The Shocking Truth About These Buckwheat Buttermilk Pancakes

Last Friday I received an e-mail that read: “THE SHOCKING TRUTH ABOUT DAYLIGHT SAVING TIME.”  [Pause.]  Could there be something truly sinister lurking about this yearly occurrence?  Something worthy of all caps font? 

Something so shocking that it could lure me into losing time by clicking on a link about losing time? Are we (and I use the collective “we” loosely here) really trying to drum up commotion over time?  One hour, to be exact.

I never did get jazzed up enough to actually click on the link.  Sorry.  Consider me a Daylight Saving deadbeat.  I guess we'll never know the shocking truth.  What I do know is that what we’ve lost in time we can potentially gain in pancakes. 

Pancakes, now pancakes incite passion.  I’ve been looking for the perfect recipe.  And I think it’s safe to say I’ve found my syrup mate.  In fact, I’ve been holding out on you.  At least one—if not two—rounds of saving daylight have gone by without me sharing the recipe.  This was not intentional, I assure you. 

They were just hard to photograph.  I would stand in my kitchen flipping pancakes, eating them hot and crispy straight from the pan, and labeling the glass jar of forks on my countertop as situationally obsolete.  By the time I’d sit down to eat breakfast, I’d have a belly full.  Eating a composed stack seemed a tad aggressive. So it took some restraint to get this shot.  I hope you can appreciate that. 

Because these pancakes are a special breed.  Though they have a healthy dose of whole grain in them, they refuse to come off as heavy.  And, yes, it’s absolutely worth the extra step of whipping the egg whites separately. Take the time.  I know we’ve recently lost an hour, but it’s important.  It’s equally important that the butter and sugar make their way into the batter.  I know what you’re thinking, but just do it.  All of it.  These things make the pancakes light and buttery and slightly sweet.  No accompaniments necessary.  Though, a drizzle of grade B maple syrup and a healthy pat of butter is unabashedly appropriate.  So butter away.  Gild with syrup. 

Now, depending on you and your breakfast routine, what happens next may vary.  Normally, I try to use breakfast time to compose myself before the-madness-that-is-life begins.  But there is really no other way to say this.  THESE PANCAKES ARE SO DELICIOUS THAT YOU MAY FALL OFF YOUR CHAIR IN SHOCK.  YOU’VE BEEN WARNED.

Buckwheat Buttermilk Pancakes

Inspired by the Clinton Street Baking Company & Restaurant and  A Chica Bakes

Ingredients:

1 cup all purpose flour

1 cup buckwheat flour

2 tsp baking powder

¼ cup plus 2 tbsp sugar

½ tsp kosher salt

3 eggs, yolks and whites separated

1½ cups buttermilk

3 tbsp unsalted butter, melted (plus a few tablespoons more for the pan or griddle)

1 tsp vanilla extract

Instructions:

Sift the flours and baking powder into a large mixing bowl; mix in the sugar and salt and set aside.  In a medium bowl, whisk the egg yolks, buttermilk, melted butter, and vanilla.  Whisk the wet liquid into the flour mixture until well combined.  Whip the egg whites in another medium bowl until soft peaks form (when the peaks are just starting to hold and firm up).  This can be done in a mixer, though I tend to whip them by hand to because it’s less mess to clean up; it only takes a minute or two with a whisk.

Mix ½ of the whipped egg whites into the pancake batter by gently folding them in with a rubber spatula and then do the same with the remaining whites.  (You will have little pockets of egg whites that do not get fully incorporated and that’s okay, you don’t want to overmix here.)

Heat a pan or griddle on medium heat and grease well with butter.  Pour a scant ¼ cup batter for each pancake into the pan or griddle, allowing for enough room to flip them.  They are ready to turn when they start to bubble and appear golden brown when you gently lift their bottoms up.  When the pancakes are cooked through on the other side, remove them and repeat until all batter has been used.

Yields about 15 pancakes

Notes:

-The Clinton Street Baking Company & Restaurant is a brunch spot in NYC.  They've created quite a following for their pancakes.  They also have a cookbook.  It made The New York Time's Year's Best Cookbooks in 2010.  No biggie.  

