When Megan went to Turkey the year after she graduated, her host-family had only one rule: that she bring with her an entire suitcase full of Trader Joe's Ginger Granola. When suitcase #1 was full of all the belongings she'd need for the next six months, surely you'd think Megan could stash her beloved teddy into suitcase #2, but no! No room for precious keepsakes, photographs of loved ones, extra pairs of underwear. No, suitcase #2 must be reserved solely for the transportation of foreign granola. The seriousness of these terms hardly surprised me - while home in Seattle over college breaks, I'd stashed more than a bag or two of the same granola into my suitcase to fortify me during my studies in remote Appleton, Wisconsin.
We mused over this one morning as we ate bowls of Trader Joe's "Just the Clusters" Ginger Granola. Whatever "Just the Clusters" is supposed to mean, it strikes me that this is actually more like a mysterious sort of cereal posing as granola and less like actual granola. The oats are all muddled together with some sort of sweet, opaque (and as far as I'm concerned unnecessary) substance to make them cluster-like. It's sort of like Michael Pollan's warning: "..a health claim on a food product is a good indication that it's not really food..."; in this case being, "...a cluster claim on a granola product is a good indication that it's not really granola..."
Especially because ginger granola seems a pretty simple thing to make, no mysterious sweet opaque substances need apply. What more does one need beyond oats, ginger, some maple syrup or honey, and a nut or two?
It seems fitting, then, that my granola be a variation on Bittman's, published in The New York Times a few weeks ago. Surprisingly, Bittman's recipe doesn't call for any fat (usually in granola, this would be canola or vegetable oil, in rare instances butter). So, my first try at ginger granola was oil free; it was delicious, but the second time I made it with a bit of oil to yield a much richer flavor. Yum. Either way, you have an incredibly crunchy, ginger-y granola that you can take at face-value. It's worth stocking up the next time you're planning international travel, resting assured that any clustering your oats are doing is in their natural, God-intended manner.
(As an aside: I loved [unsurprisingly] Michael Pollan's cover article in this week's NYT Magazine. Check it out if you haven't already.)
Ginger Almond Cashew Granola
3 cups old-fashioned rolled oats
1/2 cup sliced almonds
1/2 cup unsalted cashews, raw or roasted
3/4 cup grade b pure maple syrup
1/3 cup canola or other neutral oil (optional)
dash of salt
sprinkling of good-quality garam masala (optional)
1/3 cup diced crystallized ginger
Preheat the oven to 350 degrees. In a medium bowl, combine oats, nuts, syrup, oil (if using), salt and garam masala (if using). Mix thoroughly, and then spread into a 9 x 13 banking pan. Cook for 30-40 minutes, stirring occasionally, until oats are crunchy and rich, golden brown.
Stir in ginger and allow to cool (okay, okay, you can snack a bit while it's still warm!). Stored in an airtight container, this will stay fresh for at least two weeks.
1.29.2007
1.22.2007
Two post-fondue recovery ideas:
Idea Number One:
Say your oh-so-generous guests have brought you an abundance of baguette, just waiting to be chopped, skewered and dipped into your luscious vat of melted goodness. What do you you do? Why, you chop up that bread, knowing full well that everyone loves the bread best of all. And all guests fill their plates with bread, elated by the bounty.
Now dinner's over, bellies are full and rounded, plates are cleared, when you discover in your living room another bowl of bread bites, completely untouched! And not just any bowl - the largest mixing bowl in your whole kitchen, mounded high with bread. You cradle the bowl, knowing you have enough bite-sized pieces of bread here to make croutons that will last you well into retirement.
But croutons, oh making croutons, right now that seems like so much work. You thoughtfully pat your very full belly.
The snow outside the window catches your eye, your gaze drifts back to the bread bowl. Croutons, yes croutons, if only you weren't so full and fat and lazy, if only you could just get a bit of exercise first and work off this post-fondue-haze. You glance back at the falling snow, back to the bread, and suddenly their seems an analogy here too profound to ignore.
You snap out of your reverie, gather the bread, gather your guests and step out onto your balcony and start throwing pieces of bread into the air one by one, watching them swim, carefree, through the cold winter air. They are snow, they are the milky way galaxy, they are a symbol of your vitality and your youth!
