CAPTAIN FANTASTIC GIVEAWAY

THIS GIVEAWAY IS NOW CLOSED. CONGRATULATIONS TO SARAH HAMILL AND VIKA ZAFRIN. YOU BOTH WON COPIES OF THE CAPTAIN FANTASTIC SOUNDTRACK. PLEASE EMAIL ME AT DASHANDBELLA@GMAIL.COM AND I WILL SEND THEM ALONG. THANKS TO ALL OF YOU FOR THE BEAUTIFUL COMMENTS. SO MOVING. I WILL PASS IT ALL ALONG TO MY HUSBAND. XOXO

———

I'm still cooking.

I'm still writing.

I'm still taking photos.

I'm still working on my book.

But this week, I want to tell you about something else. My husband, Matt Ross, wrote and directed a beautiful film called CAPTAIN FANTASTIC starring Viggo Mortensen. As of this weekend, it is playing all over the country. And soon it will be playing all over the world.

Here is the trailer.
Here is the official web site.
Here is where you can find local theaters playing the film.

I am giving away several copies of the Captain Fantastic soundtrack. Add your name in the comments below to enter the random drawing (and maybe a hello or your favorite movie or anything you want to say to me). Just don't post anonymously because I won't be able to track you down. I will announce the winners on August 15th so make sure to check back then.

See you next week with peaches and burrata and tales of my 3 a.m. mind.

xoxo
Phyllis

Poster by Shephard Fairey

ONE YEAR LATER

Our kitchens were stacked.

          Mine was on the second floor with more dishes than I could ever handle. I would clop clop clop around in my cooking clogs, practicing the art of keeping young children alive.

          Hers was on the first floor with enough jars and tupperware and folded paper bags and cocoa squirreled away for any kind of apocalypse that might happen to come along. When it came to cooking, she knew everything about everything. She had just stopped doing it, her culinary world reduced to tapioca pudding, toast, and tea.

          My grandmother heard my children grow up. Every tumble, every tantrum. She heard me grow up. Ten years of marriage. Four years of trying to conceive a second baby. She heard every thrown plate, every slammed door, every episode of “Battlestar Galactica.”

          I worried she was hearing too much life through her ceiling. So I apologized for it all. She wouldn’t hear of it. She wanted the noise. She wanted us up there.

          I had moved into the upstairs apartment when I was 33, when I had a 9-month old baby girl, when I had heaps of unspoken post-partum sadness. My grandmother would listen to me talk and talk and talk. I would tell my stories about parenting and marriage just to see if she would smile or laugh. She was blind in one eye, so sometimes I would think she wasn’t listening. But months later she would repeat my world back to me. Moment by moment, the details locked into her brain like the words she gobbled up from her never-ending pile of New Yorkers, New York Review of Books, mystery novels.

          We respected each other’s privacy. No knocking. Just carefully penciled in dates. She liked having her dinner alone, or so she said. I think she didn’t want me to feel put out. So it was just tea or drinks. Her lipstick on. My hair brushed. All of the kids’ detritus shoved away in closets. At the carefully chosen time, she would walk out her front door and cross the lawn—pausing for a few deep breaths with her hand on the jacaranda tree—and then around to the other side of the house to my front door.

          I would call her when things went awry.

          I could hear the phone ringing downstairs and then I could feel her warmth slowly shifting out of bed and towards the phone.

          The soup is too thin, grandma. What do I do? (Add a cooked and mashed potato.) The braised meat isn’t softening up. (More time? Some acid?)

          I would call her to be my recipe guinea pig.

          Grandma, can I bring you a little something I’ve been working on?

          As long as it’s not caramel.

          It’s not caramel. I promise.

          Just leave it outside. Thank you.

          I would cover it in plastic wrap, walk it down the stairs, and leave it on the bench outside her front door.

          I would call her just to make sure she was still alive.

          She would get the first cookie, the warmest piece of pie, a corner of the croquembouche debacle, a smear of the ridiculous cheeseball, the first and last attempt at homemade bread, a slice of every single gingerbread I ever made.

          All I wanted to do was feed her. And in return I would get the blunt-ass truth via a phone call. Too sweet. A bit ugly. Absolutely delicious. Fine, fine, fine. Maybe don’t cook it quite so long next time?

          After she died, I went through her kitchen and found dozens of ramekins, plates, silverware from my own kitchen. I can see her, eating the treats in bed. She glides through her apartment, scraping the remains, rinsing the dishes. Then she tucks them away as her own.

My recipe for Gingerbread with Cream Cheese Frosting can be found in my Food52 column.

GIVEAWAY GIVEAWAY GIVEAWAY YES IT'S TRUE

—THIS GIVEAWAY IS NOW CLOSED. THANKS SO MUCH FOR ALL OF YOUR BEAUTIFUL WORDS.—

Quick addition to what's written below: The wonderful Ten Speed Press has generously agreed to donate 3 more cookbooks to my giveaway. Read through and comment below for a chance to win 1 of 2 boxes of books. Happy holidays! 