-The original recipe doesn't include buckwheat.  But I've been on a bit of a buckwheat kick, so half of the all purpose allotment went to my new favorite flour.  (They are also extremely good with just all purpose flour.)  I also halved the recipe and made smaller pancakes; they're a bit bigger than silver dollar size, but not by much. 

-I also cut the butter in half.  They were so buttery the first time I made them that I had a hard time justifying additional butter.  I like to use a decent amount of butter when griddling.  And then I also like to add more butter with the syrup.  So I figured enough was enough was enough.  The original also calls for milk instead of buttermilk.

-Once again, friends, this is a perfect food to freeze.

Chocolate Stout Coffee Ice Cream & Young

I’m going to come right out with it.  I was feeling feisty the day I made this ice cream.  Sure, I started off calm enough, with a morning yoga class and lunch at Area Four.  But things quickly veered off after the clam pizza. 

I accidentally sprayed myself with some serious sandalwood cologne that I mistook for perfume at a shop on Charles Street.  I left promptly, smelling of man forest.  Once home, I took one look at the screens my landlord hastily installed last fall—screens that actually prevent me from opening my windows—and decided they were coming down.  

I spent the next two hours with a screwdriver and Neil Young.  The scent of sandalwood lingering faintly in the background. I can certainly think of worse times.  And I would share them.  But I’m still in a Neil Young jag and “Carry On” is playing.  And so I must.

So where was I?  Oh yeah. After the screens, and a few other chores, I poured myself a cold one.  A stout.  The music got louder.  I ate brownies for dinner.  And I set out to make ice cream that was going to have beer in it. 

I ground up dark roasted coffee beans.  Cracked another pint (for the ice cream).  Knocked over some heavy cream.  Turned up “The Needle and the Damage Done.” Drank some more beer.  And then made ice cream. 

A strong ending, if you ask me.  This ice cream is assertive.  It’s unapologetic and grownup.  It’s the kind of ice cream that says: so what.  I like sturdy coffee and beer so thick and dark you can’t see your soul through it.  In fact, I’m going to make these items into dessert.  I’m going to have dessert for “dinner.”  And I’m going to reject your suffocating screens, thank you very much.  

So, sure, this ice cream is in chilly conflict with the delicate, floral ice cream I made last month.  But for something that goes “in like a lion,” lavender just ain't gonna cut it.  This is another flavor courtesy of Jeni’s Splendid Ice Creams.  She makes it at her shop around Father’s Day.  Personally, I think it’s a perfect match for March.  Perfect for the time of year that often has a little bite to it.  For when we are teetering on the edge of spring.  And perhaps looking for a way to round out the stout, sandalwood, and screwdrivers; primed and ready to let a little unruly breeze in. 

Chocolate Stout Coffee Ice Cream

Adapted from Jeni's Splendid Ice Creams at Home

2 cups whole milk

1½ tbsp cornstarch

1½ ounces cream cheese, softened

1¼ cups heavy cream

2/3 cup light brown sugar

2 tbsp light corn syrup

Pinch of salt

2 tbsp dark roast coffee beans, ground

½ cup dark chocolate stout (see notes)

Mix 2 tbsp of the whole milk with the cornstarch in a small bowl.  Whisk the cream cheese in a separate medium-sized bowl.  Combine the remaining milk, heavy cream, brown sugar, corn syrup and salt in a medium saucepan and place on medium-high heat; boil for 4 minutes, stirring occasionally to prevent the milk from scorching. 

Remove the pan from the heat and add the ground coffee beans and let steep for 5 minutes.  Meanwhile, prepare a bowl with ice and water and put a smaller bowl (ideally both metal bowls) inside the bowl filled with ice and water.  Once the grounds have steeped, strain them out using a strainer with a cheesecloth over it. Squeeze the coffee grinds in the cheesecloth to extract all the liquid that you can and then discard the grounds.

Return the milk mixture (now infused with coffee) back to the saucepan and gradually mix in the cornstarch mixture; bring the mixture to a boil over medium-high heat and stir occasionally until it thickens, which should take a minute or so. 