(Oh I know oh I know it's so wasteful, but it just felt so right so amazing at the time. And, the next afternoon when I heard those happy winter birds chirping around my front steps, I knew it wasn't in vain. I worked off a bit of my fondue chub, and those fat little birds didn't feel so cold that night.)
Idea Number Two:
Say your oh-so-generous guests have brought you an abundance of grape tomatoes just ready to be dipped into your luscious vat of melted goodness. What do you do? Well, given that you're a little light-headed from consuming little more than garlic, butter, cheese and of course bread over the last 36 hours, it's time to make yourself a nice healthy meal. I know you're starving, but just hold out for another four hours or so to make these slow-roasted tomatoes. The tomatoes taste like what sun-dried tomatoes would taste like if they were actually dried inside the sun. It's worth every hour of the wait, I promise.
Fusilli with Slow Roasted Tomatoes and Preserved Lemons
Ingredients
2 pints grape tomatoes, halved
3 cloves of garlic, crushed
3 tbs. olive oil
pepper and salt, to taste
1 lb fusilli
1 tbs. olive oil
1 shallot, thinly sliced
1 pint cremini mushrooms, sliced
1/2 cup vermouth
5 slices of preserved lemon rind, diced (should you not have preserved lemons on hand, and you're not interested in waiting an additional week or so for your dinner, you could use a tablespoon or so of fresh lemon zest and salt to taste.)
1/2 c. grated parmigiano reggiano
About 4.5 hours before you would like to eat, preheat the oven to 250 degrees. Arrange the halved tomatoes in aesthetically, cut side up in a 9 x 13 baking pan. Combine the olive oil and the garlic, and then gently brush with the garlic and oil. Sprinkle generously with salt and pepper, and then roast until shriveled, crinkled and deep, deep red, about 3.5 - 4 hours.
Bring a large pot of salted water to boil, and cook pasta. Drain, reserving 1/2 cup cooking water.
Meanwhile, in a large skillet, heat the olive oil over medium heat. Saute the shallot until just beginning to turn golden, then saute the mushrooms until they are beginning to brown. Add the vermouth and simmer until the liquid is reduced to about 2 tablespoons.
Stir the lemons and slow-roasted tomatoes in the mushrooms until just warmed. Toss with hot pasta, parmigiano reggiano and reserved cooking water as necessary. Serve immediately.
Say your oh-so-generous guests have brought you an abundance of baguette, just waiting to be chopped, skewered and dipped into your luscious vat of melted goodness. What do you you do? Why, you chop up that bread, knowing full well that everyone loves the bread best of all. And all guests fill their plates with bread, elated by the bounty.
Now dinner's over, bellies are full and rounded, plates are cleared, when you discover in your living room another bowl of bread bites, completely untouched! And not just any bowl - the largest mixing bowl in your whole kitchen, mounded high with bread. You cradle the bowl, knowing you have enough bite-sized pieces of bread here to make croutons that will last you well into retirement.
But croutons, oh making croutons, right now that seems like so much work. You thoughtfully pat your very full belly.
The snow outside the window catches your eye, your gaze drifts back to the bread bowl. Croutons, yes croutons, if only you weren't so full and fat and lazy, if only you could just get a bit of exercise first and work off this post-fondue-haze. You glance back at the falling snow, back to the bread, and suddenly their seems an analogy here too profound to ignore.
You snap out of your reverie, gather the bread, gather your guests and step out onto your balcony and start throwing pieces of bread into the air one by one, watching them swim, carefree, through the cold winter air. They are snow, they are the milky way galaxy, they are a symbol of your vitality and your youth!
(Oh I know oh I know it's so wasteful, but it just felt so right so amazing at the time. And, the next afternoon when I heard those happy winter birds chirping around my front steps, I knew it wasn't in vain. I worked off a bit of my fondue chub, and those fat little birds didn't feel so cold that night.)
Idea Number Two:
Say your oh-so-generous guests have brought you an abundance of grape tomatoes just ready to be dipped into your luscious vat of melted goodness. What do you do? Well, given that you're a little light-headed from consuming little more than garlic, butter, cheese and of course bread over the last 36 hours, it's time to make yourself a nice healthy meal. I know you're starving, but just hold out for another four hours or so to make these slow-roasted tomatoes. The tomatoes taste like what sun-dried tomatoes would taste like if they were actually dried inside the sun. It's worth every hour of the wait, I promise.
