al taglio) in town.

I enter and take a ticket; with every rotation of the crowd, I get closer to the vitrine. Once it’s my turn, I’m face-to-face with large sheets of pizza splayed out with every topping imaginable. There is no menu; what you see is what you get. It’s buy-by-eye – roasted red pepper with pine nuts, tomato and anchovy, mortadella and marinated eggplant, zucchini, ricotta and almonds…

I finally settle on four kinds before they call out my number: potato and rosemary; headcheese (coppa), shaved celery and orange zest; chicory, ricotta, and nutmeg; and mushroom with caciocavallo. I collect my bounty and head to a standing banquette outside. The first few bites trigger contented grunts; the slice with the coppa garnered a couple of under-the-breath swear words. An American tourist standing next to me nudges his wife, “OMIGOD OMIGOD, have you tried this one?! This one might be the best”, only to repeat the same statement with each subsequent piece (they all win “best”).

His enthusiasm is warranted. It’s the kind of food that sparks deep-belly felicity; the kind of food that makes you happy to be alive.

Viva Bonci Pizzarium.

Bonci PizzariumBonci Pizzarium

—–

Rome // Conclusion

Four and a half days in this city hardly seems enough. I feel like I’ve barely scratched the surface. Some things I’ll miss and hope to re-visit again: the public fountains that double as drinking fountains, the banter between neighbours that echoes off the walls of interior courtyards, the screeching swallows, the clinkity-clank of noisy tratorrie, the smell of pizza bianca wafting from stone ovens, the homicidal scooter-drivers, the way the ancient bits of the city meld with the modern, laundry hanging from windows, 1 euro macchiati, aperitivi in the piazza, and, of course, having some of the most beautiful, fresh (and wildly inexpensive) food products right at my fingertips, every single day.

Ah, Roma – spero che ci rivediamo subito.

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Mal d’Italia

09 Thursday Jun 2016

Posted by julia chews the fat in Food Away From Home, Holidays

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“We all have it in some way, that desire to return to an impossible elseware.”
– Adam Leith Gollner, Saveur, April 2016

I’ve been awake since 5:30 this morning. Not because I had to – or particularly wanted to – but because the butterflies in my stomach kept fluttering around, making it impossible to sleep in, the way I had intended. So I’m here, with you. Eyes half-mast and looking a little rough.

The butterflies are equal parts nerves and excitement – in a few hours I’ll be on a plane crossing the Atlantic to spend three weeks in Italy. It’s a solo trip, one that, the more I think about it, was probably long overdue. The first few days will be in Rome, then one week in the fishing town of Sferracavallo in Sicily and then another week further inland, in Sclafani Bagni, where I’ll be taking a food writing workshop with two of my favourite writers – Rachel Roddy and Luisa Weiss. The workshop takes place at Case Vecchie, which houses the Anna Tasca Lanza Cooking school, nestled among the rugged fields and vineyards of the Sicilian countryside. If the online photos do it any justice, then yes – it might actually be paradise on earth.

Given that the workshop itself has been something I’ve had my eye on for awhile – it still seems a bit surreal that I’m actually going, even in the few short hours leading up to departure. I’ve never felt this wired – in both the good and adverse sense of the word – for any trip I’ve ever taken. It’s quite impressive as a feeling, part of it stemming from the anticipation, but also from things as banal as transit logistics (charting out an itinerary in Sicily has been tricky, with entire trainlines suddenly going out of order. It seems that David Lebovitz has even experienced the peculiarities of Sicilian transit), unexpected technical issues (my computer), as well as my (perhaps archaic and ill-advised) decision to use paper maps instead of GPS or Google maps. (This should be interesting.)

Most of all though, I think that the churning in my stomach comes from something a little more abstract than the kind of excitement I’ve had in the past when planning a vacation. And in that sense, it’s more charged, too. I recently read an article on Sicily in the April issue of Saveur, where Adam Leith Gollner talks about the feeling of mal d’Africa, the “heartsickness” for Africa that Sicilians have when they’ve been travelling away from home (North Africa having had such a remarkable impact on their food, culture, and architecture, that’s it’s inextricable from Sicilian life and sensibility). My mind went back to those words when I thought about the reasons I wanted to visit Italy again. Not because I consider it home necessarily, but because – being the product of a Canadian father and an Abruzzese mother – there’s part of me that will always be Italy. It sounds clichéed to lay it out like that, so plain and saccharine, but it’s true. There’s a sort of mal d’Italia that lives inside me.

In that way, Italy has often felt like a phantom limb. Its presence is there – in the minute details of gesture, of speech and of sensibility – when I share a joke with my grandmother in broken dialect, or lift a peach to my nose at the market, or place my hand on a stranger’s shoulder (and wonder if touching them was the acceptable thing to do, in the cool anonymity of urban North America). Italy is in there, all the time, in some way shape or form. And I suppose that travelling back to terra madre is my way of restoring the bits that I feel I’m beginning to lose or forget, as my grandmother slowly enters into her mid-nineties and I come to the realisation that she, in fact, has been the one thread that’s kept me connected to that sense of Italian-ness, that sense of patria, as she calls it. When she’s gone, I’ll have to find ways to reconnect to it when I can; I suppose this trip is part of laying that groundwork.

—–

There’s lots more that I’d like to tell you about – not the least of which is this workshop with Rachel and Luisa (a total dream). But aside from not having the wherewithal to get into that now, I should probably tie up a few more things before I go, like weighing my bags to make sure they meet the airline requirements.

As a parting gift, I’m leaving you with this photo of the seafood risotto that my boyfriend made me this past weekend, with celery, fennel, white wine, homemade fish stock and a handful of mussels, shrimp, and cod. He wanted to make something in the spirit of Sicily, and I think he succeeded. (even if we committed the ultimate act of Italian food sacrilege and added parmesan to it.)

See you here again soon – hopefully more well rested, a little less wired, and with a lot of good stories to tell.