Remove the pan from the heat and gradually whisk some of the hot liquid into the cream cheese until the mixture is smooth.  Add the cream cheese mixture to the remaining hot liquid and then add the stout and stir to combine.  At this stage, if you have little pieces of cream cheese or too many bits of coffee grounds, you can strain the mixture again.  (The resulting ice cream will have lovely little flecks of coffee grounds, but most does get strained out.)

Pour the mixture into your bowl on ice (alternatively you could pour it into a ziplock bag and submerge the bag into the ice).  Let it cool for about 30 minutes and then stick in the fridge overnight to let the flavors meld.

The next day, churn the mixture in an ice cream machine for 20-25 minutes, or until the mixture gets thick and creamy and pulls away from the sides of the bowl of the ice cream maker.  Pack the ice cream in an airtight container.  Cover with a piece of parchment paper cut to fit the container and freeze for at least 4 hours, or until the mixture is firm.

Makes about 1 quart

Notes:

-I used Imperial Choklat Stout from Southern Tier Brewing Company.  You may wish to check out a new local company, Night Shift Brewing.  They have a Taza Stout.  You can’t buy it yet, but hopefully soon.  I'm crazy for Taza, so I'm pretty excited about this melding of local chocolate and local beer.

-Corn syrup.  She’s a controversial lady.  I’ve used brown rice syrup (also not shy from controversy recently) in its place in ice cream recipes in the past and this recipe would probably take kindly to it.  This time around I used this.

-For the coffee I used French roast coffee beans and ground them in a coffee grinder, which can also be done at the market or grocery store. 

-If you forget to soften the cream cheese ahead of time you can stick it in the microwave for a few seconds.

-Did someone say Guinness floats? Why, yes, what a wonderful idea for St. Patrick's Day! (I typically skip the blackberry in mine.)

Sun in the Sky, Breton Fleur de Sel Buckwheat Cake

I’ve accepted this time of year tends to be a bit bland for my taste.  The grayness that lurks in the crevice of February and March usually forces me into hibernation.  During this time I keep to myself, and try to keep out of trouble.  This year I failed, miserably. 

The two-day affair I had with an unforgiving frozen yogurt recipe is one I’d rather forget.  An encounter with a slab of pork belly shot me straight out of a dead sleep, our earlier romance lingered violently on the cold bathroom floor for the next few hours. In a last-ditch effort, I looked for solace in a lackluster bouillabaisse, wasting saffron and drinking too much wine in the process.

Of course none of this helped.  I just felt puffy.  I stopped interacting with others. Bright lights became irritating.  I growled at people showing signs of affection.  I began to wonder if maybe I had Asperger’s. 

But then I made this cake. It was a quiet Sunday afternoon.  As the sugar and butter fluffed up, I started to breath again.  Once the smell of cinnamon and dark rum crept through my apartment, I stopped grinding my teeth.  When I took the cake from the oven, its glossy, yellow crosshatched pattern smiled at me with a cakey gap-toothed grin.  And for the first time in quite a long while, I didn’t feel compelled to roll my eyes.  Or scoff. 

I heard Nina Simone’s “Feeling Good” start up in my head.  Fish in the sea, you know how I feel.  Blossom on the tree, you know how I feel.  Everyday cake lovers, you know how I feel.

This is a rich cake that uses nutty buckwheat to its advantage, playing off the butter and rum.  The fleur de sel melds these flavors, supports them, and serves as a salty backbone for the cake.  It’s a simple cake.  A very pretty cake.  A special cake that looks and tastes far better than its ingredients would lead you to believe. 

And so I’m leaving my hole.  Winter recluses, you know how I feel.  The end bits of February never seem very pleasant.  Not that this cake is a cure-all, but it is certainly a welcoming recipe.  A worthy end of winter companion.  Amazing what a little butter and buckwheat can do. It’s a new dawn.  A new day.  And a new cake.  And I’m feeling good.