Fusilli with Slow Roasted Tomatoes and Preserved Lemons
Ingredients
2 pints grape tomatoes, halved
3 cloves of garlic, crushed
3 tbs. olive oil
pepper and salt, to taste
1 lb fusilli
1 tbs. olive oil
1 shallot, thinly sliced
1 pint cremini mushrooms, sliced
1/2 cup vermouth
5 slices of preserved lemon rind, diced (should you not have preserved lemons on hand, and you're not interested in waiting an additional week or so for your dinner, you could use a tablespoon or so of fresh lemon zest and salt to taste.)
1/2 c. grated parmigiano reggiano
About 4.5 hours before you would like to eat, preheat the oven to 250 degrees. Arrange the halved tomatoes in aesthetically, cut side up in a 9 x 13 baking pan. Combine the olive oil and the garlic, and then gently brush with the garlic and oil. Sprinkle generously with salt and pepper, and then roast until shriveled, crinkled and deep, deep red, about 3.5 - 4 hours.
Bring a large pot of salted water to boil, and cook pasta. Drain, reserving 1/2 cup cooking water.
Meanwhile, in a large skillet, heat the olive oil over medium heat. Saute the shallot until just beginning to turn golden, then saute the mushrooms until they are beginning to brown. Add the vermouth and simmer until the liquid is reduced to about 2 tablespoons.
Stir the lemons and slow-roasted tomatoes in the mushrooms until just warmed. Toss with hot pasta, parmigiano reggiano and reserved cooking water as necessary. Serve immediately.
1.07.2007
Food like a hug.
It's the sort of day that calls for comfort food.
Not just any comfort food; while Lauren can attest that I am by no means above a box of macaroni and cheese or really greasy bar food when the moment demands, I wanted a meal that would give me pleasure to create (more so than mixing cheese powder, butter and milk, although I'm not denying the pleasure in that). It should be a meal where not just the eating but also the making should impart comfort. When all's said and done, I wanted to feel like I'd just had, well, a really great hug.
I had some mascarpone leftover from my pancakes, and have been dreaming about the roasted tomatoes Mark and I made a few weeks ago. So here's my little menu, perfectly accented with a nice salad, courtesy of Megan. (As an aside, she tossed a bit of preserved lemon into the simple salad - what a surprise! As with all things pickled, Megan's obsessed with the lemons, and she's been coming up with lots of creative ways to use them; I'm getting more ideas, so more on that in later posts, I'm sure!).
Need a hug?
Macaroni with mascarpone and broccolini
Oven-roasted tomatoes
For two.
For the oven-roasted tomatoes:
About a month ago, I turned over a new leaf, the-I-know-it's-winter-but-all-I-want-is-fresh-Tomoates-! leaf. I've always been sort of on the fence about tomatoes, so I'm not quite sure where this is coming from. Anyways, I've been making all sorts of tomatoey goodnes: probably the best tomato soup ever; a simple fire-roasted tomato sauce; tomato butter sauce that has revolutionized the way I think about a half-pound of butter; and now these. Luckily I've been able to find some pretty incredible on-the-vine tomatoes at the grocery; while a lot of oven roasted tomatoes call for romas, I prefer to use the round vine tomatoes. Look for firm, just ripe round tomatoes for this recipe; the deepness of them will keep them much more moist as they roast than romas. This is one of the simplest ways to ever cook a tomato; your guests will inquire, "Why, what's on the tomatoes?" imagining you scoured the earth far and wide the rare and mysterious flavors. What a trick!
4 large or 6 smaller on-the-vine tomatoes
Olive oil
Salt and pepper
Preheat the oven to 350. Brush a small baking pan (I use a 9 x 9 brownie pan) with a light coat of olive oil.
Cut the top (vine end) off of each tomato, and then with a paring knife gently core and remove all seeds. Place the tomatoes cut side up in the pan, and then drizzle with olive oil and sprinkle very generously with sea salt and freshly ground pepper.
Bake for 50 minutes, maybe more, until the peels begin to brown, curl and crack and the tomatoes are absolutely melting away. If you are not ready to serve immediately, you can put the tomatoes on their serving dish and cover with foil to keep them warm, but they'll taste the best roasting hot.
For the macaroni with mascarpone and broccolini:
I started preparing this after the tomatoes had been in the oven for about 20 minutes. The timing was perfect, and the dish is very, very easy. This pasta is reminiscent of the near-perfect pasta I had at The Greens Restaurant in October, so I was quite pleased with the results.
