Magic mushroom cream sauce

After OD-ing on leftovers all weekend, my husband and I got a craving for pasta today. Soothing pasta with a creamy sauce that will combat the gale winds and freezing temperatures outside. Pasta is the kind of food that a constant stream of turkey/mashed potato/mayonnaise/mustard/spinach on sourdough sandwiches inspires.

However, when it comes to certain items in my pantry, I need inspiration of the kick-in-the-pants variety. I study the jars containing butterscotch chips, candied ginger, lentils, cous cous, and black-eyed peas and think, "What in the heck can I make with this stuff?" If I'm at all resourceful that day, I'll fish one item - say, sesame seeds - from the recesses to use.

Farfalle pasta brings out such resourcefulness in me. When I stop to consider it, bowtie pasta projects elegance and understated beauty of the semolina variety. It beckons to me from the pasta aisle. "Pick me!" It whispers. "I'm more intriguing than spaghetti. And I've got loads of charm over macaroni ."

I sigh, agree, and throw the pretty pasta into my bag. It makes the journey home., where it is ignored for weeks.

So, in my pantry sits bowtie pasta, and in my fridge sits a bag of dainty Shiitake mushrooms from the last Old Town Farmer's Market. Pat grows them, and she's great. Her mushrooms are less like the shrill, nose-assaulting fungi in a gigantic Asian markets and more like the treasures one could find in the forest after a rain. These mushrooms have a subdued, almost mysterious flavor. You have to close your eyes and concentrate to hear what they have to say.

Such a slight flavor deserves a cast of sturdy supporting characters. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you: Parmesan, garlic, walnuts, and cream! A sauce is born.

Farfalle pasta with walnuts and mushroom cream sauce
Adapted from Miss Betty Crocker

• 1 cup chopped porcini or Shitake mushrooms, sliced thinly
  
• 8 oz. uncooked farfalle (or 1/2 a box of Barilla bowties)
• 2 Tb. olive oil
• 1 small yellow onion, finely finely chopped
• 2-3 cloves of garlic, sliced into thin blades
• a handful, or 1/2 cup, finely chopped walnuts
• 1 cup cream or heavy whipping cream (you choose the fat content that suits your needs)
• 1/2 tsp. salt

Garnishes:

• basil for garnish or palette-cleanser or
  
• a sprinkling of red pepper flakes or coarsely ground pepper
  
• grated Parmesan cheese
  

Bring a saucepan of water to a rolling boil and add the farfalle pasta; reduce the heat to a medium boil and cook the pasta al dente, or "to the tooth."

Meanwhile (back at the ranch,) in a medium skillet, heat the olive oil and cook mushrooms, onion, and garlic, stirring occasionally, until tender. When they're almost done, toss in the walnuts and toast until the onions are ready. The walnuts should be toasted lightly, neither raw nor crispy-fried, and emit a rich and distinct fragrance.

Stir in the cream and salt, and heat the sauce to boiling. Reduce the sauce back to a lower heat, and let it simmer for 3 to 5 minutes, until lightly thickened. Toss the farfalle and the cream sauce together, and serve topped with some Parmesan. A green salad on the side with a vinaigrette and some basil wouldn't end the world, either.

Now that beats snow flurries and winter gales.

Pie and coffee

Though only seven people will gather at my mother's house tomorrow for Thanksgiving, we will have four types of pie from which to choose. We are a family with our priorities in line.

My grandma is bringing the classics, her Jeff Davis and pumpkin pies. My sister is surprising us with something fruity. And I will bring the buttermilk pie because I love all things Amish.

Photograph by Dana Gallagher

This year, not only am I thankful for friends, family, recent work changes, Donut Whole donuts, my husband's new truck, President-elect Obama, and my kitty, I'm also in debt to notMartha, for it was she who brought this pie into my life.

Maple Buttermilk Pie
a la Gourmet.com

Amish sugar and milk pies, which were once called “the poor man’s dessert,” prove the richness of simplicity.