Breton Fleur de Sel Buckwheat Cake

Adapted from Diary of a Locavore

Ingredients:

For the cake

1 cup buckwheat flour

1 cup all purpose flour

a scant ¾ tsp fleur de sel, plus a few extra grains to sprinkle on top of the cake

¼ tsp cinnamon

½ pound (2 sticks) unsalted butter, softened

1 cup light muscovado sugar

4 large egg yolks

1 large egg

1 tsp vanilla extract

2 tbsp dark rum

For the glaze

1 large egg yolk

1 tsp milk

Instructions:

Preheat your oven to 350 degrees.  Grease a 9 inch pie pan with butter.  In a small bowl, sift the flours, ¾ tsp salt, and cinnamon.  Combine the butter and sugar in the bowl of a stand mixer and beat until the mixture is light and fluffy.  While the mixer is on low speed, add the egg yolks one at a time and finally the whole egg; then add the vanilla and rum.  Mix in the dry ingredients, a third of the flour mixture at a time.  Stir the mixture with a rubber spatula until it just comes together and the flour is no longer visible.

Pour the batter into your prepared pie pan (it will be thick).  Use your spatula to smooth it over.

Whisk the egg yolk and milk together for the glaze.  Brush it generously on top of the cake and then, using the tines of a fork, rake three parallel lines across the cake in one direction and three parallel lines in the other direction.  For a picture of this, see here.  Sprinkle the cake with just a little bit more of fleur de sel, a pinch or so; use your judgment.  Bake the cake for 30-40 minutes, or until the top is golden brown and a toothpick or cake tester comes out clean when inserted into it.  Let cool slightly on a wire rack.

Notes:

-Be careful not to overbake this cake.  I almost did.  It was saved in the knick of time.  Diary of a Locavore also warns of this.

-This recipe was originally attributed to David Lebovitz; it comes from his book The Sweet Life in Paris. Which doesn't surprise me in the least. (The cake also freezes brilliantly.)

-I used muscovado because the time called for something fancy. Light brown sugar can be substituted.

-Where Nina Simone is high priestess, Jay-Z and Kanye West are kings.  They use Nina's "Feeling Good" in their song "New Day" from their Watch the Throne album. It's also a go-to for me, of a different sort.

Kale Greens Under Buttermilk Roast Chicken, South By Northeast

First things first.  In my buttermilk haze, I completely forgot to truss this bird.  I get a little excited about roast chicken.  And also a bit distracted buttermilk, as you may have heard.  

So when I opened the oven door, the bird’s legs were splayed out in a poultry version of happy baby yoga pose.  The legs were also golden brown and incredibly moist. This was first apparent during the carving, and then became even more convincing once I had a thigh in my clutches.

This dish is a take on Southern staples like buttermilk fried chicken and silky collard greens. The greens—also known as dinosaur kale in this kitchen narrative—were graced with the juices that trickled out of the chicken as it cooked.  They shriveled down quite a bit in the roasting pan, so what was left of them didn’t feed a crowd.  But they fed me, crowd for one.

I ate some of the greens straight from the roasting pan.  Some I placed on top of crusty bread.  I even slipped a few spoonfuls into the inner leaves of a Napa cabbage.  Which sounds a bit odd, but it brought the west coast-vibed vegetable to a whole new place.  A homey place.  A place where I imagine the sweet tea flows freely, where peach pie is prom queen, and where lard is a birthright.

So what I’m trying to say is that the meal delivered on its Southern hospitality.  I also recognize you can’t just throw buttermilk and sweet tea around and expect to develop a drawl.  Though—if I’m being honest about my Southern dalliances—I did make pimento cheese spread earlier this week.  And I had it for, not one, but two whole meals. 

That said, I fully admit the inspiration for this chicken came from a certain New Yorker, who was inspired by the lovely Nigella Lawson.  I’m also writing to you from Boston, which has a reputation for being a bit more buttoned up than our neighbors to the South.

No matter. An appreciation for chicken steeped in buttermilk might unite us all.  This recipe is easily destined to become a Sunday night staple at my place, paired with some shriveled olives and perhaps a glass, or two, of Chinon. Call it New England meets Georgia meets the Loire Valley.  I call it dinner, comingling.  But perhaps that’s just my Southern spin.