Baci x

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January’s Refrain

15 Friday Jan 2016

Posted by julia chews the fat in Holidays, Sweet Tooth, The Basics, Vegetarian

≈ 5 Comments

After the debauchery comes le détox.

I ate so much. It’s awful. Salads from now on.

This a common refrain in January, one that we seem to come across just about everywhere – magazine articles, ads, blogs, the Lifestyle section of newspapers, and even the water cooler at work. It seems that everyone is in “detox”* mode, eliminating and abstaining after The Great Big Binge; groaning, biting their lower lips and confessing about just how bad they’ve been.

Fifty Shades of Fruitcake.

(*I have very strong opinions about the word “detox” as it applies to diet, which is why I’m putting it in quotations. Unless it’s being used to describe the process of someone coming off hard drugs or being treated for mercury poisoning, the word “detox” is a unicorn word – pretty, but imaginary.)

I think it’s fascinating how much we link food to guilt. Ingredients are compartmentalized into strict categories of “good” and “bad”, so that when we’ve had a slice of cake we’ve been naughty, but if we drink nothing but juice for ten days straight, we’re suddenly very, very good. Schedule in that colonic and you’re well on your way to sainthood.

With the turn of the calendar on January 1st, there comes reflection, regret, and the goal of redemption. How do I undo all the bad things I’ve done? How do I wipe the slate clean? The terms detox, clean eating and carb-free – the Holy Trinity of Orthorexia – have cemented themselves into the language we use to talk about healthy eating, especially around the time everyone’s making resolutions they won’t keep. And frankly, it

drives

me

mental.

I can understand the desire for self-improvement. I can get behind the idea of not eating in excess and limiting the intake highly processed foods. But I don’t think we’re doing ourselves any favours by adopting attitudes of excessive food guilt; nor do I think that a handful of gummy bears is the difference between living a virtuous life or a debased one.

There was  an article I read recently about the French approach to food (we’re using wide-sweeping generalisations about the French here, but still…), making the argument that food and pleasure can and should co-exist. I think there’s something to be said for the this model of eating, which not only allows for pleasure, but encourages it. You want a piece of cheese? Have it. A glass of wine. Yes. You eat your vegetables too – not because you have to, but because they’re vibrant and exciting and delicious and they too will make you feel good.  I recognise that, especially in the last decade or so, the French have also adopted some of the same health trends as North Americans (after all, sans gluten shops have been popping up in Paris and both BBC Travel and The New York Times posted articles about the demise of the baguette in France), but I still think that the French take their food very seriously, in that it’s supposed to be enjoyed, savoured, appreciated, not admonished on the basis of calories or the fact that it doesn’t abide to the diet du jour.

Which brings me to galette des rois.

In January, while half of North America is suffering through Gwyneth-esque cleanses, the French are celebrating. In anticipation of the Epiphany, on January 6th, bakeries start to fill their vitrines with large, round cakes with scored tops called galette des rois – two layers of puff pastry, with crème d’amande (almond cream) in between. A fève (bean) is hidden inside the galette before baking and whomever gets the slice with the fève becomes “king” or “queen” for the day and gets to wear a nifty paper crown. Many bakeries in Montreal offer them through the month of January, but on a whim, I decided to try making one this year (with mixed results, see more below).

It’s celebratory food. It’s January food. It’s the food that we cherish because it’s special and because we don’t eat it everyday. And for those reasons, it’s meant to be enjoyed with gusto, not the guilt we’ve been trained to carry with us each time we raise a forkful of cake to our mouths.

So, I invite you – to pull up a chair, a plate, and dig in.

Galette des rois (serves 8) – from Clotilde Dusoulier’s site Chocolate and Zucchini

Note: in true French fashion, these measurements are in grams, allowing for more accuracy. If you don’t already have a kitchen scale, consider buying one – they come in different price ranges. I bought an electric one for 20$ a few years ago and it’s one of the best kitchen gadgets I own.

  • 500 grams (17 2/3 ounces) all-butter puff pastry, thawed if frozen
    For the crème d’amande:
  • 125 grams unsalted butter, softened
  • 125 grams granulated sugar
  • 130 grams almond flour (i.e. almond meal or finely ground
    almonds)
  • 8 grams corn starch
  • a good pinch sea salt
  • 2 large eggs
  • 1 tablespoon rum (or Grand Marnier)
    For the eggwash and glaze:
  • 1 egg yolk
    Accessories:
  • 1 porcelain trinket or dried bean
  • 1 paper crown

Galette des rois

Directions*:

(*what you see below might seem like a daunting list of directions, but I promise – especially since you’re using bought puff pastry – it’s a pretty simple recipe.)

1) Prepare the crème d’amande: Beat the butter until creamy, but avoid incorporating air into it. In a separate bowl, combine the sugar, almonds, corn starch, and salt. Stir with a whisk to remove any lumps. Add to the almond mixture to the creamed butter and mix until smooth. Add the rum, then the eggs, one at a time, mixing well between each addition. Cover and refrigerate for an hour or overnight.

2) Roll out the puff pastry: Divide the puff pastry in 2 equal pieces, and roll each one out to form a rough circle a little larger than 12 inches in diameter. Use a sharp knife and an upturned plate of the right dimension to cut a neat 12-inch circle out of one, and a slightly larger one with the other, adding about 1/4 inch all around the edge of the plate.

3) Assemble the galette: Place the smaller of the two circles on a piece of parchment paper or a silicone baking mat. In a small bowl, combine the egg yolk with a tablespoon water (or milk, if you have it handy) until smooth. Using a pastry brush, brush the outer rim of the dough lightly with the eggwash by a width of about 1 inch. Make sure not to wet the actual edge of the dough, or it will impede its rise. Pour the crème d’amande in the center and spread it out inside the eggwash ring with a spatula. Place a porcelain fève, a dried bean, or the trinket of your choice in the crème d’amande. Press it down gently to bury it. Transfer the second round of dough precisely on top of the first, smooth it out gently over the crème d’amande to remove any air pockets, and press it down all around the sides to seal.