• 1 (9-inch) baked pie shell
• 2 cups well-shaken buttermilk
• 2/3 cup Grade B maple syrup
• 6 large egg yolks
• 1/4 cup all-purpose flour
• 3 tablespoons maple sugar
• 1 teaspoon vanilla
• 1/4 teaspoon salt

Preheat oven to 325°F. Put pie shell (in pie plate) in a shallow baking pan.

Whisk together filling ingredients in a bowl until just combined, then pour three-fourths of the custard into the shell. Carefully put the pan in middle of oven and pour in remaining custard with a cup. (Sloshing is bad.)

Bake until just set in center, about 55 minutes, then transfer pie to a rack to cool slightly. Serve warm or at room temperature. The pie can be made 4-6 hours ahead and kept at room temperature. Serve with a roasty-good coffee.

I can't wait to bring this custardy surprise with me tomorrow. Happy Thanksgiving, all.

The bread I love

Buying baguettes brings me joy. Maybe it's the elegant shape, chewy texture, or delicate fragrance of the baguette that lightens my mood. Or maybe it's the baguette's potential as a hand weapon. Who knows?

Other things--like egalitarianism and pinball machines and kittens--bring me joy, But baguettes gives me a thrill so consistently, I have at least five favorite bakeries I visit for them, and often.
Within a few miles of my home, Piccadilly, Panera, Bagatelle, La Galette, and Target all offer delicious baguettes (and mocha bars and cream puffs.) On slow afternoons, I'll even make my own, using a recipe from Mireille Guiliano.

My favorite way to eat baguette slices involves marinated artichoke hearts, feta cheese, and a handful of slippery Kalamata olives. My husband's favorite way to eat the baguettes I bake is by hand, with butter, over the kitchen sink, the second they are removed from the oven. He has no interest in them once they cool to room temperature.

Despite our dexterity at stuffing our faces, neither my husband nor I finish a whole baguette in a day, and we're often left with half a wand of stale, neglected bread on the counter. It would sit there for days; my anxiety over wasting that much artisan bread increased as the bread dried.

Thanks to this recipe, I no longer have that problem. In fact, I look forward to stale bread so much that when my husband and I finish our share, I'll dice up the rest and place it in a bowl to dry. I love baking this panade in the late fall and winter, when everything outside is chilly and what I want is a cozy house and cozy food. My oven heats the house and this silky, soothing dinner warms my insides. Bread, cheese, olive oil, greens, garlic? Yes, yes, yes.

Swiss, onion, and rainbow chard panade
(adapted from Orangette, who adapted it from The Zuni Café Cookbook)

• 1 ½ lbs yellow onions, sliced thinly
  
• About ½ cup olive oil
• 6 cloves garlic, slivered
• sea salt
• 1 lb rainbow Swiss chard, the thickest ribs removed, sliced into 1-inch-wide strips (plain chard is fine; I enjoy the many colors of the rainbow variety)
  
• water
  
• 10 ounces day-old chewy baguette, cut (or ripped! stress-reliever!) into rough 1-inch cubes
• 2 cups good-quality vegetable broth (I like Rapunzel cubes)
  
• About 2 loosely packed cups good-quality Swiss or Gruyere. The higher quality the cheese, the better the panade.
  

Preheat the oven to 325 degrees Fahrenheit.

Onions first:
Place the onions in a large saucepan, then toss with a 1/4 cup of olive oil. Do not leave your olive oil on a warm stove, as I did in the picture below. Cook onions over medium-high heat, shaking the pan often. Cook onions until the bottom layer is golden, then stir and repeat the process. Once the onions have taken a golden hue, reduce the heat and stir in garlic slices and a pinch of sea salt. Let that cook for another 20 minutes or so, until the garlic is cook and the onions have taken an amber color. They shouldn't be mushy. If the onions begin to dry out, you can cover the pan to trap moisture in. Set aside, covered, when the onions are ready.