Kale Greens Under Buttermilk Roast Chicken

Inspired by Smitten Kitchen

Ingredients:

Kosher salt

About a 3 pound whole chicken

2 cups buttermilk

6 cloves garlic, divided 

1½ tsp smoked paprika

1 tsp red pepper flakes

1 tbsp sugar

Bunch of dinosaur kale (or Lactinato kale)

Small handful of cilantro, very roughly chopped

¾ tbsp butter

Black pepper

Olive oil, as needed

Instructions:

The day before you plan to make the chicken, salt the inside cavity of your bird liberally and repeat on the outside.  Combine the buttermilk, 3 cloves of smashed garlic, paprika, red pepper flakes, and sugar in a bowl large enough to place your chicken.  Add your chicken to the bowl; spoon the buttermilk marinade on top so that the chicken is well covered in marinade, and refrigerate it for at least 24 hours.

The following day, when you are ready to cook the chicken, preheat the oven to 425 degrees.  Roughly chop the dinosaur kale, smash the remaining 3 cloves of garlic, and toss both in a large roasting pan.  Toss the greens and garlic lightly in some of the buttermilk marinade to moisten them, then add the roast chicken to the roasting pan; the roast chicken should be well covered in marinade, but you will likely have some leftover remaining marinade that you’ll want to discard.

Gently lift up some of the bird’s top skin so that you can slip the cilantro into it and then rub the butter under the skin.  (At this stage, you may also wish to tie its legs; if so, truss on.)  Season the bird and the kale with black pepper, perhaps a little more kosher salt, and drizzle a little olive oil on top, just for good measure.

Cook the bird until a thermometer reads 165 degrees when inserted into the thickest part of a thigh.  This should take about 90 minutes, but it will vary depending on your oven, so you may want to check and see where you’re at after 75 minutes, give or take.  If you notice your greens are getting a little dry, toss them with a little more olive oil. Let the chicken be for a good 10-15 minutes before attacking.

Makes 1 roast chicken and about 1 cup of greens

Notes:

-If this leaves you wanting more buttermilk.  More chicken.  Perhaps even fried.  You may want to check out this Eat Boutique recipe.  It’s a recipe from a Georgia-bred fellow New Englander and French enthusiast.

-If you are wondering what I do “during the day” (and let’s be honest, you probably aren’t—but here I am, telling you any way) check out this link where I compare my day job (a dietitian) to my pay job (a grad student in BU’s gastronomy program). 

Meyer Lemon Kumquat Marmalade and Breakfast Musings

I wrote most of this from a coffee shop space with a big window overlooking both the Boston Garden and the Common.  It was easily the best seat in the house, which I suppose is one of the perks of being unable to sleep past 7 am on a Sunday.  Picture this.  I’m drinking an Americano.  Motown is playing.  The sun is up, but just barely. 

Technically, I’m attempting to write about marmalade.  But a good part of me is watching people place their pastry and coffee requests.  I'm using their orders to make assumptions about their lives.  So I'm not entirely focused.  And, in the interest of full discloser, I have a date with some buttermilk buckwheat pancakes around 9 am.  Let it be known, I am easily distracted by pancakes.  And stories I've weaved out of lattes and banana nut loaf.

That said, breakfast has never been my favorite meal.  I'm not a cereal fanatic.  I love eggs, but I don’t find a poached egg mutually exclusive to breakfast.  It slips on top of a nest of pasta or bed of greens as well as it does on toast, as far as I'm concerned. 

For me, breakfast shines best when it functions as an encore for dessert.  Cake batter morphs into a respectable morning option when you put it in a loaf pan and pair it with a cup of coffee.  Or cut a hole out of it and sent it off to the fryer.  And this is what saves breakfast for me.  That, and marmalade.  (See also, jams: here, here and here.)

This marmalade is not as bracing as many others.  Both the Meyer lemons and the kumquats impart a good deal of sweetness, so its bitterness is only sensed on the back edges of your tongue for mere moments.  It’s dangerously close to a jelly, possessing just the right amount of jiggle.  And it spreads easily on warm toast, melting carelessly into it. 

It’s sunshine in a jar on cold winter mornings.  But it’s not chirpy.  Its sturdy British associations prevent it from becoming too cheery.   Which means those who are not morning people—and likely avoid getting up at 7 am for no reason—won't mime sticking a finger down their throats when they see its bright tangerine hue.

