Elbows on the table

I listened to a story teller a few nights back. Not a man telling a story, but a man whose entire being and was occupied with the business of weaving his tale. 

His cadence was long and loping but deliberate, and it suited his southern drawl. The words meandered along the way to their destination, unhurried. If I squinted my eyes, it wasn't hard to imagine those words puffing out from his lips and into the air like smoke upon an exhale from a cigar.

The effect was entirely soothing, but so riveting was its interest that you could not help but hang onto every word. A hypnotist's lullaby. 

He was really good.

When he stopped, I wanted to linger there in his phrases. To climb inside and stay a while.  

Pulling me out of the blissful lethargy of his words was hunger. In this story, at the heart of it all, he used a sandwich as the embodiment of all he felt familiar. 

By the end of that story, he made a sandwich sound really, very good. 

He had been talking about New Orleans, and talking about po' boys. Talking about a sandwich that is messy, sloppy and soaked. He liked his with gravy, with the bread making valiant efforts to sop up as much as it could but failing, so that juice drips from that bump right where the heel of your palm ends and your wrist begins. A sandwich that requires your elbows on the table to provide proper purchase.

Without the necessary components of his ideal on hand, I turned to another, equally sodden sandwich to appease my yearning - pan bagnat. 

A speciality of Nice, pan bagnat is a pressed sandwich stuffed to its crust with the goodies of a Niçoise salad. From bottom up, I'll walk you through it.

It starts with good bread. You need a boule with a crust substantial enough to stand up to the richness and literal weight of the filling. In this version, it's spread with tapenade then covered in whole basil leaves. Tiles of hard boiled egg are arranged next, then chunks of oil-packed tuna dressed in an assertive vinaigrette. Sliced red onion and cucumber are last in the instructions, but I added mixed greens for substantial crunch (and again, all of these were bathed in the vinaigrette as well).

The whole thing is wrapped tight and pressed, with the layers evening out and settling in. I should say your sandwich will be prettier than mine; I was so eager  to share a slice with you that I hardly waited to snap the photo. Be patient. It needs that rest.

After a few hours the bread swells with the moisture and becomes softly chewy. Bite in, and there are layers of salt and acidity, of flavours and texture. The fatty blandness of the egg yolk melts into the seasoned tuna and rounds out the vinegar. The basil emerges from the murky depth of the tapenade, two big flavours in balance. The salad on top of it all is refreshing and palate clearing and gets the mouth ready for the next greedy bite.

And oh, a few bites in, you'll be able to move from two elbows to one firmly planted on the table. But, that said, keep this isn't a sandwich to be put down once you've begun eating. If you try, things will get complicated. Don't worry, now with the free hand you can grab a glass of cold, cold wine. 

You won't need much else. Maybe a napkin. And a good story, if you're lucky.

Pan Bagnat

From Everyday Food: Fresh Flavor Fast (Random House Canada, 2010). I have just started cooking with this book, but for those who might be familiar with it's predecessor, Everyday Food: Great Food Fast, this title follows much the same style and feel. 

Recipe, via Martha Stewart. 

To make habit

What sort of bee is in May's bonnet? There must be something in there, because the first twelve days of this month have wooshed by in a blink-and-you'll-miss-it fashion usually reserved for the farmer's market on Saturday mornings when you're heading for the kind man who sells the really good tacos (that sell out!) and you know there's always line.

But May, come on, settle down.

I've been thinking about spring, or at least trying to, but you're all doom and gloom and rainy mornings following frosty nights. There was that windstorm that rushed around corners with a sound that was between a wail and a howl - high and sustained. It blustered its way through the leaves on our trees, sent branches to the ground, and made a right mess.

That was quite a show.

But May, you've almost reached middle age, it might be time to take it easy.

There's a garden to be sorted and windows in dire need of a wash, and this weekend I'd like to have lunch outside. We'll take it slow, I'm not demanding as much as I seem to be, we'll roast asparagus. It's a tentative step at the slower pace I'd like to make habit.

Blasted with the heat of a broiler, the asparagus goes kelly green in minutes and another minute after that it gets slightly shriveled and chestnutty at its ends. Out it comes and into, well under, the fire goes butter-laced breadcrumbs with lemon zest, chili and garlic. Heat meets fragrance and it all goes bright and big. The flavours open up while the crumbs get toasty, it's a win-win. Once they're done, but hot, you stir in Parmesan and parsley and the mixture meets up with the asparagus on the plate.