4) Score the galette: Using the back of the tip of your knife (i.e. the dull side), draw a decorative pattern on top of the galette, using just enough pressure to score the dough without piercing it (skip to 7:30 of this video for an example of scoring design) (I free-styled it!). Brush the top of the galette lightly with the egg wash: again, make sure it doesn’t drip over the edges, or the egg wash will seal the layers of the puff pastry in this spot and it won’t rise as well. Using the tip of your knife, pierce 5 holes in the top dough – one in the centre, and four around the sides – to ensure an even rise. Transfer to a rimmed baking sheet lined with parchment paper (or silicone baking sheet, like a Silpat) and refrigerate for 1 hour. (Alternatively, you can place the galette in the freezer at this point, on the baking sheet, and bake it the next day).

Galette des rois

Galette des rois

5) Bake the galette: Preheat the oven to 360°F; if the galette was in the freezer, take it out while the oven preheats. Insert the galette in the middle of the oven and bake for 30 minutes (35 if it was frozen), until puffy and golden brown. Place on a rack to cool completely and serve at room temperature (or, if you prefer, rewarm slightly in the oven before serving).

***WORD TO THE WISE: don’t attempt to slice the sides of the puff pastry after you’ve laid one layer on top of the other, as I did (I tried to make a more symetrical circle). Doing so will cause the crème d’amande to spill out in a dramatic fashion…

Galette des rois

That said, most things are fixable, especially when it comes to “rustic” home cooking…

(and it turns out that the baked filling is delicious on its own.)

Galette des rois

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Real Christmas

01 Friday Jan 2016

Posted by julia chews the fat in Cooking For Your Peeps, Holidays, Snacking, Sweet Tooth, The Basics

≈ 3 Comments

“I can’t believe it’s already over.” – Mom, on the drive home after Christmas dinner

This holiday is charged with so much expectation, emotion and excitement that when it’s over and done – after only a few short days of feasting, hugging and imbibing – it’s hard to believe it ever really happened. Christmas sometimes feels like one big blur of flour and sugar, sloppy two-cheeked kisses, chest colds, Burl Ives, and glitter (bits of which we’ll be finding in our apartment til March.)

The funny thing is, despite the rushing around, the prep, the chaos, the outbursts, the kitchen meltdowns, the set-up, the clean-up, the mountains of dishes, I can’t imagine having it any other way. It’s bacchanal, it’s over-the-top, it’s insane. But it’s Christmas. Not the idyllic, gilded Christmases of the glossy magazines, or of Martha Stewart, or of people we come across on the Internet with seemingly perfect lives. It’s real. It’s messy. It’s exhausting. It’s emotional. But in between the messy bits comes lots of love and togetherness, laughter and gratitude. When we lost power on Christmas Eve – right before the seven-fish dinner was ready for the oven – we managed to pretend we weren’t worried, ignoring the three dozen shrimp quietly defrosting on the counter, opting instead to drink bubbly and eat crackers, while my (ever-optimistic, buoyant) brother shucked oysters by lamplight.

Things certainly could have been worse.

Oysters

When the power came back on, about an hour later, everyone cheered and kissed and toasted. It was like the final scene in It’s a Wonderful Life. Dinner was back on schedule, the wine flowed freely, and soon enough, the twelve of us gathered around the table for a feast fit for kings.
Christmas Eve Dinner

Once the last fork was laid down and the plates were cleared, Nonna pulled out her reading glasses, mom plated cookies and After Eights and we played Tombola, calling out the numbers in English, Italian, German, and French, so that everyone around the table could put their chips on the right spot. It didn’t feel good beating Grandma at Tombola three times in a row (it just instigated a fit of guilt-ridden, nervous laughter), but it did help me forget about my chest cold, as did learning – on Christmas Eve, no less – that the number 11 in German is both spelled and pronounced “elf”.

Tombola

Family time aside, the thing I relished most this Christmas – the thing that ended up being the most restorative part of this whole holiday – was the baking. Not because the results were particularly successful (deflated meringues, chewy crackers, and lacklustre cioffe were among the flops), but because I had the chance to do most of it on my own – quietly and leisurely, in crumpled pyjamas. With the year winding down, I came to realise just how much that time on my own – especially in the kitchen – has been (was, is)  a subtle luxury. When I used to hear food people say that baking was “meditative”, I’d roll my eyes, thinking Ugh, how cheesy… But it turns out they were right. When you bake on your own, it’s just you, the dough, and nothing else. The rest of it – the distractions and concerns, decisions and regrets – can stay suspended for awhile.

Somewhere between batches of madeleines and biscotti, shortbread cut-outs and these ginger cookies, I found that respite from an unquiet mind can come from nothing more than a little butter, sugar, flour and a rolling pin.

Who knew.

Here’s to making room for doing more of the things we love in the coming year. Wishing you all a bright and welcoming 2016 and looking forward to having you here again soon xx

—–

Orange Spice Madeleines – adapted from Port and Fin
Makes 16

Orange Spice Madeleines

Ingredients

  • 2 large eggs, beaten
  • ⅔ cup sugar
  • 1 cup + 1 Tbsp all-purpose flour
  • ½ cup + 1 Tbsp unsalted butter
  • ¼ tsp salt
  • 1 tsp pure vanilla extract
  • 1 large navel orange, zest
  • 1 tsp ground cinnamon
  • 1 tsp ground cloves
  • ¼ tsp ground cardamom

Directions

1) Melt the butter in a saucepan until it comes lightly browned and has a nutty fragrance (careful not to over-brown it – butter tends to burn rather easily). Set aside to cool slightly.

2) In a medium bowl, mix one cup of the flour, sugar, cinnamon, cloves and cardamom and set aside.

3) In a separate bowl, whisk the two eggs with the vanilla and salt until the eggs are frothy.