12 oz broccolini
8 oz macaroni (I actually used a very thin penne, which was perfect with the delicate length of the broccolini)
3 cloves of garlic, crushed
1/2 tbs. butter
3 tbs. panko (although other breadcrumbs would be great, I'm sure)
2 tbs. chopped italian parsley
2 tbs. olive oil
Dash of crushed red pepper
Salt and pepper to taste
1/2 cup mascarpone
1/2 cup freshly shredded parmigiano reggiano
Bring a large pot of salted water to a boil; meanwhile, trim the bottom 1/2 inch or so off the broccolini and peel off the outermost fibrous layer of the stalks with a vegetable peeler. This is, certainly, the high-maintenance approach to broccolini. You'd be fine without peeling, but with peeling you have the instant gratification of the sweet inner stalk with less of the hassle of gnawing. Once the water has boiled, toss the broccolini in for 5 minutes (or until tender); remove with a slotted spoon and immediately plunge into ice water to stop the cooking. Drain and set aside.
Add the pasta to the same boiling water. Over medium heat, melt the butter in a small saucepan; as the foam subsides, add one clove of garlic and stir until just fragrant, about 30 seconds. Add the panko, parsley and a generous grind of salt and pepper. Fry the breadcrumbs until luxuriously golden brown, about 4 minutes, stirring occasionally.
Meanwhile, in a medium saucepan, heat the olive oil over medium heat. Add the remaining garlic and crushed red pepper flakes, similarly stirring until just fragrant. Add the drained broccolini and saute for about 1 or 2 minutes, or until hot and well acquainted with garlic and red pepper. Season with pepper and salt.
At this point, your pasta should be about ready to come out of its water. Put the mascarpone and the parmesan in the bottom of a large bowl. Drain the pasta and then quickly add it to the cheeses, stirring quickly 'til all becomes melty and smooth.
Divide the pasta between two warmed dinner plates; top each with half the broccolini, and sprinkle with half the breadcrumbs. Serve the tomatoes nestled gently up against.
There, don't you feel better?
Not just any comfort food; while Lauren can attest that I am by no means above a box of macaroni and cheese or really greasy bar food when the moment demands, I wanted a meal that would give me pleasure to create (more so than mixing cheese powder, butter and milk, although I'm not denying the pleasure in that). It should be a meal where not just the eating but also the making should impart comfort. When all's said and done, I wanted to feel like I'd just had, well, a really great hug.
I had some mascarpone leftover from my pancakes, and have been dreaming about the roasted tomatoes Mark and I made a few weeks ago. So here's my little menu, perfectly accented with a nice salad, courtesy of Megan. (As an aside, she tossed a bit of preserved lemon into the simple salad - what a surprise! As with all things pickled, Megan's obsessed with the lemons, and she's been coming up with lots of creative ways to use them; I'm getting more ideas, so more on that in later posts, I'm sure!).
Need a hug?
Macaroni with mascarpone and broccolini
Oven-roasted tomatoes
For two.
For the oven-roasted tomatoes:
About a month ago, I turned over a new leaf, the-I-know-it's-winter-but-all-I-want-is-fresh-Tomoates-! leaf. I've always been sort of on the fence about tomatoes, so I'm not quite sure where this is coming from. Anyways, I've been making all sorts of tomatoey goodnes: probably the best tomato soup ever; a simple fire-roasted tomato sauce; tomato butter sauce that has revolutionized the way I think about a half-pound of butter; and now these. Luckily I've been able to find some pretty incredible on-the-vine tomatoes at the grocery; while a lot of oven roasted tomatoes call for romas, I prefer to use the round vine tomatoes. Look for firm, just ripe round tomatoes for this recipe; the deepness of them will keep them much more moist as they roast than romas. This is one of the simplest ways to ever cook a tomato; your guests will inquire, "Why, what's on the tomatoes?" imagining you scoured the earth far and wide the rare and mysterious flavors. What a trick!
4 large or 6 smaller on-the-vine tomatoes
Olive oil
Salt and pepper
Preheat the oven to 350. Brush a small baking pan (I use a 9 x 9 brownie pan) with a light coat of olive oil.
Cut the top (vine end) off of each tomato, and then with a paring knife gently core and remove all seeds. Place the tomatoes cut side up in the pan, and then drizzle with olive oil and sprinkle very generously with sea salt and freshly ground pepper.