So it occurs to me on my second Americano, caffeine pulsing and “If I Were Your Woman” playing—both coursing through my veins—that I might just be a converted citizen for breakfast.  Provided that I have the right music, a good cup of coffee, and the promise of marmalade. All that and perhaps some buckwheat pancakes.  These things take the cake for me.  Breakfast cake or otherwise.

Meyer Lemon Kumquat Marmalade

Adapted from The Blue Chair Jam Cookbook

Ingredients:

1 1/3 pounds Meyer lemons

½ pound kumquats, divided

Pinch of salt

6 cups sugar

2½ ounces freshly squeezed lemon juice

Dash of orange blossom water

Instructions:

Day 1

Cut each of your lemons into eighths lengthwise (wedges) and remove their seeds.  Take ½ your kumquats and cut them in half, lengthwise.  Remove any seeds you see, but it is okay if a few remain.  Add your halved kumquats and your lemon eighths into a saucepan that is large enough to fit your fruit slices into a single layer.  Add cold water until the fruit bobs freely; cover and let it sit overnight in the refrigerator.

Take your remaining ¼ pound of kumquats and halve them crosswise and then cut each half lengthwise into small strips, removing the seeds.  In a separate saucepan (this can be smaller in size), add enough water to cover the kumquat slices by 1 inch.  Cover and let sit it overnight in the refrigerator.

Day 2

Bring the saucepan with the kumquat halves and lemon wedges to a boil over high heat (uncovered), add a pinch of salt, then reduce the heat to medium and cook at a simmer for 2-3 hours; as the fruit cooks, press down on it with a wooden spoon every 30 minutes or so.  During this process, the fruit should have enough water to remain submerged; add a little water if necessary.  The fruit is done when it is very soft, with the liquid turning syrupy.

When the fruit is finished cooking, strain its juice through a strainer into a large bowl.  At this point, do a quick rinse of your large saucepan and then put the juice back into it.  Set the strainer over the saucepan, so that it is suspended, then add the separated fruit pulp back into the strainer; cover the pan and the strainer with plastic wrap and refrigerate overnight.

Meanwhile, prepare the kumquat strips by bringing them to a boil over high heat and then decrease the heat to medium and cook at a simmer for about 30 minutes, or until the fruit is very tender and the liquid has reduced.  Cover and refrigerate overnight.

Day 3

Place a saucer with a few metal spoons in the freezer so that you can test your marmalade for doneness.

Discard the fruit pulp that has been resting over your liquid and strain the kumquat lemon juice once or twice to remove any remaining solids.  Rinse your large saucepan again.  Pour the liquid back into your large saucepan and add the sugar, fresh lemon juice, and kumquat strip mixture; stir well.

Bring the mixture to a boil over high heat; the mixture will begin to bubble gently: do not stir it during this time.  Once the mixture starts to foam, stir it every few minutes.  It will cook for about 40 minutes.  The longer the mixture cooks, the more concentrated it will get and towards the end you may need to stir it every minute or so, so that the bottom doesn’t scorch; decrease the heat slightly, if necessary.  You can start to test the marmalade for doneness when its color darkens and the bubbles become small.  At this stage, add the orange blossom water and stir to combine.

To test the marmalade, put ½ a spoonful on one of your frozen spoons and stick the spoon back in the freezer for 3-4 minutes.  (It is ready to be checked when the bottom of the spoon feels room temperature).  Tilt the spoon vertically; the marmalade should not run off the spoon and should wrinkle slightly if pushed up the spoon.  If the marmalade runs, continue to cook it for a few more minutes and continue to retest, using additional frozen spoons as necessary.

Once the marmalade is finished, turn off the heat and skim any foam off the top; do not stir it.  Let the marmalade rest for about 10 minutes and then fill one jar.  If you notice the kumquat strips migrating towards the top of the jar, wait 5 more minutes before filling the remaining jars.  At this stage, you can process the jars according to canning jar manufacturer instructions.  Or place one jar in your fridge and the remaining jars into your freezer (or into the hands of friends).