Books. They are taking over our apartment. Towering piles in every direction. Cookbooks stacked on kitchen chairs. Filmmaking everything. How to feed a baby, raise a daughter, avoid mold, live happily ever after. Plumbing guides next to French anchovy books. Harry Potter this. Coming-of-age memoir that. "Buddhism for Dummies." Heaps of poetry. But we don't know how to get rid of them. We don't want to get rid of them. Once a month, an IKEA shelf drops down from the weight of a double- and sometimes triple-deep row of books. Or while I'm looking for a Chuck Palahniuk novel, "Ulysses Annotated" will crash down on my toes. Escoffier hides behind "Spago's Desserts" and the Cook's Illustrated's "Baking Book" (perched on my favorite stool) has been holding up one side of our kitchen table for longer than I would care to admit. But I love all of the books. I talk to them like I talk to my herbs.

Here's the good news for you and for me: I am giving away three of my books in my first blog giveaway. And considering our pathological love for books around here, it was very moving to be able to tell my daughter that I am in three books this fall and that I would love for her to photograph me holding them. So she did.

Here are some details on the books (and links to buy), but see below for GIVEAWAY DETAILS.

See the book on top? That's BEST FOOD WRITING 2015 (published by Da Capo Press / edited by Holly Hughes). It includes my apple tart story and recipe from my Food52 column. And some of my favorite writers are in this compilation including Emily Thelin, John Birdsall, Elissa Altman, Jeff Gordinier, Tom Junod, Kim Foster, Sarah Henry, John T. Edge, Pete Wells, Ryan Sutton, and some guy I've never heard of named Anthony Bourdain.

The book in the middle of the pile is called HERE SHE COMES NOW: Women in Music Who Have Changed Our Lives (published by Rare Bird Books / edited by Jeff Gordinier and Marc Weingarten). My essay from this book—on Madonna, Miley Cyrus, and my perimenopausal hormones—was re-published over on Salon.com. Check it out and I do hope it inspires you to buy the book and read the other 21 stories. It is a compelling and diverse collection including some badassery from Susan Choi on Stevie Nicks, Kate Christensen on Tina Turner, Charlotte Druckman on Mary J. Blige, Lisa Catherine Harper on Kate Bush, Jennifer Nix on June Carter Cash, Rosie Schaap on Sandy Denny, Ada Limón on Aretha Franklin, Bart Blasengame on Liz Phair, and Ian Daly on PJ Harvey. 

The larger book at the bottom of the pile is FOOD52 BAKING: 60 Sensational Treats You Can Pull Off in a Snap (published by Ten Speed Press). My recipe for Brown Butter Cupcake Brownies is included (my accompanying essay is not in the book but it can be still be found on Food52). This cookbook is elegantly photographed by James Ransom and lovingly styled by some of my favorite people over at Food52. Here are some of the fabulous treats my cupcake recipe is hanging out with: Italian Cornmeal Cookies from Emiko Davies, Savory Galette with Greens and Gruyère from Marian Bull, Black Sesame Cupcakes with Matcha Buttercream from Molly Yeh, Olive Oil Ricotta Cake from Kenzi Wilbur, Cherry Almond Crumb Cake from Yossy Arefi, Skillet Spice Cake with Gooey Caramel Bottom (!!!) from Merrill Stubbs. It's a practical collection. It's a longterm collection. It's a beautiful collection. I'm thrilled to be included.

GIVEAWAY DETAILS:

I've never done a giveaway. Maybe you've never entered one? So let's just make the rules up. Here's how to enter (but please let me know if you have questions):

1. Add a comment below. Maybe post a link to your favorite song. Or tell me a story about cooking or parenting. Or share a kitchen hack. List your favorite books ever. Or tell me what you're going to have for dinner tonight. Ask a question about salad dressing. Describe your marriage. What moves you? What pisses you off? What keeps you going? Give me a list of what parenting has taught you. Tell me the books that are stacked next to your bed. Break down your technique for roasting a chicken. Write a story. Sum up this week in five words. Anything. Just don't post anonymously or I will never find you again.

2. On December 20th, Dash will select a random winner by drawing a name out of my new favorite black hat.

3. On January 1st, 2016, I will send the winner some Meyer lemons, a batch of granola, and a copy of each book I talked about above. Plus, I will throw in a surprise book. A cookbook. That's all I'll say for now.

4. Or just skip the whole giveaway hooha and order them from your local bookstore or Amazon. 

If for some reason you have trouble with the commenting function (it happens! no worries!) or if you wish to post anonymously, feel free to send me an email at dashandbella@gmail.com and I will enter you into the drawing.

I am really excited to share these books. Thank you so much for being a part of this community. You all keep me writing and cooking and breathing. And  I am so grateful.

xoxo

Phyllis

(photos by isabel ross)

CLICKBAIT

I'm not going to tell you how thrilled I am for the comeback of high-waisted jeans.

How many times in the past week I listened to the new Adele song.

That I can do 15 pushups.

I'm not going to tell you how proud I am of my son for talking shit about Trump on the playground.

How gratifying it is to watch my kids load the dishwasher without being asked.

How often I think of my daughter's birth: those first few moments, feeling her heart beating through her neck and fingertips and shins.

I'm not going to tell you how motherhood is the most fulfilling experience ever.

Instead, I'm going to tell you about the gutted feeling that washes over me when I sit in the car, flipping through social media apps on my phone, waiting for soccer practice to end.