Bake for 50 minutes, maybe more, until the peels begin to brown, curl and crack and the tomatoes are absolutely melting away. If you are not ready to serve immediately, you can put the tomatoes on their serving dish and cover with foil to keep them warm, but they'll taste the best roasting hot.
For the macaroni with mascarpone and broccolini:
I started preparing this after the tomatoes had been in the oven for about 20 minutes. The timing was perfect, and the dish is very, very easy. This pasta is reminiscent of the near-perfect pasta I had at The Greens Restaurant in October, so I was quite pleased with the results.
12 oz broccolini
8 oz macaroni (I actually used a very thin penne, which was perfect with the delicate length of the broccolini)
3 cloves of garlic, crushed
1/2 tbs. butter
3 tbs. panko (although other breadcrumbs would be great, I'm sure)
2 tbs. chopped italian parsley
2 tbs. olive oil
Dash of crushed red pepper
Salt and pepper to taste
1/2 cup mascarpone
1/2 cup freshly shredded parmigiano reggiano
Bring a large pot of salted water to a boil; meanwhile, trim the bottom 1/2 inch or so off the broccolini and peel off the outermost fibrous layer of the stalks with a vegetable peeler. This is, certainly, the high-maintenance approach to broccolini. You'd be fine without peeling, but with peeling you have the instant gratification of the sweet inner stalk with less of the hassle of gnawing. Once the water has boiled, toss the broccolini in for 5 minutes (or until tender); remove with a slotted spoon and immediately plunge into ice water to stop the cooking. Drain and set aside.
Add the pasta to the same boiling water. Over medium heat, melt the butter in a small saucepan; as the foam subsides, add one clove of garlic and stir until just fragrant, about 30 seconds. Add the panko, parsley and a generous grind of salt and pepper. Fry the breadcrumbs until luxuriously golden brown, about 4 minutes, stirring occasionally.
Meanwhile, in a medium saucepan, heat the olive oil over medium heat. Add the remaining garlic and crushed red pepper flakes, similarly stirring until just fragrant. Add the drained broccolini and saute for about 1 or 2 minutes, or until hot and well acquainted with garlic and red pepper. Season with pepper and salt.
At this point, your pasta should be about ready to come out of its water. Put the mascarpone and the parmesan in the bottom of a large bowl. Drain the pasta and then quickly add it to the cheeses, stirring quickly 'til all becomes melty and smooth.
Divide the pasta between two warmed dinner plates; top each with half the broccolini, and sprinkle with half the breadcrumbs. Serve the tomatoes nestled gently up against.
There, don't you feel better?
1.01.2007
Everybody wants a little bit of that sweet, sweet rosemary action.
this rosemary was more than happy to sacrifice itself to the syrup.
cornmeal pancakes with rosemary syrup, caramelized pear-date compote, candied rosemaryand rosemary-infused mascarpone.
Without even a touch of bashfulness, Mark J. and Jennifer invited themselves over for a nice brunch at my parents' house in Seattle. They also volunteered me to cook the nice brunch. True, it was forward of them; but I was happy to oblige two of my dearest, oldest friends, and I wanted to make them a breakfast as dear as them. I'd seen a recipe in Gourmet a few months ago for candied rosemary with cornmeal pound cake, and these flavors seemed just right for a winter breakfast, re-imagined as cornmeal pancakes with rosemary syrup, rosemary-infused mascarpone and pear-date compote. I was a bit nervous about how strong the rosemary would be - and how my Dad would deal with what is clearly not your typical pancake fare - but was pleased to find the rosemary to be quite well-behaved. While the rosemary makes an appearance in every element of the meal, she maintains a delicate and bright presence throughout and never overpowers.
candied rosemary, deftly made right in the rosemary syrup!Mark C. called from Houston mid-pancake flip. Meekly, he intoned,
"Oh. Pancakes. That sounds really special. Is there a plate for me?"
I knew I'd have to make him his own pancakes the absolute second he arrived in Chicago. And he rewarded me richly for my efforts - just see these beautiful pictures, my kind readers (and scroll down a few posts to see the picture he took of my granola)!