Crunch meets crisp, with savoury, peppery, cheesy breadcrumbs against a vegetable that is has crunch but is grassy and sweet. The combination is peppy and moreish, the bread swelling a bit and going soft where it lands in the collected juices of asparagus, olive oil, butter, and lemon. Will you look at that, instant vinaigrette at the bottom of your dish. Isn't that clever.

Another habit I might suggest is to serve these with a poached egg on top - the flowing yolk likes that vinaigrette quite a lot, and the melting silkiness of the white gets crusted with the crumbs to form a nubbly coat. It's a routine I can get behind.

So it is settled. This weekend, lunch is on the back deck. There are bumblebees about I see, portly and fuzzy looking fellows, I'm sure they'd be happy to have the company. They're charming in their roundness, yellow kumquats with wings, comical and endearing and not at all the sort to get under anyone's cap.

Roasted Asparagus with Toasted Breadcrumbs

Adapted from a recipe by Donna Hay. The breadcrumbs will be quite seasoned, and you want them so, so much the better to bolster the relatively mild asparagus.

Ingredients

2/3 cup fresh breadcrumbs
2 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted
1 teaspoon grated lemon zest
1 clove garlic, minced
1/4 teaspoon crushed red chili flakes
Salt and freshly-ground black pepper to taste
1 bunch asparagus, trimmed and cleaned
Olive oil
1 tablespoon grated Parmesan
1 tablespoon chopped fresh parsley
Lemon wedges, to serve

Preheat a broiler to high.

In a small bowl, combine the breadcrumbs with the butter, lemon zest, garlic and chili. Season lightly with salt and pepper. Stir to combined well so that all the breadcrumbs get slicked and spiced.

Toss the asparagus with enough olive oil to coat and season with salt and pepper. Spread onto a roasting pan and grill (broil), turning once, until bright green and tender, and beginning to brown here and there, around 4-5 minutes depending on the size of the spears. Remove from the oven and set aside on a serving dish, drizzle with a little extra olive oil, if you'd like.

If you can, turn the broiler down to low.

In the same pan, spread the breadcrumbs and toast under the broiler, turning often, until golden. Around 2-3 minutes. Stir the Parmesan and parsley into the crumbs and serve over the asparagus. Pass lemon wedges alongside, for extra zip.

Serves 4.

Been missing

It began with sunlight and ended up with shortbread.

Most mornings, the front room of our house is quiet. As a family we prefer to cluster around the kitchen in those first minutes of the day, in sock feet and pajamas, mulling around the coffee maker and the kitchen table. 

The other day I was drawn out of that comforting circle of domesticity by the wayward ramblings of our youngest, whose well-loved train set resides in the room closest to the front of our home. And upon our arrival to that room, it was evident I had been missing out.

The leaves on our trees are only coming into their foliage now; they're still a tangle of branch and lacy beginnings of leaf. The first light of the morning isn't blocked, but delicately filtered through this doily of green, shining golden against the wall opposite our windows - on now on that wall, three projected rectangles that flickered with the shadows of a thousand butterflies.

Later that same day, we were in the backyard when our eldest implored me to look up - something adults often forget to do, but children seem to do all the time - he was pointing out the white chalk line of an airplane as it travelled across the sky. If you face the sun like that, even through trees, your cheeks grow warm and when you close your eyes it's like you're looking at fireworks through a kaleidoscope.

Maybe it was all this time staring at the sun, but that day I was seeing the world through dandelion-coloured glasses. So when it came to an afternoon snack, shortbread fit the bill. Weeks ago, Shari had talked about a version she'd tried that was speckled with rosemary. I'd bookmarked a promising recipe from Gourmet that same day, but not gotten around to trying it yet.

And oh boy, was I missing out when it comes to shortbread, too.

Pale yellow from generous quantities of butter and a of squeeze ochre-hued honey, this is a cookie that yields to the tooth but lingers on the tongue. They look comparatively plain, slightly sandy and crumbly at their edge and with the only the suggestion of a puff at their centres. But never mind their looks, the simplest of shortbreads are often the best in my books.

To make these is to make most biscuity cookies, sugar and butter are creamed with the honey, then dry ingredients are added to that. It's not a dough that likes to be bothered; as soon as all the flour is dampened by the fat, it's all tipped out onto a board and kneaded together. Pat it gently into your desired shapes, dust them with sugar, then off to the oven for baking. 