How three times over the past month, I have given up on my messy house, my marriage, my book, my everything, driven to the mall, and bought grey sweaters for the California winter we will never have.

How I woke up last Monday to the W.H.O. news story about the possible connection between eating processed meats and cancer and immediately went out for a bacon cheeseburger.

I'm going to tell you how during a recent morning scramble, I yelled at my son with such intensity that he ran away and I thought he was gone forever.

That I cried during the school earthquake drill, imagining the chaos of the big one.

I'm going to tell you how sometimes my body feels completely turned off, done, retired.

I'm going to tell you how often I take a deep breath in order to stay at the table.

How often I bake cookies in order to stay awake.

How, as a parent, you never get to step back or unfurl or move on or detach.

I'm going to tell you about the homeless man I see every Tuesday afternoon next to the I-580 onramp who holds up the I will take anything you can give me sign, his sad drunken eyes boring so deeply into mine that I have to look away and pray for the light to change because I can't bear what I am thinking: he is somebody's child, he is somebody's child, oh fuck, he is somebody's child.

(Stuffed with Reese's Peanut Butter Cups)

(Stuffed with Junior Mints)

I have made these cookies six times in the past ten days. I have handed them out to women in bars, children in cars, friends at dinner parties. They are so fun to make, ridiculously sweet, and way over the top. They make people smile and grab and moan.

Sometimes a bit of candy escapes while they are baking. Don't panic. Just make sure to cool them on the sheet pan.

Don't overcook them or you will be sad. This happened with batch #3 and my daughter and I agreed that life is too short for dry, over-baked Nutella cookies. 

I have just started reading about Nutella and palm oil and deforestation. I wish I could tell you that these cookies work beautifully with other chocolate hazelnut spreads. But I haven't tested out any of them out. Please let me know if you make these cookies with a Nutella alternative. I am learning along with you.

CANDY-STUFFED NUTELLA SUGAR COOKIES 

printable recipe

makes 10 big cookies

My daughter found this recipe online last year. We have searched and searched but we can't find it again. I have modified it a bit, but, if it looks familiar, please let me know. I would love to give proper credit to the original recipe writer.

You can stuff these cookies with almost any kind of candy. Or nothing at all. On their own, they are crispy on the outside and gooey on the inside. But when you stuff them, they become mystery cookies. Here are a few ideas for the filling: 1/2 Reese's Peanut Butter Cup, 3 Junior Mints, 4 mini marshmallows, 1 Special Dark Hershey's chocolate bar. PLAY!!!

ingredients:

1  3/4 cups all-purpose flour

1 teaspoon baking soda

1 teaspoon kosher salt

2 sticks unsalted butter (1 cup), soft

1/3 cup white sugar

1/2 cup dark brown sugar

3/4 cup Nutella, room temperature

1 egg

1 tablespoon vanilla extract

candy of your choice (see headnote for some ideas)

1/3 cup white sugar, for rolling cookies

directions:

Whisk together the flour, baking soda, and salt. Set aside.

In a standing mixer (or by hand), cream the butter, white sugar, and brown sugar for two minutes on high speed. Scrape down the sides. Add Nutella and beat for another 20 seconds on medium speed. Scrape down the sides. Add the egg. Mix on medium for 5 seconds. Scrape down the sides. Add the vanilla and mix for another 5 seconds on medium speed. Scrape down the sides. Add 1/3 of the flour mixture and mix on low speed until almost all the flour in incorporated. Scrape down the sides. Add the second 1/3 of the flour mixture. Mix on low until almost all incorporated. Scrape down the sides. Add the final 1/3 of the flour mixture. MIx on low until the final traces of flour just disappear. Don't overmix! Chill the dough for an hour if you have time (not necessary but it will make the assembly a bit easier).

Preheat the oven to 375°F. Line 2 sheet pans with parchment paper or Silpats. Pour white sugar (for rolling) on a plate. Divide the dough into 10 equal-sized pieces (about 2  1/4 ounces each). Tear a ball of dough in half, press candy in the center, cover with other half of the dough, roll in your hands until you can't feel or see the candy filling. Roll the dough ball in the white sugar. Place on the sheet pan. They spread quite a bit so leave several inches between each cookie.

Bake for 7 minutes. They are done the moment the center melts and starts to settle down. Let the cookies cool a bit on the pan and firm up because if you move the cookies when they're too warm, the candy might ooze out the bottom. The cookies are best eaten within a few hours. They are also really good frozen (late at night with red wine).

If you freeze the baked cookies and then thaw them, they will still taste good but they will lose they're glorious crispness. A better option is to freeze the stuffed cookie dough balls after you have rolled them in sugar. Freeze the balls of dough up to 6 months in a Ziploc bag. When you bake off the frozen balls, you should turn the temperature down to 350°F and bake them for a few extra minutes.

IT WAS A BUSY SUMMER

and I am so grateful to finally have a quiet September house. At the same time, I am stunned by the relentlessness of the meal prep. I have stopped counting up all of the school lunches I have made. And now that my kids have some sort of activity almost every day after school, I am trying to expand my one-pot-meal repertoire. Recipes coming.