You'll be rewarded too, if you make these pancakes. There are a few steps to them, but they're quite simple to make, and everyone will be fabulously impressed. Even Dad Meyer liked them!
this is no ordinary mascarpone - she has cleverly infused herself with rosemary syrup.Cornmeal pancakes with rosemary syrup, caramelized pear-date compote and rosemary-infused mascarpone
Ingredients:
for the rosemary syrup, candied rosemary and rosemary-infused mascarpone
1 c. water
1/2 c. sugar
8 branches of rosemary
About 1 c. bakers sugar, for candying
8 oz. mascarpone
for the pear-date compote
2 red pears, peeled, cored and chopped into 1/2 inch pieces
1 comice pear, peeled, cored and chopped into 1/2 inch pieces
4 tbs butter
3 tbs sugar reserved from the candied rosemary
freshly ground nutmeg
1 sprig fresh rosemary
1/4 cup deglazing liquid: apple or pear hard cider; apple or pear cider; a sweet white wine; apple juice, etc.
8 dates, quartered length-wise
for the cornmeal pancakes
(this pancake recipe is adapted from Bon Appetit)
1 c. + 2 tbs unbleached, all-purpose flour
1/3 c. fine yellow cornmeal
2 tbs sugar reserved from the candied rosemary
1 tsp baking powder
1/2 tsp baking soda
1/4 tsp salt
2 large eggs
1 c. creme fraiche, sour cream or whole milk yogurt
1 c. whole milk
1/4 cup vegetable oil
Make the rosemary syrup, et. al.: In a small saucepan, bring water and sugar to boil over medium heat. Once the sugar has dissolved, add rosemary sprigs and simmer, stirring occasionally for four minutes.
Remove the rosemary from the syrup and let rest for a minute or two on a paper towel-lined plate. Pour bakers sugar into a shallow bowl and drag each rosemary branch back and forth through the sugar, making sure the branch is thoroughly coated and tapping off any excess. Let sit on paper towel for at least one hour.
Allow the rosemary syrup to cool slightly, and then whip two tablespoons into the mascarpone with a fork. Refrigerate mascarpone until ready to serve.
Make the pear compote: In a stainless steel skillet, melt the butter over medium heat until it is just barely beginning to brown. Sprinkle in 2 tbs. of the remaining bakers sugar that you used to candy the rosemary, and stir until the sugar dissolves. Reduce heat to medium-low and add the pears, spreading them in an even layer across the bottom of the skillet. Place the rosemary sprig on the top of the pears; as the pears cook, they'll steam the rosemary a bit and the rosemary in turn will drift gently into the pears. Now comes the tricky part - you'll have to be very very patient with the pears, letting them take their sweet, caramelized time. They'll only do this properly if you let them be, not stirring for about 10 or 15 minutes, a bit like a Tarte Tatin. After you're sure they're brown and caramelized, remove the rosemary and flip the pears. Replace the rosemary and caramelize the pears for an additional 10-15 minutes. Sprinkle generously with fresh nutmeg. Raise the heat to medium and pour on your deglazing liquid, scraping up any bits that might have stuck to the bottom of the pan. Simmer until the liquid is reduced and syrupy. Stir in the dates, remove the rosemary and remove from heat.
Make the pancakes:
Sift the flour, cornmeal, sugar, baking powder, baking soda and salt in a large bowl. Whisk eggs in a medium bowl; whisk in creme fraiche/sour cream/yogurt, milk, oil and vanilla. Gradually add liquid to dry ingredients, whisking just until blended.
Heat two cast iron skillets (what? you don't have two cast iron skillets? and you call this a kitchen!) over medium heat; they are hot enough when you flick a drop or two of water on them and they skittle across the surface before evaporating. Pour the batter by 1/4 cupfuls into the pans. Cook until bubbles pop in the batter, about 4 minutes. Flip pancakes and cook until second side browns, about 2 minutes. Keep warm in a 200 degree oven until you've finished all the pancakes. Makes about 12 4-inch pancakes.
Assemble the plates:
Just before serving, reheat the rosemary syrup and the pear compote until just hot. Pour about an 1/8th of a cup of syrup on each of four plates, and then arrange three pancakes on each plate. Lovingly top with compote, a dollop of mascarpone and a graceful drizzle of a bit more syrup. Finally, drape a rosemary sprig here or there, and serve, to the delight of Marks everywhere.
oh, what a loss: I forgot the dates when I made it for mark c., which seems funny since I "date" him. we, the pears and the rosemary deeply regretted this date-oversight.
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