See how bravely - gravely! - Chef Yum Yum suffers for love of Food and Friends!

When Natalie first started dating Matthew, she would wax dreamily of his gardening prowess - "Chef Yum Yum! my basil, it was dying, and Matthew came and blew each leaf a gentle kiss, whispered kind, encouraging herby words, then covered its roots with worm poo, and Chef Yum Yum! my basil flourishes as basil has never before flourished!"

Matthew, it seems, has a knack for these sorts of things: the back porch of their house crowds in a meyer lemon tree, heat tolerant spinach varieties, arugula, every herb imaginable, tomatoes, peppers. It's partly Matthew, but it's also partly this beautiful place that is Durham, North Carolina. Natalie's hardly working to quell my mythologizing, taking me to the farmer's market to buy fresh butter beans and sungold tomatoes (as an aside: any thoughts to where I can find fresh beans in Chicago? Durham flaunts the pinto-esque October bean, field peas, edamame...), and plotting up a mighty autumnal feast for Rosalind's 24th birthday.

Lentil and root vegetable cakes cozy up in a honey, lavender and shallot puree; fresh savory pumpkin rolls befriend an arugula, pear and buttermilk blue salad. The zenith of the meal - upside-down pear ginger cake with lemongrass caramel from The Arrows Cookbook gave me the opportunity to try out some of the rosy stalks of Matthew's lemongrass. I'd actually never used fresh lemongrass before; before heading out of town to visit family, Matthew had instructed me in the harvest, and I bent down to cut the stalks as close to the base of the plant as possible. Lemongrass looks like a bamboo birthed of a palm tree, and has long leaves (already removed when you buy the stalks at the store) that are a bit abrasive, but I boldly shoved my arms in to the middle of the plant, hacking away with the kitchen shears. It took a while, and I was essentially in the lemongrass plant, but I managed to get four sturdy stalks. As I was pulling off the blushing outer leaves, suddenly I was itching, itching, ITCHING:

It felt like I was having an allergic reaction - to the lemongrass leaves? - I quickly rinsed my arms with hot soapy water, and it was only a few hours later that I realized my arms were actually covered in thin red welts from my time inside the lemongrass plant. I do think I fared a bit better than the plant (once looming, now limp), but I've vowed to eat the caramel at every turn, that my suffering not be in vain.


Buttermilk Pancakes with Lemongrass Caramel


I made these pancakes Friday morning, while Natalie graded papers; the pancakes are my own-ish recipe; the caramel comes from The Arrows.

Ingredients, for the caramel:
1 1/2 c sugar
1 stalk lemongrass (I used 4 rather small stalks from Matthew's bedeviled lemongrass), hard outer leaves peeled, and coarsely chopped
1/2 cup water
2 tbs freshly squeezed lemon juice
1 tbs light corn syrup
1 c heavy cream

Ingredients, for the pancakes:
2 c unbleached flour (or add a little whole wheat, if you like)
1 1/2 tsp baking powder
2 tbs brown sugar
1 tsp salt
1 tsp cinnamon
1 tsp nutmeg
2 eggs
2 c buttermilk

Method, for the caramel:
With a large, heavy knife, finely chop together the lemongrass and the sugar (or whirl in a food processor). Combine with water, lemon juice and corn syrup in a large, heavy bottomed stainless pan over medium heat, and bring to a boil. Now, I'm always a bit terrified of ruining things like caramel, and I was not about to have another bout with the lemongrass, so I had the heat far too low, and consequently, the caramel took about 400 years to caramelize. I'll be braver next time, and perhaps you'll be brave the first time around, and caramelize your caramel over a true medium heat. Stir with a wooden spoon until all the sugar dissolves, and then let boil until the caramel turns a deep amber color. Occasionally, you'll need to wipe down the insides of the pan with a wet pastry brush, to keep any rogue sugar crystals from forming on the sides of the pan.

Meanwhile, warm the cream in second saucepan. When the syrup is caramelized, pour the warm cream into the hot syrup. It's helpful to drape a kitchen towel over the opening of the syrup pot, except where you pour the cream in, as the syrup will splatter. Whisk over medium heat until just smooth, and then pour through a strainer into a heat-proof container. Let the caramel cool to room temperature.

Method, for the pancakes:
Heat a griddle or cast iron skillet to medium-low heat. Mix together the dry ingredients, then whisk in eggs and buttermilk, but do not over mix; the batter should be a bit lumpy. When the skillet is hot, add a bit of oil, and then measure out 1/3 cup fulls of batter, and cook until bubbles on the surface pop, and the underside is golden. Flip, and continue cooking until golden. Serve immediately with lemongrass syrup (and also pears and toasted walnuts, if you like), or keep in a warm oven until you are done pancaking. Eat, with relish! eyeing the now drooping lemongrass plant vindictively.

Cassie vs. the Winter, and how the Bananas saved Everything.

Winter, I’m tired of you.

The winter had stolen my appetite. I’d flipped, half-heartedly through my recent issue of Bon Appetit, the Greens’ Cookbook who’s spine I’d barely cracked. I’d even broken open CT's Vegetables, hoping that maybe the audacity of his recipes might inspire me.

Nothing.

Instead of appetite, I felt only apathy. Is it snowing, again?

Megan's three old bananas rotted away on our baker's rack, a testament to the death of all things living, a gastronomic eulogy for the green and spring and growing that I so desperately longed for...

But in these bananas - is it possible, dare I hope? - that I might find rebirth?

Black Tea-Scented Banana Bread

I've tried to make this chai infused bread eight million times, but always fail because, shockingly, bananas are much more obtrusive than you'd expect. And thus my cunningly flavored banana bread usually just turns out like plain old banana bread. But this time it worked! Three cheers for the bananas!

The base for this bread is based on a recipe from Bon Appetit.

1/4 cup sour cream
1 tsp. baking soda
1 stick of butter at room temperature
1 cup brown sugar
2 eggs
3 very ripe bananas, mashed to smithereens
2 cups unbleached flour
1/2 tsp. baking powder
1 tbs. black tea leaves, gently crushed
1 tsp. ground cinnamon
1 tsp. ground cardamom
1 tsp. ground ginger
1/2 tsp. ground allspice
1/2 tsp. ground cloves
a dash of freshly ground nutmeg
1/2 tsp. freshly ground black pepper
3/4 cup slivered almonds

Method:
Preheat the oven to 350 degrees and grease a 9x5 loaf pan. Combine the sour cream and baking soda in a small bowl and set aside. It will become wonderfully fluffy and foamy, just you wait! Using a pastry cutter (or fine, if you're fancy, an electric mixer) to cream together the butter and sugar in a large bowl; mix in eggs, bananas and sour cream mixture. Sift in flour and baking soda, and add tea and spices, and stir until well combined. Fold in almonds.

Spoon batter into the prepared pan, and bake until set in the center, I'd say about an hour. Cool at least 10 minutes. Dreaming of spring, enjoy a slice while still warm.

In protest of clusters!

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.

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 rosemary
and 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.