Back in July, I recorded a Burnt Toast podcast with Amanda Hesser and Merrill Stubbs, co-founders of Food52. It is 23 minutes of us talking about children and food and cooking along with managing editor Kenzi Wilbur. Our kids even joined in for part of it. I was on top of my desk in Berkeley (no, really, sitting in straddle to reach the mic) and the rest of the crew was in a studio in New York City. Dash joined me on the desk towards the end (he is the one who very clearly states his hatred for anchovies). There was this moment (minute 18:27, in fact) when the kids started talking to each other and it felt like we were all sitting around the dinner table. I swear my heart just exploded.

If you feel like it, let me know in the comments below if you have any stories or tips or triumphs or frustrations relating to kids and cooking. I love the beautiful and the ugly and everything in between. So bring it on.

Click either image below to link to the podcast.

More soon about my book and various other projects. Lots going on. Can't wait to share.

xoxo

Phyllis

t

SOLANACEAE

Loving our sons is easy.

I get there ten minutes early to secure seats. It has to work.

They spend the day stumbling on sidewalk cracks and bubbling with goofy unconditional love.

There is always a reason we can’t get together.

We can almost see them growing in their sleep.

A dying father, sick kids, a deadline.

But our daughters just want to quietly close their bedroom doors, moving away from any sense of family, escaping into devices and daydreams and vlogs.

A forgotten email thread, fatigue, an inability to be social. 

So we hold them too tight.

And then finally we are all sitting on barstools with drinks in our hands.

We talk about how if one of our kids died, we would curl up in a fetal position and go to bed forever.

Our stories are interchangeable.

How quickly we get all situation critical about marriage: Once we get to the word divorce, it’s so easy to pick it up again and throw it like a ninja star.

How if someone had given us spreadsheets when we were young, outlining the ups and downs of marriage, we might never have dreamed of finding the one.

We give strong hugs and go home.

How as things get harder with parenting and marriage, the more determined we are to make something meaningful.

I am home. I am hungry. For the first time in as long as I can remember, food hasn’t been on my mind for an entire evening.

Like the novel in the drawer, the book proposal, the new job opportunity.

I pull one square of tart out of the freezer and throw it in the oven until the tomato is bubbling away. 

The Kickstarter we are scared to get out there, the new family business.

I cut into the collapsed and shrivelled tomato. Its insides spill out all the things I love: anchovies, herbs, capers, lemon zest, garlic, Parmesan cheese. I scoop everything up with crispy prosciutto.

The final cut of the documentary film.

I crawl into bed and wrap a hand around my husband’s sleeping arm. I hear a happy sigh.

The book we have to finish.

I say to the dark room: There is no plan. Just a slow rhythmic squeezing of his shoulder and a gentle tracing of his left calf with my right toe.

---------
If you want to learn more about my Tomato Tart with Goat Cheese, Quark, Prosciutto, and Gremolata, you can find the recipe on Food52.

If this tart seems crazy high maintenance, just stuff the tomatoes with gremolata, wrap them in some kind of bacon fat, bake them on high heat in a cast iron pan, and throw on some mozzarella at the last minute. Scoop mouthfuls out of the pan with garlicky grilled bread.

Or improvise. I write about a few places to start in my Cooking What I Want column on Food52. Let me know what you're making!

ICYMI: BROWN BUTTER BANANA BREAD WITH PEANUT STREUSEL

(I'm working on some new recipes and stories for May. Meanwhile, here is last month's post from Cooking What I Want, my Food52 column. I'm about a month behind with everything so spring break and the Easter Bunny make an appearance! I tested this recipe so intensely that I have many half-eaten loaves hiding in my freezer. A few days ago, I took one out at midnight, left it on the counter, and the next morning had myself a kick ass breakfast of toasted gooey banana bread with butter AND cream cheese. You need both. Trust me.)

YOU ONLY HAVE TWO HOURS until your son rushes back into the house from school and begins eleven days of spring break.

Two hours to organize eleven years' worth of your kids’ art.

Two hours to try on and reject all of your bathing suits.

Two hours to figure out the book you want to write.

Instead, you move the food processor to the right side of the kitchen and plug it in.

Two hours to master the mandoline.

Two hours to track down the electrician to figure out why none of the outlets work on the left side of your kitchen.

You brown the butter until it smells just right.

Two hours to make skin cancer screening, mammogram, oil change appointments.

Two hours to clean up the mess the Easter bunny made when she dumped the contents of the toy bin outside to make room for the baskets, thinking it would never ever rain again in California.

You gather roasted peanuts and two very sad bananas.

Two hours to dissect the ins and outs of the Iran Nuclear Deal and Indiana’s Religious Freedom Restoration Act.

You think about the drought and the melting polar ice caps and how much waste there is in your kitchen: half-eaten apples, salami and cheese sandwiches smushed in bottoms of lunch boxes, a back porch strewn with Ziploc bags and vinegar and baking soda from a weekend of baggie bomb wars.

Two hours to sharpen your knives.

You pour your son's leftover breakfast into the food processor: one bowl of plain yogurt, half a glass of orange juice.

Two hours to find the popover recipe you developed over the course of three months and then lost somewhere in the kids’ paper trail.

You smack an egg on the counter. Again. And again. It’s hard-boiled. The Easter bunny needs to organize her fridge.