Steam rises seductively from the chard

Now for the chard:
Next, place the chard in a large sauté pan (I used a wok), drizzle with olive oil, then sprinkle with water and a pinch of salt. Cook chard over medium heat until the bottom layer of leaves begins to cook; then reduce the heat, stir, and fold the leaves until they are just wilted, 2-4 minutes. You should smell a fresh, watery, green scent and the leaves should wilted, but still have a vibrant color. Remove from heat and set aside.

And the bread:
Toss the stale bread cubes with several Tbs of olive oil, plus 1/4 cup of broth, and a little more salt.

Let's make the panade:
Using an enameled cast-iron pan, flame-proof saute pan, or a sturdy casserole dish, build the panade in layers. Spread a thin layer of onions, toss in some bread cubes, a sprinkling of chard, a handful of cheese. Repeat this process until all ingredients are sandwiches together in the pan. It's OK if you have to pack down the panade. This is sort of a "we're all in this together" affair.

Bring 1 ¾ cups broth and 2 cups water to a simmer in a medium saucepan. Pour the warm liquid slowly, in doses, over the assembled panade, drizzling it down the sides of the dish. The liquid should come up nearly to the top of the layered ingredients. I always have to tweak the liquids to adjust for which pan I use and how much chard I have.

Cover the top of the dish loosely with aluminum foil, then slide it onto a baking sheet to catch any drips. Place the panade in the oven and bake it until hot and bubbling for about an hour. Remove the aluminum foil, raise the oven heat to 375 degrees, and bake for another 10-15 minutes, until the top is golden brown. Let the dish cool and meld for several minutes, then serve. This recipe makes 4-5 main dish servings.

Also, this dish lends itself to leftovers easily. Either cover it in more foil and toast it up again in the oven (perhaps adding a little more broth before), or cut out a portion and heat it in the microwave. Work lunch is served.

Snack attack!

Those bendy straws always float!

It's 11:30 on a Tuesday night, and I'm scanning new pictures for this. very. blog. Though I am fresh out of Diet Coke, I began to crave one when I scanned those photograph. This industrious afternoon at the kitchen table happened a few weeks ago, just about Halloween. You may notice that the gigantic pumpkin in the background dates it. However, that time stamp can not mar the deliciousness of that snack.

A home-made cherry coke and sweet potato chips. Who could find a better pair? (Other than the people who came up with pizza and beer.) No one!

So, with little fanfare, I give you a 30-second recipe. Because, really, it's late, and we've got work to do.

A good cherry vanilla cola

• one can of cola, your choice (RC, Coke, Diet Coke, Big K, Double Bubble Burp-a-Cola, Big Sky, Jones, Dr. Brown, etc)
• 1/2 - 1 tsp. pure vanilla extract (without alcohol, if you can manage it)
• 5-1,000 maraschino cherries
• a good slosh of juice from the maraschino cherry container
• a fancy drinking glass
• one bendy straw, preferably multi-colored.
  
• ice, cubed or crushed

Grab your fancy drinking glass, and in it, add ice cubes and maraschino cherries, plus juice. Carefully pour in soda of choice, followed by vanilla extract. Use bendy straw to stir all the flavors together.

Now, put on your comfy sweats and enjoy your sody pop with some sweet potato chips, Art & Mary's action, or crispy/salty food of your choice. Feel luxurious and decadent at the same time.

Burned Rice Soup

Ah, rice.

When I was 18ish, our family friend from Thailand bought me a rice cooker. I carted my blue microwave, 1980s-era hand mixer, and the cooker to college and made rice often. Brown rice, jasmine rice, saffron rice, red rice...all perfectly cooked, every time.

I couldn't believe the ease with which that machine cooked rice. Put in rice, pour in water, hit button, rice is done! Not only did the cooker make perfectly cooked rice appear in just 40 minutes, but it made cheery burps and farts and hisses during the most furious while it boiled.