They are fine and sweet and a little bit savoury with flakes of salt and that resiney, piney taste of rosemary that pairs so well with honey. I think some lemon zest might be a possibility to explore, but only out of curiosity and not necessity, as they are not in any way in want of improvement.

As far as I can tell, it is the cookie for a spring afternoon. One full of sunshine, if that can be arranged.

Honeyed Rosemary Shortbread

Recipe from Gourmet magazine, via Epicurious.

Notes: 

• The recipe specifies a mild honey, however I used a more robust variety which resulted in a pronounced, honeyed flavour to the baked cookie.
• I only had enough fresh rosemary on hand to amount to 2 chopped teaspoons rather than the required 1 tablespoon. I found the lesser quantity suited my taste.
• For added texture and a satisfying salinity, I used sea salt.

* * * * * * * 

Today is the proper 5th anniversary of this site, although I did mention it a few days ago. In looking back through my archives it came to my attention that the comments from the first year or so of posts have not transferred with the redesign. (It broke my heart a little, I won't lie.)

I'm working on re-establishing those words, but in the interim, I wanted to say thanks. Really, I don't have a way to fully convey my gratitude - to all of you who have read, for all of you who wrote back then and who write now. My old stories seem so lonely without your presence, and it illustrates what makes this site mean so much to me. The conversation, that's the thing. And without you, it's gone. So, again, five years on, thank you.

Almost completely

When there are two birthdays in your family of four within seven days, it makes for a festive week. And, well, a lot of buttercream too.

My birthday was yesterday, at the tail end of that celebratory span. And by the time my moment to blow out the candles rolled around, the last thing I wanted was cake.

So we made this. By we I mean our Benjamin and I did, and by this I mean a Strawberry Icebox Cake. But it's not a cake, really, simply graham crackers stacked with sweet, whipped heavy cream and drizzled with a rosy strawberry sauce. After a rest in the chill chest from which its name derives, the crackers swell and the cream thickens and the strawberry sauce pretty much becomes best friends with everybody.

That sauce is the only cooking requirement; it's a stirring job for the most part as the lion's share of the berries simmer and bubble into a jammy fruit goo (I use the term lovingly), and then a buzz around the blender. What remains now is pretty much laughter and licking the spoons, because you're almost completely home free.

No baking required, no butter to cream, only 10 minutes or so of building block style assembly.

The good manners that my Grandmother taught me tell me I should be abashed at the categorical ordinariness of this cake. It's crackers and cream and fruit. Where's the flamboyance? Where's the show? Birthdays are supposed to be about razzmatazz.

But don't be fooled, it's a quiet cacophony, but this cake will knock you flat. That sauce of ours practically vibrates with each and every childlike notion of what berries should be. It's bold and tangy and reminds you that strawberries aren't just about being sweet; they're one of the first fruits of the season and in that redness they carry the jubilant acidity that comes from crisp mornings and sunshine-bathed afternoons.

Then there's the cream that brings me back to the summer when I was six years old and I thought strawberry ice cream was just about the best thing going. Once the crackers get involved, it all becomes a cloud of strawberry shortcake.

At one point yesterday, I found it hard to chew because I was smiling so big; partly because who made it with me and who was sharing it with me, and partly because was exactly what I wanted. And if smiles like that isn't what the best birthdays are about, then I don't know what is.

Happy days to you.

Strawberry Icebox Cake

This is berry-fied version of the Mocha Icebox Cake we made last year, with little changes to the basic cake and method. I've republished the instructions for ease, but here is the original in case anyone is interested in the chocolate and coffee version. The instructions are for a square cake, which is easier and neater than our attempt at a round. But, if you decide to aim for circular, these amounts will be about right.

Ingredients for the sauce (makes approximately 1 cup)

1 pound strawberries, hulled and roughly chopped
1/3 cup caster sugar, or thereabouts
1 tablespoon freshly-squeezed lemon juice
A pinch of salt

Ingredients for the cake

3 1/2 cups heavy (whipping cream), divided
3/4 cup confectioner's sugar, divided, or thereabouts
A pinch of salt
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
45 honey graham crackers, the single kind
One recipe Strawberry sauce, divided

To make the sauce, take three-quarters of the berries and put them in a medium saucepan with 2 tablespoons of the sugar, the salt and 2 teaspoons of the lemon juice. Bring to a boil over medium heat, then reduce to a simmer. Cook, stirring, until the fruit becomes soft and the juices begin to thicken, around 7-10 minutes.