4) Add the wet ingredients to the dry ingredients and, with a spatula, stir until just combined. Take care not to over-stir.

5) Add the cooled melted butter and the orange zest and stir. It may take a minute for the butter to blend into the mixture. Again, take extra care not to over-mix.

6) Cover the bowl and place in the refrigerator to rest at least one hour and up to overnight.

7) Prepare a madeleine tin by brushing the moulds with the extra tablespoon of butter and lightly dusting them with flour, tapping off any excess. Place the pans in the freezer for at least an hour.

8) Preheat the oven to 350°F. Remove the batter from the refrigerator and the pan from the freezer. Fill each mould with approximately one tablespoon of batter.

9) Bake the madeleines for 10-15 minutes until the edges are browning and the middle is puffed up slightly. Using your forefinger, press lightly on the center hump – the madeleines are finished baking when they spring back at your touch. Remove the madeleines from the oven and let cool for 2 minutes. Then gently loosen the madeleines from their moulds and arrange onto a cooling rack. Dust with icing sugar (optional) and serve.

Orange Spice Madeleines

Orange Spice Madeleines

—–

Hazelnut Biscotti with Orange Zest – from Canadian Living’s Christmas
Makes about 24

Hazelnut Biscotti

Ingredients

  • 1 3/4 cups all-purpose flour
  • 2 tsp baking powder
  • 3/4 cup whole hazelnuts, skin-on, toasted* 
  • 2 eggs
  • 3/4 cup granulated sugar
  • 1/3 cup butter, melted
  • 2 tsp pure vanilla extract
  • 1 1/2 tsp grated orange rind
  • 1 egg white, lightly beaten
  • 1/4 cup dark chocolate, melted, for drizzling (optional)

*to toast hazelnuts, simply lay them out on a baking sheet and bake at 300°F for about 6-8 minutes, or until fragrant.

Directions

1) To measure flour accurately, lightly spoon flour into dry measure, without tapping, until cup is heaping; level off with blunt edge of knife. In large bowl, combine flour, baking powder and toasted hazelnuts.

2) In a separate bowl, whisk together eggs, sugar, butter, vanilla, almond extract and grated orange rind; stir into flour mixture until soft sticky dough forms. Transfer to lightly floured surface; form into smooth ball.

Hazelnut Biscotti

3) Divide dough in half, roll each into 12-inch long log. Transfer to ungreased baking sheet.

4) Brush tops with egg white; bake in 350°F oven for 20 minutes.

5) Remove from oven and let cool on pan on rack for 5 minutes. Transfer each log to cutting board; cut diagonally into 3/4-inch thick slices.

6) Stand cookies upright on baking sheet; bake for 20 to 25 minutes longer or until golden. Transfer to rack and let cool.

7) If you choose to add a drizzle of chocolate to your biscotti: wait until they’ve cooled; then collect a teaspoon of the melted chocolate in a teaspoon and sway it back and forth over the biscotti. Allow the chocolate to set at room temperature before storing.

Note: Biscotti can be stored in airtight container for up to 2 weeks.

Hazelnut Biscotti
Hazelnut Biscotti
Hazelnut Biscotti
Hazelnut Biscotti
Hazelnut Biscotti
Hazelnut Biscotti

—–

Hazelnut Shortbread – adapted from Bakers Royale
Makes about 40 cookies

 

Ingredients

  • 2 1/2 cups all-purpose flour
  • 1/2 tsp salt
  • 1 cup granulated sugar
  • 12 Tbsp unsalted butter, slightly softened
  • 1 large egg yolk
  • 2 tsp. pure vanilla extract
  • 1 1/2 cups toasted hazelnut, coarsely chopped
  • 1 cup coarse sugar
  • 8 oz. dark chocolate (for dipping)

Directions

To prepare and refrigerate the dough:

1) Sift flour and salt into a bowl; set aside. With a hand beater, cream the butter on medium-low speed until smooth, about 1-2 minutes. Add in the sugar and beat until light and fluffy, about 2 minutes.

2) Add in the egg and vanilla, beat until blended. Reduce the mixer speed low and in the dry ingredients in three additions. Turn off the beater and fold in the nuts with a wooden spoon or spatula.

3) Portion the dough in half and shape each half into 15x3x1 inch rectangular logs. Press coarse sugar into each side. Cover with plastic wrap and push both ends with your hand toward the centre to tighten the dough. Chill prepared dough for at least 3 hours.

When ready to bake:

4) Heat oven to 350 degrees F. Line a baking sheet with parchment paper. Remove chilled dough and slice cookies to ½ inch thickness. Place each cookie 1 inch apart on a parchment-lined baking sheet.

5) Bake until cookies are lightly browned, about 18-20 minutes. Transfer cookies to a wire rack to cool completely.

6) Melt chocolate on the stove-top by making a bain-marie; stir occasionally. Dip one corner of cookie into melted chocolate and place on parchment paper to set. (you can also sprinkle a bit of flaked salt over the chocolate before it sets.) Serve or store in an airtight container for up to one week.

Hazelnut ShortbreadHazelnut ShortbreadHazelnut ShortbreadHazelnut Shortbread

—–

Toasted Almond Meringues – from mom’s repertoire

Makes about 40

But first, a few notes on meringue…

Theoretically, meringue is supposed to be simple – whip egg whites into soft peaks, add sugar, whip into stiff peaks, bake. But in practice, there are a few key things to keep in mind: 1) if the weather is humid, your egg whites might not rise enough, causing the meringue to deflate and become chewy. 2) It’s important that the equipment you’re using be extremely clean (bowl, beaters). Any trace of grease or fat (say, from a stray egg yolk that makes it into the bowl) can compromise the results. 3) Overbeating can also be a problem, causing the meringue to become more like taffy in consistency. (If you’re looking for more tips, Martha’s actually got some good ones here .)