Two hours to meditate.

You sift the dries and pulse the wets. As you mix them together, you look for pockets of flour, remembering how your mom taught you to fold: cut down the middle, flip the spatula, quarter turn the bowl. 

Two hours to clean up the kitchen mess before you need to start cooking the next meal.

You press in the peanut streusel.

Two hours to crawl into bed and give up.

Your son dashes in. Ready for 264 hours of spring break. Ready for a piece of banana bread with butter. Ready for you. 

Two hours to remember who you are, why you're here.
Recipe for Brown Butter Banana Bread With Peanut Streusel can be found in my Food52 column.

(My nomination for Best Writing in the Saveur Food Blog Awards has brought so many people my way. So for those of you who are new to my blog, here is one final story from the archives. Voting ends April 30th. Back in a week or so with new content. Doritos might be involved. Just warning you now! xoxo)

STAY
You whisk the eggs and then slowly pour in the milk. A squeeze of fresh orange juice, vanilla extract, some salt. You whisk so vigorously you create an inch of foam. You're sweating but your left bicep feels strong.

You pour the batter over the three-day-old bread. You crank some music.

You ask the kids to take the dog to the backyard. They pound down the stairs with the reluctant dog and leave the front door open. You throw a chunk of butter onto the griddle and let it go too long because you love the smell of brown butter.

You close your right eye so that you can't see the pile of dishes from yesterday's oatmeal, last night's chicken, the food photography experiments, the wins, the losses.

You want to run away.

You turn up the song. You move your hips, your rib cage, your arms, twirling your hands like they contain castanets, spatula corkscrewing up to the ceiling.

You lift up the custard-soaked bread pieces and deliver them to the griddle, dripping the egg mixture across the counter. You think, what's a little more mess? The sizzling makes you think you would make a really good short order cook and that it would be much easier than managing this house.

You remember that last night you slammed the bedroom door so fucking hard it cracked like one of those earthquake faults. San Andreas? Hayward? You can't remember which big one lies beneath the house. You sip your coffee and everything goes away. You put your mug down and it all comes back.

The pieces of French toast are lined up in two straight lines like Madeline's friends, steaming on the interior, craggy lines forming on the exterior.

The house is quiet.

You flip each piece. Splat. Splat. Splat. Butter flies onto your apron. You recently started buying aprons, because all your black clothes were stained with grease, but you swear you will never walk out of the house wearing one. No one will see this costume. You empty a bottle of maple syrup into a pot and turn on the heat.

You place the cooked slices onto a warm plate. Powdered sugar, lemon, jam, napkins, plates, and forks all to the table.

You step out of your clogs and bust out a pirouette. You can still do four in a row on the left side but you know better than to try the right side. You slide your shoes back on and you are almost 6 feet tall again. You like feeling tall.

You rise up on your toes, as if you're wearing toe shoes, and lengthen your spine up over the dirty dishes. You peek out of the kitchen window. The kids are not in the garden.

You run down the stairs, out the open door, and call out. Dash! Bella! Dash!

Your hands fly to your face. You feel your chest turn red and your heart start to race. You yell out to no one in particular. Oh my god! Where are they?

You are wearing red plaid pajamas, no bra, silver clogs, and a black and white striped apron. You are the crazy lady.

You continue screaming your kids' names as you run down the block. Around the corner. And then around another. And then there they are.

Mama, I thought you'd be proud. We decided to walk Wylie around the block.

You grab Bella too hard around her upper arms and repeat over and over again that Dash is four. Four. Bella. Don't you know that he is four.

Yeah, Bella. I'm four.

You sit down on the ground and pull them both into your lap, the dog manages to tangle you all up in the leash like you're tied to the railroad tracks in one of those old movies with a fast-paced plinking piano soundtrack.

Bella caresses Dash's check. And then your cheek. I'm sorry, mama. But you know, I really can take care of him.

But you don't want her to have that much responsibility yet.

Dash was almost run over by a car. Twice. And then there were the hospital stays. The mushroom he ate. The Staphylococcus scare. And the spinal tap at seven weeks. And every second of every day for the first few years of his life when you couldn't turn your back on him for more than five seconds. The days when your heart was in your throat and your chest ached from too many shallow breaths.

It's okay, mama. Dash is fine. Don't worry so much. How's the french toast?

Shit.

The maple syrup.

You run as fast as you can all the way home, followed by Dash in his Crocs, Bella in her Uggs, tugging on the dog's leash. All those impractical shoes and no one trips.

Up the stairs, down the hall, into the kitchen. The thick maple foam is hovering right at the pot's edge. You pour the syrup into a pitcher. Dash reaches for it. You grab his wrist. Hardcore scary hot, you say. Don't touch. Please.

You pick him up and squeeze and spin and spin and squeeze.

You sit down and eat French toast with extra thick maple syrup. It turns to candy as it hits the cold plates.

Mama. It's even better than regular maple syrup. We should do things like this every time from now on.

Okay. Bella. I will try. I will try. I will try.

FRENCH TOAST WITH MAPLE SYRUP GLAZE
printable recipe
serves 4
You can add fewer eggs. Or more eggs. You can add Grand Marnier, nutmeg, cinnamon, heavy cream, or half and half. It's pretty much impossible to mess up French toast. You can even replace the milk with eggnog. Some kinds of bread soak up more of the custard than other kinds. You can just whisk up a bit more of the custard if needed.