Sadly, after five or six years, my cooker got plum wore out from all the use. The plastic lid popped off the glass top; I had to use the tines of a fork to remove the (hot! hot!) glass. Plus, the no-stick became scratched, and no matter how diligently I cleaned, I could not remove some of the rice water film from the cooker's surface.

I gave up and learned to cook rice using a pot. On the stove top.

Though it requires slightly more attention, the stove top method worked well for me. As long as I remembered to pre-wash my rice and to not stir while cooking, my rice always turned out fluffy and soothing, 40-50 minutes after I set it to boil.

Well. Last night, I left it to boil for 50-60 minutes. Whoops! I blame Myspace, the time sucker.

I tried to salvage the burned brown rice by cooking some onions and walnuts and making a pilaf of sorts, a-cream-of-mushroom-soup affair, in the oven. Which would have worked, had I remembered that I set the pilaf in the oven at 350 degrees. I forgot the rice and went to bed around 11, only to wake at 11:30 to a burning smell.

Oops again.

I had to throw the whole mess away, and I am not looking forward to scrubbing the blackened mess from the saucepan which is now soaking in the sink.

Maybe I should have made burned rice soup, instead, like this person.

See? Migi turned her rice fiasco into a pretty dish. The next time I burn rice, I'll consider this soup. Maybe with some fried green onion slices. Mmm.

Lessons

by Pat Schneider

I have learned
that life goes on,
or doesn't.
That days are measured out
in tiny increments
as a woman in a kitchen
measures teaspoons
of cinnamon, vanilla,
or half a cup of sugar
into a bowl.

I have learned
that moments are as precious as nutmeg,
and it has occurred to me
that busy interruptions
are like tiny grain moths,
or mice.
They nibble, pee, and poop,
or make their little worms and webs
until you have to throw out the good stuff
with the bad.

It took two deaths
and coming close myself
for me to learn
that there is not an infinite supply
of good things in the pantry.

Pumpkin seed power!

Ah, toasted pumpkin seeds. I have a love-hate relationship with you.

As a child, I despised many glorious foods. Every time my mother would order a side of guacamole at Cornejos, my sister and I would groan in disgust (to which she would gleefully reply, "I guess there's just more for me!") When most of my class mates cheered for chicken fried steak day, I found more joy in the overcooked canned spinach the cafeteria served on the side.

Also on the hit list of my sophisticated, pre-adult palette: mushrooms in sauces, sushi, cottage cheese (ah! the texture!), yogurt, most eggplant, fresh tomato slices, Dijon mustard, beer, vanilla ice cream, and white chocolate chip cookies. I love all of these foods now.

Pumpkin seeds have moved, slowly, from a smarting childhood memory to a crunchy comfort food to me. My mother used to roast these seeds plain, maybe with a little salt, after our family pumpkin-carving sessions each fall. For some reason, I couldn't enjoy their crispiness or their delicate flavor; all I could think of were the few seeds that inevitably burned (giving the kitchen an ironing-gone-bad smell) and the gooey pumpkin innards I had to clean to retrieve the seeds. My hands always felt slimy for a long time afterward.

Last week, I decided to make peace with pumpkin seeds.

My husband, sister, and I went to our friend Tree's house to enjoy some home-made chicken fried rice and Halloween candy. I brought a pie tin of gooey seeds with me. After we ate, I washed the seeds, seasoned them, and threw them in Tree's oven. Minutes later, we all enjoyed these crispy little guys with the pilot episode of My So-called Life. Oh, the late 90's drama!

Tree has artistic coffee mugs, but she doesn't drink coffee.

Quickie Pumpkin Seeds

• gooey seeds from one carved pumpkin
• salt
• freshly cracked pepper
• 1-2 Tb. soy sauce
• cookie sheet

Wash away the pumpkin goo by placing seeds in a colander and running warm water over the seeds for a few minutes.