This time around, my meringues deflated when they were pulled from the oven (see final photo below), on account of the fact that I made them on an unseasonably balmy/humid day and probably overbeat them. To see what these meringues should actually look like, you can find some photos here from my mom’s archive.

To all you meringue newbies – I hope none of this scares you off making meringue. With practice, you start to get a sense of its quirks and soon you’ll be able to whip some up with your eyes closed. At that point you’ll discover that pulling a perfect batch of meringues from the oven can be obscenely satisfying…

Toasted Almond Meringues

Ingredients

  • 2 egg whites (or 1/4 cup thawed eggs whites)
  • 1/4 teaspoon cream of tartar
  • 1/2 cup brown sugar
  • 1 tsp vanilla
  • 1/2 tsp almond extract
  • 1 cup sliced almonds, toasted*

*to toast the sliced almonds, simply lay them out on a baking sheet and bake at 300°F for about 4-5 minutes, or until golden.

Directions

Preheat the oven to 300º F .

In a bowl, beat egg whites with the cream of tartar until soft peaks start to form. Gradually add the the brown sugar until stiff peaks form. Fold in the vanilla, almond extract and sliced almonds.

Spoon teaspoonfuls onto a cookie tray which has been lined with parchment paper. Bake in a 300º F oven for 30 minutes. Remove from baking sheet and allow to cool on a metal rack.

Note: these meringues will appear a little more “toasted” than regular meringue – that’s ok. It’s because it calls for brown sugar instead of white.

Toasted Almond Meringues
Toasted Almond Meringues
Toasted Almond Meringues
Toasted Almond Meringues
Toasted Almond Meringues

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In times like these

04 Sunday Jan 2015

Posted by julia chews the fat in Holidays, Snacking, Vegetarian

≈ 2 Comments

I never thought I’d say it, but I’m glad December’s over. Or, to be even more to the point, I’m glad Christmas is over. It’s really weird seeing those words written down; I’m one of those kooks who starts buying brown kraft paper and earmarking Christmas cookie recipes as early as October. But this year, our family got handed a bit of a raw deal, starting with an emergency hospitalisation that took its toll on everyone – sleepless nights, worry, influenza, laryngitis, day-long headaches, back pain, more worry, endless commutes to the hospital, home and back. (Amid all this, I was in Montreal, then in Kingston, then in Montreal again, baiting and trapping mice in my apartment in between.) Almost every single person in my family was sick at some point, looking and feeling like death warmed over for the better part of three weeks. Having somehow dodged the illness bullet, I tried my best to pick up some of the slack – grocery shopping, cooking, cleaning, laundering. The day-to-day stuff that hangs heavy unless you’re in decent shape. I put together a small Christmas Eve dinner and a New Year’s Eve/Dad’s birthday dinner on the 31st. I made cookie dough. I played Burl Ives. I tried to make Christmas feel like Christmas. But, really, it all just felt discombobulated, lacklustre, weird. Weird having someone you love in the hospital on December 23rd, not knowing if or when they’d get out. Weird seeing your folks run around like chickens with their heads cut off when they should be sitting on the couch, drinking coffee and eating spice cookies. Weird not popping the New Year’s Eve champagne, or making stollen with dad or doing any of the other requisite holiday baking with mom.

Given that everyone was so exhausted that all they could think about was their next nap, it was hard to muster the enthusiasm to make food and eat it. But, perhaps counter-intuitively, I cooked. And cooked. And then cooked some more. Because when everything around me feels chaotic and unhinged, I gravitate towards the kitchen. It gives me a sense of purpose, of focus, a project that can take my mind off things and make me feel constructive – be it slicing onions or rolling dough into symmetrical balls. There’s something meditative about simple tasks in the kitchen like that. Even if no one really had much of an appetite, I felt that keeping something simmering on the stove or baking in the oven was a way to calm the storm and regain a semblance of normalcy, of home, of comfort. It’s my way of trying to be productive and helpful when the people I care about are out of steam; like a lot of people who like to cook, it’s my way of loving.

And so, over Christmas, I kept busy in the kitchen – I made those ginger-molasses cookies, a pot of minestrone, tofu bowls, the vegetarian version of this lasagna, garlic scrambled eggs, two pumpkin pies (which were a disaster, but nevermind), orange zest cranberry sauce, Anthony Bourdain’s porc au lait and hasselback potatoes, a cranberry-ginger upside-down cake, lemon roast chicken and parsnip purée, leek soup and sandwiches, chicken pot pie, tomato jam, and a bunch of salads for when everyone had reached their point of saturation with meat and starch.

With the last couple of days before heading back to work, I’ve been using the post-holiday down time to prep for the weeks to come. (which, looking at that freezing rain hammering down out there, turns out was the right decision.) Part of that prep has been to make stuff that can be tossed in the freezer for busy nights – tomato sauce, eggplant curry, fennel soup – as well as things that are good candidates for work-day snacks.

Which brings me to almond rosemary crisps.

I’ve had them bookmarked for a while now, but having never got a chance to make them, they ended up in my mañana, mañana pile (I suspect you have one too?). But then, a couple of days ago, I dug up the recipe after seeing the pile of dried fruit and nuts – the ones that were meant for holiday baking – languishing on the kitchen counter.

And that, dear friends, was the beginning of the end, because now I can’t stop stuffing my face with them.

Four days into January and they’ve quickly become my favourite thing of 2015. They’re earthy and salty and sweet, and the currants sort of caramelise in the oven, becoming a nice and chewy counterpart to the cracker’s crunch. They’re wispy and delicate and have a Scandinavian vibe about them, in that elegant, (but rustic), delicious (but healthy) kind of way. They’re super simple, but really, really good. And with cheese? Omagad.

I encourage you to make them. No, I implore you to make them. Now. And all through 2015.