Alternatively, you can soak the bread overnight in the custard. The next morning, sprinkle with turbinado sugar. Bake at 350°F until cooked through, 25 minutes or so. Broil the top until golden brown. Or try my recipe for baked baguette French toast.

ingredients:
10-12 slices stale white bread (challah or sourdough boules are particularly good)
3 eggs
2 1/2 cups whole milk
1 tablespoon orange juice
1 teaspoon orange zest
2 teaspoons vanilla extract
1/2 vanilla bean, halved lengthwise, seeds scraped out
pinch kosher salt
butter for grilling and serving
1 cup maple syrup

directions:
Place bread one layer thick on a sheet pan or in a large baking dish. Set aside.

Whisk eggs. Whisk in milk. Add orange juice/zest, vanilla extract, vanilla bean seeds, and salt. Whisk the heck out of it. Or just put it all in the blender. Pour over the bread. Let the bread soak up the custard. Flip the slices after a few minutes.

While the bread is soaking up the custard, pour maple syrup into a big pot. Bring it to a boil on the back of the stove. Turn down to medium and boil for at least 5 minutes. Pour into a pitcher to cool a little.

Crank up your griddle or pan to medium heat. Add some butter. Once melted, place custard-soaked bread on the griddle. Don't turn to high heat or they will burn on the outside before cooking on the inside. Flip when golden brown. Eat right away with butter and piping hot maple syrup. Or with powdered sugar and lemon juice. Or cook lots of it. Cool. Then freeze in Ziploc bags. When you want a piece, thaw it in the toaster.

P.S. I make a variation of this French toast recipe almost once a week. And a few days ago, I added a crunchy cornflake crust. Recipe for that crunchy goodness coming soon.

GOOD MORNING

My daughter slowly scoops out her vanilla yogurt, crowning the surface with raspberries, scattering it all with granola, stepping back, enjoying her stellar plating. With his own breakfast bowl, my son follows her every decorative move. They are moving so slowly I could scream. 

It is 7:45 A.M. We need to leave the house by 8 A.M. Do the toothbrushing, library-book-finding, math. It’s an impossible situation.

Add this to the fifteen minute mix: 

One towering pile of dishes from the previous night’s garlicky pasta dinner.
One missing lunch box.
One broken toilet.
Two rotten cucumbers.
One questionable red pepper.
One daughter helplessly cramming the definitions of avuncular, taut, and assailant into her brain.
One son yelling you never stop micromanaging, mom, and it stresses me out.
One broken water glass.
One chunk of glass in now crying (still yelling) son’s foot, requiring tweezers, vodka (we’re out of rubbing alcohol), Band-Aid.
One bounce bounce splash of the milk carton.
One epic freezer adventure—searching for anything resembling breakfast, lunch, coffee—yielding every kind of gluten you can imagine: whole wheat bread, gooey cinnamon swirl challah, chocolate croissants, cheese-packed danishes, sticky buns, orange cranberry scones, bread sticks, bagels, tortillas.

But no coffee.

I don’t know how to do any of this without coffee.

I perform the open-the-fridge-and-stare move. The thing that elicits from me, on a daily basis, the Are you kidding me, Dash? Close the fridge door. You’re wasting electricity. What is wrong with you?

In my under-caffeinated state, I start to understand the little dude who lives with me. Maybe the cool air helps him wake up. Sometimes it takes a minute to find your center. You see everything. And you see nothing. It’s meditative. And then I know why I’m here. The blueberry sauce. I made it over the weekend when we had nowhere to go, nothing to do, only the potential for hours of Stratego and Laura Ingalls Wilder and sock sorting.

We were running low on maple syrup, so I covered the berries in a snowpile of sugar. I added a pinch of salt, a splash of water, some lemon zest. It all simmered for half an hour, popping, thickening, intensifying in color and flavor. We poured the steaming hot neon reduction over our buttery buttermilk waffles.

By Monday morning, the cold purple compote has thickened into a spreadable jam.

The kids add it to their bowls of yogurt. I use it for PB&Js. I dream about blueberry cheesecake. Then, I sit down and take a big sticky bite of the summery blueberry mess, bringing some Saturday morning bliss to our Monday morning shitstorm.Recipe for my Quick Blueberry Jam can be found in my Food52 column.

(I'm loving all of the new readers heading my way thanks to the Saveur Food Blog Awards. Since I'm nominated for Best Writing, I am reposting some of my favorite stories from the past few years. 

Strawberries are in season. Taylor is still on the radio. My sacrum is still cranky. So nothing has changed over the past two years. Except I'm now 45. Have a great weekend!)

THIS MORNING I YELLED
at my son for refusing to put on his shoes, at my clean unfolded laundry for covering the couch, at the rats for reproducing and forcing me to kill their babies, at my daughter for taking 30 minutes to choose a pair of earrings, at the black mold in my bathroom, at my kids in the carpool drop-off line to hurry up and don't forget your lunch please say thank you to the woman opening the door Bella don't hit Dash even though he's annoying. I thought I was done yelling. And then that new Taylor Swift song came on. So I yelled at Taylor as I drove to the grocery store.