Drain the seeds, then pour them into a medium-sized bowl. Season the crap out of the seeds. Going with the "Asian" theme of the evening, I used salt, pepper, and soy sauce. Use any herbs and spices you like; smear them with barbecue sauce for all I care. Just make sure the seasoning and sauce lightly coats your seeds, so they do not forever stick to the cookie sheet.

Toast the seeds in a 350 degree oven for 15-20 minutes, or until you begin to smell toasty goodness from the kitchen. Give the seeds a little flip halfway through to make sure they toast evenly. Enjoy with beer and a trashy TV show.

Died and gone

Martha knows her cookies (and her serving plates)

For me, the past few days have required an extra boost of emotional fortitude. I finally finished a huge project at work, caught a cold on Monday, and slogged through election night with a Vitamin Water and a microphone in hand. The elections really got to me -- would that jerk Tiahrt get re-elected? (yes) Would we elect Barack Obama or John McCain (or Ralph Nader, for that matter?) Would Kansas turn red or blue? Would the school bond pass? I just couldn't deal with these and the rest of life's little stresses without chocolate.

It wasn't until today, though, that I could take the time to get a real dose of that soul-soothing substance.

I'm such a chocolate junkie that I no longer get cravings for just chocolate, I get cravings for the style and texture in which the chocolate should be delivered. Some days, I need the smooth predictability of a Lindt truffle (though the shiny little wrappers help, too.) Some days, the chocolate gets melted and mixed in espresso and milk. Other times, I just carry a bar of Green and Blacks in my bag for square-at-a-time doses.

Today, I needed cookies, and as usual, Martha was there for me. In fact, the very cookie I'd been dreaming of -- dense, intense, chewy and chocolatey -- was today's Cookie of the Day. Perfect timing as usual, Ms. Stewart.

If you're in need of a lift, please make these cookies. Make them now. And enjoy them with a glass of Iwig milk, if you live in Kansas. These cookies are so magical, so blissful, so appropriate for the hard times in which we live, that when my husband ate one, he said:

"Oooh. Oh. Oh. Oh, Jesus. I have died and gone to chocolate."

Dark Chocolate Cookies with Espresso
(lightly modified from marthastewart.com)

• one cup all-purpose flour (spooned and leveled)
• 1/2 cup unsweetened Dutch cocoa (also spooned and leveled)
• 1//2 tsp. baking powder
• 1/2 tsp. salt
• 1/2 cup (1 stick) unsalted butter, at room temperature
• 1 1/2 cups sugar (I used a mix of cane and sucanat)
• 2 large eggs, room temperature
• 1 tsp. kick-in-your-pants good vanilla extract
• 1/2 tsp. ground espresso
• 8 oz. bittersweet chocolate (4 oz. melted, 4 oz. coarsely chopped)

Preheat your oven to 350 degrees, and place oven racks in the upper and lower thirds of your oven. In a bowl, mix together flour, cocoa, baking soda, and salt. Set that stuff aside.

Beat butter and sugar together until light and fluffy (this is where the room temperature butter thing comes in handy.) Add eggs one at a time, beating well after each addition. Mix in the vanilla. Add in your melted chocolate and espresso, and mix well until your batter looks ooey, gooey, and very, very good.

With your mixer set on a low speed, mix in the flour mixture until just combined. Then, fold in the chocolate chunks.

Drop the dough by two heaping tablespoonfulls, three inches apart, onto two baking sheets. I lined my sheets with parchment paper, and the cookies turned out just fine. Bake the cookies for 14-15 minutes, or until the edges of the cookies are dry. Be sure to switch the sheets on the oven rack half-way through cooking. Transfer your cookies to a wire rack to cool completely. They should have a shiny, crinkly texture when finished, and a heavenly, full-bodied taste.

These babies will keep well in an air-tight container at room temperature for up to three days. Not that they will last that long...