—–

On a final note: when it’s all said and done, I do realise how lucky we were to have those short bursts of time together as a family. I’m grateful for playing Tombola on Christmas Eve with grandma, for Frandi’s German mulled wine, for mom’s perfect Christmas tree, for the Scott and Bailey marathon with my ragazzo, for being able to stay in pyjamas all day, for Christmas morning waffles, and for Uncle Pete and Aunt Barb’s incredible turkey dinner. None of us might’ve been in the best shape, but we still managed to pull it together. Sometimes the shake up helps you realise how lucky you actually are.

Thanks for checking in, dear readers. I am, as always, grateful to have you in my life. Here’s to high-jacked Christmases, recovery, love, family, friends and, last but not least, food. Happy 2015 to you and yours. x

Baked crackers - detail

By the way – if you’re worried that making crackers is fussy work, it’s really not. The process is pretty straightforward – combine the wet and dry ingredients, pour into a baking tin, bake, chill, slice, bake again. The end result makes you wonder why you’ve never made crackers before. (and why the heck you’ve spent so much money on Raincoast Crisps.)

Almond Rosemary Crisps (makes about 60) – adapted from Fig and Honey

  • 1 cup plain flour
  • 1 tsp baking soda
  • 1/2 tsp salt
  • 1 cup unsweetened almond milk
  • 1/8 cup brown sugar
  • 1/8 cup honey
  • 1/2 cup currants, soaked in warm water till softened and drained
  • 1/4 cup raw almonds, halved
  • 1/4 cup pumpkin seeds
  • 1/8 cup whole flax seeds
  • 1 tbsp rosemary, chopped

Additional notes:
– the recipe can easily we doubled or tripled (which might be a good idea. They disappear at the speed of light)
– feel free to switch it up: sesame seeds and anise seeds are good alternatives to the flax seeds; raisins are a good replacement for the currants

Directions

Preheat oven to 350°F. Grease 2 mini-loaf tins with a light oil (sunflower, grapeseed or coconut oil)

In a medium bowl, combine the flour, baking soda and salt. Make a well in the centre and add in the almond milk, brown sugar and honey. Fold through until all the flour is incorporated into the liquid. Next add in all of the fruit, nuts, seeds and rosemary and fold until just evenly distributed. Pour batter into the mini-loaf tins and place in the oven.

Loaf batter

Bake for about 25 minutes until the tops are golden brown and a toothpick comes out clean.

Par-baked loaf

Transfer to a cooling rack. Once cooled, transfer loaves to the freezer and leave for about 1 hour.

After the loaves have chilled, preheat the oven to 275°F. Remove the loaves from the freezer and slice as thinly as possible, with a sharp chef’s knife (works better than a serrated knife).

Par-baked crackers

Place the slices in a single layer on a baking sheet and bake in the oven for a further 25-30 minutes until crisp and golden brown, flipping over once halfway.

Baked crackers

Once cooled, the crackers can be stored in an airtight tin. They can be eaten as-is, but pair up really well with cheese – anything from sharp cheddar to Gruyère to chèvre and beyond.

Crackers with cheese

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Red Velvet Valentine

11 Tuesday Feb 2014

Posted by julia chews the fat in Cooking For Your Peeps, Holidays, Sweet Tooth, Vegetarian

≈ 2 Comments

Valentine’s is those days on the calendar when it’s socially acceptable to be a loopy, romantic nutbar; the one day of the year when you can crank up the cheeseball dial and no one will fault you for it. You can send love notes, litter your desk with bowls of cinnamon-candy hearts and promise your office mates bright red, fluffy cupcakes with hand-whipped frosting…

…or so you thought.

I was so excited to make these cupcakes. Excited about trying the old technique of using beets make the batter electric pink. Excited about using a pastry bag to add an artful slick of cream cheese frosting on top. Excited about the beautiful Swedish paper cups that I’d found months prior and that I’d purposely saved for this day (yes, yes I did). But most of all, I was excited about finally redeeming myself since the last Valentine’s cupcake failure.

Expectations were high, people. Valentine-in-a-bow-tie high.

Despite my well-laid plan (I was rested! I had plenty of time! I had prepped all the ingredients!), lady fortune had a different one in store – one involving me forgetting to add the butter, then having to scrape the batter out of the pretty paper cups and back into the bowl…only to remove from the oven, 18 minutes later, twelve flat, dense cylinders in greasy-bottomed paper cups. The icing flipped me the bird too, as it initially resisted its extrusion from the pastry bag, then shifted in consistency to seep out in a nondescript, gooey mass.

While the icing improved after a bit of chilling in the fridge, there was no saving the cake. Dense, chewy, beety (undercooked?), they hovered somewhere between expired vegan health cake and a 4th grade science experiment. These were not lovely, fluffy, cherubs-singing-from-the-heavens cupcakes. These were fists-shaking-at-the-heavens cupcakes. These were “I hate you” cupcakes.

As it so happens, this was also the day my friend Matthew was showing me how to use a DSLR. And thank GOD for that, because without him, I’m not sure I could’ve made these things look half as edible. With his keen eye, he managed to help me make these cupcakes look delicious and elegant and lovely – everything they most definitely were not.

Here’s to faking it! Happy Valentine’s xx

4 cupcakes

cupcake with bite

cupcake with bite - detail

(IF YOU DARE, HERE’S THE RECIPE)

All Natural Red Velvet Cupcakes (makes approx 12) – adapted from this recipe

3/4 cup beet purée (directions follow)
1 tablespoon freshly squeezed lemon juice
1 1/2 teaspoons rice vinegar
1 cup sugar
1 stick butter (8 tablespoons), at room temperature
3/4 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
3/4 teaspoon kosher salt
3/4 teaspoon baking powder
1 1/4 cups unbleached all-purpose flour (not bleached flour)
2 eggs
1/2 cup buttermilk
1 tablespoon natural cocoa powder (not Dutch Process, or dark cocoa powder)

Beet purée: 2 medium beets, or 1 large beet, scrubbed and rinsed

Fill a saucepan with water, add the beets and bring to a boil. Allow the beets to cook until very tender (approx. 30 mins).