No, Taylor, I really don't feel 22. I have a cranky sacrum because something shifted down there during my second pregnancy. If I jump up too quickly to prevent my son from stepping out in front of a moving car, my right knee snaps like a rubber band, but I run through the pain because trust me, that's just what you do. My brain is a bit shaky lately as in I never stop saying where are my glasses, where are my fucking keys, where's that camp form, who stole my sunglasses. But here's the good news, Taylor. I've started reading entire books again for the first time in 10 years, slurping up hundreds of pages just like I used to inhale the Esprit Catalog. Let's talk about my breasts, Taylor. I think they would scare you. Last week my husband stared at them lovingly in the light of day and started singing Swing Low Sweet Chariot. I didn't punch him, Taylor. I kissed him. Hard. Because he's funny. And as he taught me, comedy ain't pretty. I used to cry over episodes of ER. Now I cry while spying out the attic window on the all-grown-up tuxedoed neighbor boy, piling with his buddies into daddy's minivan, smoothing down his hair, gearing up for the big prom night. Without missing a beat, I can answer questions like do people eat cow brains, what is a MILF, when is our dog dying, can we go to Disneyland this weekend. I actually say things like do as I say not as I do, don't run with scissors, use your inside voice, if you have nothing nice to say then don't say anything at all. I have this uncontrollable urge to watch my children sleep. I kiss kiss kiss them until they're awake enough to say I love you back. On a daily basis I hear how much I'm hated, how I never say yes, how I'm the meanest person on the planet. I haven't breastfed in almost five years but an expression of love, via a kid's hand on my heart, or a word uttered at just the right moment, or a glance smile sigh, will make my milk let down. My weekends are no longer mine. I will never ever sleep through the night again. But if people are telling me the truth, this phase will be over in a flash and I will be left with that quiet house I currently crave so much and an obsessive lifelong desire for my kids to come home please come home as often as you want please come home. So when I need a break or a breath or a boost or a shift, I make some ice cream. The great neutralizer. I think you might like my strawberry ice cream, Taylor. I would love to serve you some on my back porch. And then we can listen to The Cure and dance around the kitchen with hairbrushes as microphones and be hella carefree. Much to my kids' horror, I do this on a regular basis. I don't know about you, Taylor, but I feel 43.

STRAWBERRY VANILLA BEAN ICE CREAM
printable recipe

This recipe works very well with early season strawberries, ones that aren't very sweet and might not be red all the way through. Macerating them all day results in a beautiful red juice. The strawberry slices stay quite firm which adds a nice texture to the ice cream. The leftover strawberry sauce is delicious over greek yoghurt or on buttered toast. The strawberry sauce and ice cream base should be made ahead of time and chilled overnight. This recipe makes a pretty big batch. Depending on the size of your machine, you might need to churn it in 2 batches.

ingredients:

1 pint of strawberries (a bit more than a cup once sliced)

2 tablespoons white sugar

1/2 vanilla bean, halved lengthwise. seeds scraped out

1  1/2  cups half and half
2/3 cup sugar

6 egg yolks

pinch of salt

1  1/2  cups heavy cream

directions (strawberry sauce):

Stem and thinly slice strawberries. Sprinkle with 2 tablespoons sugar. Add vanilla bean pod and seeds. Stir. Set aside for most of the day. Stir every hour or so. Once the berries have spewed out their vibrant red juice, refrigerate  for a few days (careful, it will mold fast due to minimal sugar) or freeze it for a few months.

directions (ice cream custard):
Set up an ice bath for the ice cream base. Add a few cups of ice to a large bowl. Put a smaller bowl in the larger bowl. Place a fine strainer on top of the small bowl. Set aside.

In a medium-sized bowl, whisk together half and half, sugar, yolks, and salt. Set aside.

Place heavy cream in a medium-sized saucepan. Turn to medium heat. Bring to just under the boil. Turn off heat. Slowly whisk hot cream into half and half/yolk/sugar mixture. Pour  mixture back in pot and place on low heat. Stir with a wooden spoon. Do not leave the custard even for a moment. Stir the whole time or you will have some scrambled eggs on the bottom. It will slowly thicken. It's done when you drag a finger across the back of the spoon and it leaves a lingering trail that doesn't close in on itself.

Pour custard through the strainer and into the smaller bowl. Add water to the ice until it rises to the level of the custard. When custard is cool, cover and place in the fridge overnight. 

Place a serving container for the ice cream in the freezer. Mix together cold custard with one cup of cold strawberry sauce (juice and chunks; vanilla pod removed). Churn in your ice cream machine according to manufacturer's instructions. Freeze for a few hours before serving. 

(Thanks to the Saveur Food Blog Awards, I have a lot of new people checking out my blog. I'm nominated for Best Writing so I thought I'd flash back to some of my favorite stories. Here's a post from 3 years ago. I will be revisiting older posts over the next few weeks. So come back if you want to read more from the archives. Thanks so much!)

FIVE DAYS INTO ONE

3 a.m.

Dash is horizontal in my bed, dreaming, his feet walking up my face.

And I am brain-churning, teeth-grinding, eyes-wide-open awake.

