Lunch at Greens, and gingerbread redux

On Sunday, I spent a lovely afternoon with my mother and some family friends. Since it was just us girls, we did what girls like to do on occasion: we ate a fancy lunch and shopped for sparkly baubles.

The day was planned around a jewelry sale at Fort Mason, under the pretense of shopping for gifts for other people. When you go to Fort Mason, there is only one place to have lunch, and that is the legendary vegetarian restaurant Greens.

Located on the north shore of the City, Greens is a stunning restaurant, beautiful enough to win over the most devoted carnivore. It  has a quintessential Northern California feel, very open, with lots of light, a high ceiling with exposed wood beams, and incredible pieces of driftwood carved into tables and a huge, iconic sculpture in the front. One whole side of the restaurant is floor-to-ceiling windows, with a view of the harbor and the Golden Gate Bridge. On that day, we'd had a bit of rain in the morning, and though it had subsided, it was still overcast. The white boats against the gray sky looked like they belonged in a painting.

Greens serves brunch on the weekend, so between the four of us we ordered a mix of potato cakes, scrambled eggs, a portobello mushroom sandwich, and my farro spaghetti with currants, pistachios, and butternut squash. Not only was I the only one to get dinner food, I was the only one to order a glass of wine. But who drinks coffee with spaghetti?

To start, we ordered some gingerbread to share. It arrived as a thick slice with a dollop of cream cheese on the side, and we nibbled happily as we caught up on all kinds of news: engagements, kids, jobs, travel, and holiday plans. The tangy-sweet cream cheese was a perfect foil against the spicy gingerbread.

Much later, after jewelry shopping and returning home, I found myself thinking back on that gingerbread. The last time I made gingerbread was horrible; so horrible, in fact, that I was turned off gingerbread for quite awhile. But my love for gingerbread had been rekindled.

Although I am not a packrat, I do squirrel away recipes, and often will save them for months or years before using them. During this time, they are not forgotten, just awaiting their role in the spotlight. Last April, I saved a recipe from Food and Wine for Molasses-Gingerbread Cake with Mascarpone Cream. I decided to whip it up last night, but skip the orange confit and mascarpone cream. I'm sure these elements would elevate the cake to something more complex and elegant. But I like the simplicity of gingerbread, the basic, American, Laura Ingalls-ness of it. You don't need to dress it up for it to be delicious, homey, and satisfying.

I decided to bake the cake in my springform pan, because like my bundt pan, I always feel like using it. Whoever invented the springform, I love you, man! I like freeing the latch and popping off the sides. Yes, I'm simple.

The only thing about the recipe that was off was that it said to bake it for one hour and ten minutes. I had the good sense to check it after 50 minutes and it was perfectly done, moist and rich but not too dense. We enjoyed it with some Haagen Dazs vanilla ice cream, which may come from a carton but beats homemade mascarpone cream in my book. The husband declared it the best gingerbread I had ever made.

This morning, I ate a wedge of it with a little cream cheese.

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!

Love,
Hungry Dog

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.

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.