Friday, November 20, 2009

Chocolate chocolate chip cookie and salted caramel ice cream sandwiches

Do I even need to write any text for this post? Or can I just tell you that you need to make these cookies? Now. Whether or not you make an ice cream sandwich out of them (although why wouldn't you?) you need these cookies in your life.

They're originally from Ina Garten, although I found the recipe here. It must be a half batch, which works well for two people. Two people can, and did, eat 12 huge cookies all by ourselves over an embarrassingly short period of time.

In some of the photos the cookies look lighter than they did in real life. They were actually a dark, velvety brown.


Inside, they were soft, melty, chewy, and chocolatey.


It turns out that it wasn't enough just to eat one or two cookies...I had to pull out the pint of salted caramel ice cream we brought home from our delicious dinner at Eos the night before and make two obscenely large ice cream sandwiches. There was just something about those cookies that ached to be part of something bigger, both figuratively and literally. I couldn't deny them their destiny.

 I have no business eating a dessert like this.


I couldn't finish mine, hard as that might seem to believe. The husband helped me out, after polishing off his own. Afterward (but only afterward), he conceded that it all might have been a bit much: the giant double chocolate cookies...the salty-sweet, super rich ice cream...

I pointed out that he had eaten an entire ice cream sandwich, plus about a third of mine. He waved me away absently, and I noticed that his eyes had a glossy film, like glazed donuts.

"All that sugar really is getting to you," I said, feeling a little bit responsible as he keeled over on the couch.

So, maybe you don't have to make humongous ice cream sandwiches. If you love your husband and do not wish for him to go into sugar shock, you could show some moderation and simply bake a batch of these rich, chocolatey cookies and enjoy them with a glass of milk or cup of coffee. Fine. Just be prepared to lose yourself a little to them.

Tuesday, November 17, 2009

Slow food

While Saturdays are often eaten up with errands, shopping, and occasionally brunch, Sundays are generally left wide open in our house. I like to go for a swim in the morning, but that's about it for the to-do list. It's a great day for leisurely cooking.

I'm not sure there's a more leisurely and pleasing thing to make than bolognese sauce, which requires little chopping and cooks at a slow, steady simmer for hours. All you must do is occasionally check the pot, add a bit of water to keep it from sticking, and give it a stir. With next to no effort, you've got yourself a satisfying Sunday night dinner. It's the perfect sauce to make on a lazy day, when you want the house to smell delicious but aren't in the mood for anything complicated.

When the sauce is finally done, it's reduced to a deep, flavorful ragu, the meat mellowed by milk and wine, and flecked with tomato, carrot, and celery. There is no better way to brace yourself for the work week than a big bowl of rigatoni with bolognese sauce and a glass of red wine.

This past Sunday, while my bolognese bubbled away, I reflected on the very thoughtful Kreativ Blogger Award I recently got from Croque-Camille, who writes about her amazing life as a pastry chef in France. Thank you, Camille! Once you're tagged, you're supposed to reveal seven random facts (not necessarily food-related) about yourself, then tag seven others.

About me:

1. I hate fruit and chocolate together.
2. When I wear sunglasses, I believe I am invisible.
3. I am currently reading The Great Gatsby.
4. I always order duck if it's on the menu.
5. I am obsessed with the television show "Friday Night Lights."
6. My favorite color is orange.
7. I was the only child in the world who did not like pizza.

Tag, you're it: Ben; Shaz; wasabi prime; foodhoe; Kate; The Gypsy Chef; and my friend Alis.


Bolognese Meat Sauce
adapted/abridged from Marcella Hazan's Essentials of Classic Italian Cooking

Makes 2 heaping cups, for about 6 servings


1 T. vegetable oil
3 T. butter plus 1 T. for tossing the pasta
1/2 c. chopped onion
2/3 c. chopped celery
2/3 c. chopped carrot
3/4 lb. ground beef (not too lean; the more marbled, the sweeter the ragu)
1 c. whole milk
whole nutmeg
1 c. dry white wine
1 1/2 c. canned plum tomatoes, cut up, with juice
1-1 1/2 lbs. pasta (I used rigatoni)

salt and pepper
freshly grated parmesan

Choose a pot that retains heat, either earthenware or an enameled cast iron pan. Put oil, 3 T. butter, and onion in the pot and turn the heat on to medium. Cook and stir the onion until it has become translucent, then add the celery and carrot. Cook for about 2 minutes, stirring the vegetables to coat them well.