I press Dash's toes to my lips and imagine, one by one, losing everyone that I love. A car crash, a murder, several kidnappings.

I shake my head from side to side to expel the tragedy fantasies and slide into a more typical middle-of-the-night worry list.

Did I place the battery back into the smoke detector? What's causing the dead animal smell in the attic? Warm cabbage salad with almonds, anchovy vinaigrette, and navel orange? Or bacon and pine nuts? Why did I have that third glass of wine? Did I lock the front door? Who the fuck am I?

6:45 a.m.

Bella hovers. Sighs. Stomps. Shakes my shoulders. Pulls back the comforter. She shrieks, "We're going to be late for school and I hate being late."

"Bella. Please. CHILL. Just five more minutes."

Dash yells from the kitchen, "Mama, don't be mean to Bella. I love her."

Crash. Breaking glass.

Now I'm up.

Bella watches as I pull on yesterday's jeggings, white t-shirt, grey cardigan, and boots.

"Mama. You wore that yesterday. And your pants are so tight."

Dash enters the bedroom. "Mama. Why are you wearing your bathrobe?"

"Dash. This is a sweater. Can't you see that?"

"You need your coffee. It makes you stronger and nicer."

Bella yanks my t-shirt down to cover my belly and then takes a brush to my hair. "You would look so pretty with your hair in a high ponytail."

"I don't like to feel like a cheerleader."

Two sips of coffee.

And I fly.

Zit covered. Dog walked. Sharing toy found. Pork thrown into slow cooker. Field trip waiver signed. Six and seven "times tables" practiced.

8 a.m.

No time to sweep up the broken glass. Milk is left out. Compost never makes it to the curb. Teeth aren't brushed.

We speed to school, avoiding small children and dogs, blasting music, chewing mint gum.

"Daddy comes home Saturday."

Smiles.

"Dash. Bella. I'm so sick of Adele."

"Me too," says Dash. "I prefer Mozart. And Handel is nice too."

Bella looks disgusted and pushes her face further into her book.

"What? Dash? HANDEL? Where did you come from?

"From you, mama. I came out from behind your legs."

Bella would jump out of the car if we weren't moving so fast.

"Okay, lovelies. What's for dinner tonight?"

We decide on spaghetti carbonara with bacon (for Bella), Marcona almonds (for Dash), parsley, garlic, thick balsamic (for me), and three different cheeses.

6:45 p.m.

Broken glass swept up. Maya Angelou poem recited. French dictation practiced. Anchovies pestled. Nuts bashed. Garlic and shallots softened. Wine poured. Pitcher of pasta water reserved. Parsley chopped. Dog tranquilized. Another glass broken.

Pasta tossed, topped, drizzled.

Eat. Clean. Read. Snuggle. One kid down. Threaten to take away all playdates and sleepovers for the next year. Another kid down. 

10 p.m. 

Pour third glass of wine. Write. Fall asleep in bath. Drag ass to bed. Wish for my husband's hand, to encompass the crown of my head, to gently press me into sleep. 

Repeat.

MARCONA ALMOND CARBONARA
printable recipe

Serves 3

This is a very forgiving recipe. Play. Cream or no cream. Or half and half. Or chicken stock. Skip the egg. Replace parsley with chives. Skip bacon. Use any hard cheese. Whatever.

ingredients:

6 slices bacon

1 tablespoon olive oil

2 shallots, peeled and finely diced

1 clove garlic, peeled and chopped or microplaned

1 tablespoon sherry wine vinegar
4 anchovy fillets
1/2 cup Marcona almonds
1 egg

juice/zest from 1/2 lemon

1/2 cup chopped flat parsley

1/2 cup heavy cream
1.5 cups grated cheese (any combination of parmesan, pecorino, romano, piave)

salt

pepper

salt for pasta water

1 pound dry pasta
for toppings: olive oil, balsamic (thick if you have it), salt, pepper, chopped parsley

directions:

Put on a big pot of water to boil pasta.

In a medium-sized cast iron or nonstick pan, fry up the bacon to your liking. Remove cooked bacon and place on paper towel. Pour out most of the bacon fat and reserve for other uses. Turn pan to medium heat. Add olive oil. Add shallots and cook until translucent. Add garlic and cook for one minute. Add vinegar and cook for 30 seconds. Turn off heat and set aside.

Bash anchovies with a mortar and pestle. Add almonds and bash until almost a paste but not quite.

In a large bowl (in which you will serve the pasta) add almond/anchovy mixture, egg. lemon juice/zest, parsley, cream, 1 cup of the cheese, salt, pepper, and cooked shallots/garlic. Whisk together.

Once the pasta water is boiling. add 1 tablespoon of salt. Add pasta. Before pouring pasta into a colander, scoop out and reserve at least 1 cup of pasta water. Cook pasta until al dente.

Add cooked and drained pasta to almond, anchovy, lemon juice/zest, parsley, cream, shallots, garlic mixture. Pour in 1/4 cup pasta water. Use tongs to combine. Taste. Add more pasta water, cheese, salt, and pepper as needed. Taste again.

Serve with toppings on the table: crumbled bacon, pasta water, parsley, parmesan, salt, pepper, olive oil, and balsamic vinegar.