Carefully remove the strawberries to a blender (or use an immersion blender), and process until smooth. Push the puréed sauce through a sieve, back into the saucepan. Return to the heat and bring again to a simmer, stirring often. Cook the sauce until it becomes truly thick, with a clear, glossy look, around 10 minutes. At this point you want it on the verge of jammy-ness, close to the texture of hot fudge sauce.

Tumble in the reserved berries, give them a few turns in the pan and cook for another minute or so.

Again with care, remove the strawberries to that blender of yours and whirr them around again. Sieve again, this time to a clean container, and set the sauce aside to cool. It should be about the consistency of chocolate syrup, rather than fudge, and will coat the back of a spoon thickly, but not heavily. Once it has cooled to a non-molten level, taste for balance and stir in the rest of the sugar and lemon if need be.

To assemble the cake. Line an 8-by-8-inch metal cake pan with a cross of clingfilm, leaving an overhang on all sides. Set aside.

In the bowl of a stand mixer with the whisk attachment, or in a medium bowl with a hand blender or whisk, begin to whip 2 cups of well-chilled heavy cream. Once the cream begins to thicken, sift in 1/2 cup confectioner's sugar and salt. With the mixer on medium-high, whip until the cream begins to hold soft peaks. Add the vanilla, and beat until the cream just holds a stiff peak.

Spread a small amount of the cream on the bottom of the prepared cake pan. Lay 9 crackers, in a 3-by-3 grid, on top of the cream. Spoon 1/2 cup of the cream on top of the crackers. Then, using an offset spatula, gently spread the cream to cover the crackers entirely. Drizzle a few tablespoons of the strawberry sauce over the cream, spreading to form an even layer if desired. (You will use a generous 1/2 cup of the sauce for the entire cake.)

Top with another layer of graham crackers, continuing the layering until you have 5 layers of crackers and 4 of the cream and strawberry. Make sure to reserve a small amount of cream to cover the last layer of crackers (no sauce on this one).

Cover loosely with a piece of clingfilm, then draw the overhanging clingfilm from the sides up to cover the edges. Refrigerate for at least 6 hours and up to 2 days.

About 1 hour before serving, remove the cake from the fridge and peel back the clingfilm. Invert the cake onto a serving plate, removing the remaining clingfilm from the top and sides. Smooth out the sides with an offset spatula if needed. Place the cake in the freezer, uncovered, to chill for 30 minutes.

In the bowl of a stand mixer with the whisk attachment, or in a medium bowl with a hand blender or whisk, begin to whip the remaining 1 cup of well-chilled heavy cream. When the cream begins to thicken, sift in the reserved 1/2 cup confectioner's sugar. With the machine set to medium-high, whip the cream until holds a firm peak, but being careful not to over beat.

Take the cake out of the refrigerator and gently spread a thin layer of the whipped cream to cover. Chill the finished cake in the refrigerator for 30 minutes, then serve with the remaining strawberry sauce passed alongside.

Makes one 8-inch square cake.

Notes:

• The thing about fruit sauces is that so much will depend on the fruit itself. You might need more or less sugar than I've suggested. This recipe will make around 1 cup, but it might be more or less depending on the juiciness of the fruit and how thick your final sauce ends up. Any leftover sauce can be used over ice cream or stirred into yogurt, or as the base of a strawberried champagne cocktail (which gets my vote).

Pretty happy

To change this place was not something I found easy. I can be a homebody to a devoted degree, and had little inclination to renovate a space I considered a home into something altogether unfamiliar.

But then an external push came that necessitated a move, and in that not-so-gentle nudge I found the inspiration to move the furniture around, to find a new perspective for this room. It has been almost five years.

Yes, five whole years come May 1, 2010. Today is the 1,115th day, if my math is correct (it probably isn't).

And so, here it is.

I baked this cake this weekend, to celebrate some birthdays. I was pretty happy with how it turned out, and I think I'm pretty happy with how this all has turned out as well.

I hope you like it here, too. Thank you for stopping by.

* * * * * * * 

It seems some readers are picking up new posts, and others aren't. If you'd like to try to subscribe anew, there is a link just there on the left sidebar. My apologies for any trouble!

And one more thing, since it's too much of a looker not to mention, the cake plate above is from Herriott Grace.