Add the ground beef, a large pinch of salt and a few grindings of pepper. Crumble the meat with a fork, stir well, and cook until the beef has lost its raw, red color.

Add the milk and let it simmer gently, stirring frequently, until it has bubbled away completely. Add a tiny grating--about 1/8 t.--of nutmeg.

Add the wine, let it simmer until it has evaporated, then add the tomatoes and stir thoroughly to coat all ingredients well. When the tomatoes  begin to bubble, turn the heat down so that the sauce cooks at the laziest of simmers, with just an intermittent bubble breaking through to the surface. Cook, uncovered, for at least 3 hours (more is better), stirring from time to time. While the sauce is cooking, you are likely to find that it begins to dry out and the fat separates from the meat. To keep it from sticking, continue the cooking, adding 1/2 c. water whenever necessary. At the end, however, no water at all must be left and the fat must separate from the sauce. Taste and correct for salt.

Toss with cooked drained pasta, adding 1 T. of butter, and serve with parmesan on the side.

Sunday, November 15, 2009

Baking and nothingness

Yesterday, while looking for a biscuit recipe in Mark Bittman's  How to Cook Everything, I noticed the last recipe in the quick bread section, so short it almost seemed an after-thought: popovers. For some reason, my brain (and stomach) latched on to the idea of fresh popovers, hot from the oven, pulled apart to reveal an airy, soft center that I could slather with butter and jam.

The recipe was a total cinch. I had the batter ready in minutes and stood around, tapping my foot while the oven heated up.

While they baked, I brought the husband up to to speed, since he had never tried popovers before. "My mother used to make them on weekends," I said. "They almost have a pancake-like batter and taste, but you bake them in muffin tins and they poof up, like little balloons."

My most recent experience with the popover has been at The Rotunda Room, a ridiculous restaurant on the top floor of Neiman Marcus in Union Square. For some reason I've ended up at The Rotunda Room at least three times that I can remember, usually with work friends. Since it is a public place, there are usually other civilians like me there, with our wash-and-wear hair and off-the-rack clothes, but for the most part, The Rotunda Room is frequented by well-coiffed ladies that lunch, wearing chic dresses and strappy heels, their Gucci bags weighing heavily on skinny wrists.

The Rotunda Room's defining and admittedly fabulous feature is that it's mostly windows, so you can look out over the city while you eat your $25 Cobb salad. The restaurant's signature starters that are brought out soon after you're seated are a tiny teacup of consomme and a giant, crusty popover served with strawberry butter. The popovers really are lovely, I'll give them that. They are a deep, burnished brown, with an airy, empty center. It might seem overkill to draw the comparison between the popovers and the Rotunda ladies eating them, but I'm not in the practice of being subtle.

The joke might be on me, though, because it turns out popovers are not easy to make, even if they are filled with nothing. As soon as I pulled mine from the oven, I knew I had failed. There was no popping, and definitely no popping over. In fact, they looked like squat little muffins.


Here's a close-up view.


And here's what they looked like inside. See what's missing? Nothing is missing. Instead of a beautiful hollow center, the popovers were full of a dense spongey filling.


The lack of a solid center is critical to the popover; its internal nothingness is what gives it its essence. I feel like I'm on the brink of making a philosophical connection here, something existentialist, but I can't quite bring it home. Feel free to jump in, any of you Sartre scholars.

"This isn't how they're supposed to look," I said to the husband, as I served him two little stumps on a plate. "They're supposed to be light and airy but instead they're..."

"Flopovers?" he offered helpfully.

Pretty much. I have no idea what I did wrong. It's possible my oven temperature is off, although I've never found that to be a problem with other recipes. If anyone has any ideas about where my misstep could have been, I'd love to hear them. The popover gauntlet has been thrown down, and one day soon I must rise again to the challenge.