Makes about 4 pints

Notes:

-Yes, this is 3 days of your life devoted to marmalade.  But it doesn’t rob you of too much time on any given day. Also, yes, the directions read more like a book, but they help guide you during the process, assuring you along the way that things are, in fact, going smoothly.  Take it day by day.

-Worried you will have marmalade coming at you from all corners?  You might.  Do you go through shameful amounts of jams and jellies?  Do you keep company with other marmalade-loving souls?  If so, this recipe is for you.  And please take comfort in knowing that I halved, yes halved, the recipe.

-The marmalade is worth it.  In case you were teetering.  Also, it appears that a pint of jam on the Blue Chair Fruit website would cost about 25 dollars.  I'm not saying I wouldn't pay this much for it.  But it's nice not to have to.

Baked Molasses Apples for Bleeding Hearts and Dark Souls

The line between beauty and crime scene is a bit blurred with these baked apples.  They don’t arrive neatly packaged and wrapped in pink ribbon. They are not pretty in a conventional sense.  They haven’t been shifted and sauced in preparation for their photo shoot. 

But they are beautiful. And raw.  Like seeing a cast off upturned umbrella in the rain.  Like having peonies as wide as dessert plates start to drop their petals.  Or what hair looks like at 4 am. Real.  Beautiful.

A glossy dark syrup forms during the baking which lends the apples more complexity.  Here they become one part Edgar Allan Poe and one part Catherine Denevue.  If black satin became a dessert, this would be it.

They aren’t too sweet, but they’re rich.  The apples nestle closely together and get cooked for a while, bathing in their own juices, until these ladies bust their insides.  They still manage to retain their rosy hue ever so slightly, but they get transformed into something else entirely.  Something a bit more sophisticated. And dark.

The molasses gives these baked apples soul and the red wine adds depth.  The resulting fruit isn’t frilly or fancy.  Eaten warm, with a dollop of mascarpone, there is nothing like them. This is an everyday dessert that still feels very special.

At this point, you may very well be wondering if some kind of dark Valentine’s Day theme is lurking deep within these little wrinkled lovelies.  I’ve never been one for heart-shaped boxes or for things that have been feverishly truffled.  I tend to prefer sweets with a little edge.  And it just so happens this is a dessert that you can eat with a knife.  Which is my kind of wonderful.  So what else can I say?  I love these warm, dark apples.  With every beat of my tell-tale heart.

Baked Molasses Apples

Adapted from Always With Butter

Ingredients:

2 tbsp butter, plus greasing

4 apples

Zest of 1 orange

2 tbsp brown sugar

pinch of nutmeg

1 tsp cinnamon

Pinch of salt

~1/4 cup whole pecans, very roughly chopped

~1/4 cup molasses 

~1/4 cup red wine

Instructions:

Preheat the oven to 400 degrees.  Grease a baking dish with butter. Core the apples with an apple corer or paring knife; scoop out a little more of the flesh of the apple top (where the stem was) with a melon baller so you will be able to fit the filling inside.  Place the apples in your baking dish.  In a small bowl, combine 2 tbsp butter and the orange zest, brown sugar, spices, salt, and pecans.  

Fill the apples with the butter and brown sugar mixture.  Spoon the molasses over the top of the apples.  Pour red wine in the bottom of your baking dish until the dish is just covered.

Bake for 45-60 minutes, occasionally spooning the liquid that forms on the bottom of the pan over the apples.  The apples are done when they are wrinkly and just start to split their skins.

Makes four baked apples.

Notes:

-I used pink lady apples here.  I think they have a nice sugar/acid balance, though their name alone is enough to lure me.

-Perk up wine drinkers: this is a way to use leftover red wine, should you find yourself with some.

-Always With Butter is a beautiful blog with gorgeous food. If you are in the mood to stare at desserts, you might want to do some peeping at its recipe index.

Life is Complicated. Lavender Ice Cream Can Help.

I admit it.  My ice cream past drips peculiarities.  One of my all time favorite flavors is cucumber. I’ve written a love letter to scoops of strawberry.  And I’ve been known to stalk the rose-flavored variety that appears at Christina’s homemade ice cream shop in the summertime.  An ice cream—no less—that a dear, thoughtful friend said tasted like “grandma” when she tried it. 