When beets are cooled completely, peel, and cut into large chunks. Place in a food processor fitted with the steel blade. Process for 2 minutes, or until extremely smooth. Empty the food processor of the beet purée. Measure out 3/4 cup and set aside (save any extra purée for another use).

Preheat oven to 350ºF. In a large bowl, sift the dry ingredients. In a separate bowl, cream the butter and sugar, then add the eggs, vanilla, buttermilk, vinegar and lemon juice. Beat or whisk until combined. Add the beet purée. Mix some more until the mixture is uniform.

Line a standard muffin tin with paper cupcake liners. Scoop mixture evenly into cupcake liners.

Bake for 18 minutes, or until the cupcakes in the center spring back up when touched. Remove cupcakes from the pan and place on a wire rack to cool completely.

Cream Cheese Frosting

1 8oz package cream cheese, at room temperature
1 stick (8 tablespoons) unsalted butter, at room temperature
2 cups confectioner’s (powdered) sugar
1-2 tablespoons heavy cream
1/2 teaspoon pure vanilla extract

Beat all ingredients together with an electric mixer until smooth and fluffy. Frost cooled cupcakes.

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A Better Kind of Fruitcake

31 Tuesday Dec 2013

Posted by julia chews the fat in Breakfast & Brunch, Cooking For Your Peeps, Holidays, Sweet Tooth, The Basics, Vegetarian

≈ 4 Comments

Almost twenty years ago, at Christmastime, my dad bought a loaf of stollen for the first time. He brought it home, cut it up and plated it. We were eager to try something so foreign and – for kids growing up in the burbs in the 90s – so exotic-sounding. But, one bite in, our excitement quickly unravelled, being replaced with the uneasy feeling of being duped. Not unlike a lot of the holiday fruitcakes I’ve reluctantly tasted over the years, this store-bought stollen was dry and lacklustre – a pasty-coloured loaf studded with nondescript dried fruit that rolled out off the sides with each bite.

It was miserable.

Unlike the rest of us, my dad saw the potential of this German-style fruitcake and shortly thereafter, set out to make his own. He sourced different recipes, even quizzing our German neighbour, Mrs. Nack, for secret stollen-making tips. And then, nearly every year since, he’s gone into full stollen-production mode – drenching the fruit several days ahead, making the dough, cutting the loaves, baking them, dusting them with sugar and wrapping them attentively. For someone who doesn’t bake (or have a Teutonic bone in his body), dad’s got this German sweet bread down to an art. The final result is a beautifully dense, yeasty bread, brimming with sliced almonds and a boozy mixture of currants, raisins and citrus peel. The longer it sits, the better it gets, as the brandy further permeates the crumb and the almonds slowly transform into marzipan. There isn’t a trace of neon-coloured maraschino or stale walnut in this fruitcake. Not if dad has anything to do with it. And that’s the way we like it.

Wishing a very happy birthday to my dad ♥ and a Happy New Year to all of you, dear readers! Looking forward to sharing more tasty edibles with you in 2014.

Dresden Stollen – makes 4 medium loaves or 6 small ones stollen 21

  • 1⅓ cups currants
  • 1 cup orange zest
  • 1 cup lemon zest
  • 3 cups raisins (Thompson or sultanas)
  • 4 ⅓ cups sliced, blanched almonds
  • 6½ cups (1 kilo) sifted flour
  • 6 packets yeast (8 gr each)
  • 2 cups icing sugar
  • ½ tsp ground cardamom
  • tsp cinnamon
  • 2 pinches mace
  • 2 pinches allspice
  • ½ tsp salt
  • 1 cup brandy
  • 2 cups lukewarm milk (reserve 1 cup for proofing the yeast)
  • 1⅓ lbs butter, room-temperature

Pour the brandy over the mixture of currants, raisins, almonds & citrus zest. Mix and cover, allowing to soak overnight (or over several days). stollen 2 Proof the yeast by sprinkling it over 1 cup of the lukewarm milk (about 100ºF) to which has been added a tablespoon of sugar. Set aside in a warm place for about 10 minutes. The yeast is active if it forms a creamy foam on top of the milk. Sift the flour into a large mixing bowl. Add the room-temp butter, icing sugar, the remainder of lukewarm milk, spices and the proofed yeast mixture and mix. Transfer to a slightly floured work surface and knead thoroughly. stollen 3 stollen 4 stollen 5 Cover the dough and allow to rise for approx. 30 minutes in a warm place. Add the prepared fruit mixture. Knead the fruit mixture thoroughly into the dough. The dough should be smooth and elastic. stollen 12 Roll the dough into a long thick cylinder shape and cut into 4-6 pieces. Form into loaves. stollen 15 Transfer to a greased and floured baking tray, cover with a clean dish towel and leave to rise for 20-30 minutes in a warm, draft-free place. Preheat the oven to 350º F and bake for 50 minutes. stollen 17 stollen 18While the stollen is still warm, brush with melted butter and dust with icing sugar. Drizzle a little brandy over-top. Wrap well in muslin cloth or aluminium foil and store in a cool place. stollen 19 stollen 20 stollen 22 Note: Dad likes to douse his stollen every couple of days with brandy to keep it moist (and, let’s be honest, make it more delicious and boozy). Just re-dust the whole loaf with a bit of powdered sugar before serving.

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Holiday Eating

27 Friday Dec 2013

Posted by julia chews the fat in Cooking For Your Peeps, Holidays, Sweet Tooth, Vegetarian

≈ 5 Comments

“I’ve decided. I’m having stuffing for breakfast.” – Mom (Boxing Day, 10:34am)

These are the kinds of assertions that make Christmas the beautiful thing that it is. A nip of bourbon in your morning coffee; shortbread cookies for breakfast. It’s unrestricted, backwards-eating at it’s best. Because really, who’s going to say that you can’t? There’s a unspoken understanding that from December 24th to January 6th, it’s the Wild West of eating and imbibing – there are no rules, and each is left to their own devices with the cornucopia of leftovers in the fridge. (And, yes, your head’s always in the fridge, because you’re constantly hungry. Even though you just ate.) For some reason, you also find yourself wanting to drink filtered coffee all day…or at least before you hit the mimosas, cocktails, red wine and hot toddies (usually in that order, but not always).

Christmas cookies are an important part of the no-rules, bacchanal feasting that goes on in our house at this time of year. Highly versatile, they can be eaten as an pre-breakfast “appetite-opener”, a “light” dessert after a holiday meal, or as a post-nap snack. They are glad to be whatever you want them to be, whenever you want them.

Like every year, I began amassing Christmas cookie recipes in mid-November, with the unrealistic hope that I’d be able to make all two dozen of them. Then, by the time December 23rd rolled around, I had widdled the list down to a more reasonable five or six, in addition to the “untouchables” (i.e. the ones firmly cemented in the italo-anglo traditions of my family, and which we do not mess with – anise pizzelle, fennel-seed doughnuts, chocolate chichinotti, shortbread cut-outs and ginger snaps).

This year, I locked down three new favourites, one with molasses, one with chocolate and one dusted with powdered sugar. They are each very different, but all equally addictive. Dunk them in a hot cup of coffee after a long walk in the snow. Or while sipping champagne in the bathtub. Whichever scenario suits you best.

Warmest of holidays to you and yours ♥

ginger-molasses cookies

Smoky Ginger-Molasses Cookies – from Reclaiming Provincial
(makes around 2 dozen cookies)

  • 5 black cardamom pods
  • 1 cup of sugar + 1/2 cup of sugar, divided
  • 3/4 cup of unsalted butter (12 tbsp / 1.5 sticks)
  • 1/4 cup molasses
  • 1 egg
  • 1 cup of bread flour
  • 1 cup of all-purpose flour
  • 2 tsp baking soda
  • 1/2 tsp salt
  • 1 tsp cinnamon
  • 1/2 tsp ginger
  • 1/2 tsp nutmeg
  • 1/2 tsp ground cloves
  • 1/8 tsp black pepper

3 days in advance:
Combine whole cardamom pods and 1/2 cup of sugar in a jar. Cover and let sit.

ginger-molasses cookies

To make the cookies:
Remove cardamom pods from the rolling sugar. Crack open pods, remove seeds and crush them with a mortar and pestle. Set aside.

Melt butter in a saucepan over medium-low heat. Add the cardamom pods and let simmer until the butter begins to foam. Remove from heat and let rest for 15 minutes, then remove pods and discard. Let butter cool to room temperature.

Sift together flour, baking soda, salt, spices, crushed cardamom seeds, and pepper.

In another bowl, cream together butter and the cup of sugar. Beat in molasses, then the egg. Gradually beat in dry ingredients until just combined. Cover and chill in the fridge for at least 2 hours, or up to 2 days.

Preheat the oven to 375°F and line a baking sheet with parchment or a Silpat.

Form heaping tablespoons of batter into balls; roll in the 1/2 cup of infused sugar. Place on a baking sheet two inches apart.

Bake cookies for 8–10 minutes. Let cool on the baking sheet for 2 minutes, then transfer to a cooling rack.

ginger-molasses cookies

—–

Almond Crescents
(makes about 2 dozen)

almond crescents

  • 1/2 lb unsalted butter
  • 3/4 cup powdered sugar
  • 2 egg yolks, well beaten
  • 1 cup ground almonds (blanched)
  • 1 tsp vanilla extract
  • 2 cups flour

Beat the egg yolks at high speed until light in colour.

Cream butter in a bowl; add sugar and beat with electric beaters for 1 minute. Add egg yolks, beating to blend. Add almonds and vanilla, then mix with a wooden spoon. Fold in flour a little at a time with the wooden spoon until just blended.

Refrigerate dough for 30 minutes (and up to 2 days)

Divide dough into 4 potions and roll out each portion on a floured work surface into a log shape. Cut segments (about the length of your index finger)and shape them into crescents.

almond crescents

Preheat the oven to 400°F. Bake on a parchment-lined baking sheet for 7-10 minutes. Allow to cool for a few minutes, then roll in powdered sugar while warm.

almond crescents

—–

Chocolate Crackle Cookies – from Martha Stewart

Chocolate Crackle

(makes about 3 dozen)

  • 8 ounces dark chocolate (such as 70 percent cacao), finely chopped
  • 1 cup blanched almonds, toasted
  • 1/2 cup all-purpose flour
  • 1 teaspoon baking powder
  • 1/2 tsp salt
  • 1 stick unsalted butter, room temperature
  • 1 cup packed light-brown sugar
  • 2 large eggs
  • 1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
  • 1 cup granulated sugar
  • 1 cup confectioners’ (powdered) sugar

Melt chocolate in a double boiler or a heatproof bowl set over a pan of simmering water, stirring. Let cool. Pulse almonds in a food processor until very finely chopped. Transfer to a medium bowl, and stir in flour, baking powder, and 1/2 teaspoon salt.

Beat butter and brown sugar with a mixer on medium-high speed until fluffy, 2 to 3 minutes. Mix in eggs and vanilla. Mix in chocolate. Reduce speed to low, and mix in almond-flour mixture. Refrigerate dough until firm, about 1 hour (note: the batter will not seem like a regular cookie dough, but more like a cross between cake batter and ganache to make truffles. It’s ok – roll with it. After some time in the fridge, it’ll firm up and you’ll be able to scoop it out).

Preheat oven to 350°F. Form dough into 1-inch balls. Roll in granulated sugar to coat, then in confectioners’ sugar to coat. Arrange on parchment-lined baking sheets, spacing about 1 inch apart. Bake, rotating sheets halfway through, until surfaces crack, about 14 minutes. Transfer sheets to wire racks; let cool.

Chocolate Crackle

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