This ice cream is not like that.  I promise.  Think Meryl Streep.  Okay, that almost certainly doesn’t help; you probably need more information.  In a recent-ish movie, the lovely Ms. Streep played a pastry chef that made lavender ice cream when she couldn’t sleep.  That’s the charm of Meryl. 

And that’s the charm of this ice cream.  And the charm of a lady in Ohio called Jeni who has found a way to make homemade ice cream taste very, very good.  It's texture almost has a chew to it.  And believe me, friends, this is a wonderful thing.  

It’s a very, very wonderful thing that has caused me to repeat myself.  Repeat myself!  And then gently nudge to lower my voice. Check my enthusiasm at the freezer.  Lest we forget, the point of lavender is to relax. 

So I urge you.  If you happen to have an ice cream maker.  If you tend to get sweaty palms at the sight of ice cream, have difficulty sleeping, or experience some combination thereof.  If you take comfort in cold, sweet things.  Make this little lavender number.  Life's complicated.  It could be the best thing you do for yourself all month. Consider it aromatherapy for your stomach.  Or a sweeter version of Ambien.  I’m not going to say it’s better than Meryl.  But it’s damn near close.


Lavender Ice Cream 
Adapted from Jeni's Splendid Ice Creams At Home

Ingredients:

Berry base for coloring

1/2 cup blueberries

2 tbsp sugar

Ice cream base

2 cups whole milk

1 tbsp plus 1 tsp cornstarch

3 tbsp cream cheese, softened

Pinch kosher salt

1-1/4 cups heavy cream

2/3 cup sugar

2 tbsp light corn syrup (or brown rice syrup)

1 tbsp dried lavender buds, wrapped in cheese cloth and tied with kitchen twine

1/2 tsp orange blossom water

1 tbsp framboise

Instructions:

Bring blueberries and 2 tbsp of sugar to a boil in a small saucepan, stirring occasionally until the sugar is dissolved; remove from heat and set aside.

For the ice cream, combine 2 tbsp of the milk with the cornstarch and mix it in a small bowl until it becomes paste-like.  Then combine the cream cheese and salt in a medium bowl and mix it until smooth.  Separately, fill a large bowl with ice and add water; set aside.

Heat the remaining milk, cream, 2/3 cup sugar, corn syrup (or brown rice syrup), and the cheese cloth filled with lavender in a large saucepan and bring to a gentle boil, stirring often so that the milk does not burn; keep at this for about 4 minutes and then remove the pan from the heat and add in the cornstarch slurry.  

Return the mixture to a boil and stir until it thickens slightly (this should only take a minute or so).  Remove the pan from the heat and whisk in the cream cheese until smooth.  If any bits of cream cheese remain simply strain them out.  (Leave in the lavender.) Add the blueberry mixture and stir to combine.

To cool it down immediately, pour the mixture into a ziplock bag (or a smaller metal bowl that will fit inside your bowl filled with ice) and then chill your base in the bowl with ice water.  Then stick this all in the fridge.  (It should be cold in 30-60 minutes or so.)  Alternatively, you could stick your ice cream base directly into the fridge and chill it overnight. (You may want to take the bunch of lavender out after an hour or so if you are chilling it overnight to prevent any off flavors from coming out.)

Once the ice cream base is good and cold, strain out the blueberries (or leave them in, if you choose) and remove the lavender (if you haven't already) and pour the ice cream mixture into the bowl of a frozen ice cream maker; spin it for 20-25 minutes, until it starts to set up and get thick and creamy.  Add the orange blossom water and framboise and let it churn for about 30-60 seconds more and then stop.

Pack the ice cream in a container fit for your freezer and cover with parchment paper.

Makes about 1 quart

Notes:

- Yes, this seems like a lot of steps but it is very much worth it.  Or, you can buy a similar version straight from Jeni.

-Also, Jeni leaves in the berries, but I wanted pure lavender.  She who makes the ice cream makes the choice.

-Jeni used 2 drops of food grade lavender essential oil.  I did not have this.  I had flower buds.  So I bundled them in cheesecloth and steeped them in the milk.  It was lovely.

-Jeni, Jeni, Jeni.