Rhubarb streusel bars with ginger icing

I think you've heard me talk about my sister here before. She sometimes comments as MisterJary--an inside joke that would only be pointless and even more exclusionary to explain--the way inside jokes always are. She's older than me by four years, and by some great stroke of luck, we have always been good friends. That's not a given, you know. Plenty of siblings just tolerate each other, or worse.

We're different in plenty of ways--she's much more educated than me (the girl has a Ph.D. from Brown), and she married youngish (27--compared to me getting hitched at 31). She has two kids (Mischievous Pug and Scrappy) and lives in New Jersey, working as a curator at a museum. Overall, I would say we have pretty different personalities. But we have a lot in common too, besides DNA and a shared childhood experience. We both swim, we both married southern boys, and we laugh at the same things. If I had to, I would trade all my friends for my one sister. Of course that's absurd; on what occasion would such a sacrifice be required? I sometimes like to envision extreme scenarios, though, just to imagine what I would do, and that's one of them. The point is, she's the best friend.

We talk on the phone every few weeks, marathon sessions until my phone starts beeping that it's about to die. We talk about the usual--work, husbands, kids, dog. But a lot of what we talk about is food.

She's a great cook, and in many ways is more adventurous in the kitchen than me. She'll often casually mention that she's started cooking something that I would never consider--like, Indian food. I go out for Indian food, I don't make it at home. But when you live in Princeton, NJ, your options are a little different than they are in San Francisco. If you want good Indian food, maybe you need to make it yourself.

Recently we've been discussing rhubarb. She mentioned a rhubarb cake that some German neighbors made for her that she had fallen in love with, in part because it wasn't as cloyingly sweet as some rhubarb desserts can be. I was interested in learning more about that. But when she mentioned rhubarb streusel bars with ginger icing, I was done. What a  brilliant combination! Plenty of sugar, I was sure, in comparison with the Germans' cake--I mean, streusel AND icing? That's something only an American would come up with. In fact, an American company did come up with it: the recipe is from a Penzeys catalog.

Although the bars have three steps (cookie base, fruit layer, icing), don't let that intimidate you. They are all extremely simple. The result is a perfectly sweet but not too sweet dessert that tastes like a fruit crumble in bar shape. The oats and brown sugar form a great chewy crust, and the rhubarb...well, you know about rhubarb. It's bright, tangy, and delicious. And the color is to die for.

So thanks, Jen, for passing on this great recipe, which has gone straight into my regular repertoire. I love it. I hope my readers like it, too. And I'll talk to you next Sunday.

Rhubarb Streusel Bars with Ginger Icing
From Penzeys

Crust:

1 1/2 c. quick-cooking oats
1 c. flour
3/4 c. brown sugar
3/4 c. butter

Filling:

1/4 c. sugar
2 T. flour
1/2 t. powdered ginger
2 c. sliced rhubarb

Ginger icing:

3/4 c. powdered sugar, sifted
1/4 t. powdered ginger
3-4 t. orange juice or milk (I used orange juice)

Preheat oven to 350.  Line an 8-inch square pan with heavy aluminum foil extended over the pan's edges.  In a large bowl, stir together the oats, flour, and brown sugar.  Cut in the butter until the mixture resembles coarse crumbs.  Scoop out 1 c. of the mixture and set aside.  Press the remaining mixture into the prepared pan and bake at 350 for 25 minutes.

In a medium bowl, stir together the sugar, flour, and ginger.  Add the rhubarb and toss to coat.  Spread over the hot crust.  Sprinkle with the reserved crust mixture and press lightly.  Bake for 30-35 minutes or until the top is golden and the filling is bubbly.  Cool completely on a wire rack. (This is important to do, otherwise the icing will melt away.)

For the icing, in a small bowl, combine the powdered sugar, ginger and enough liquid for a good drizzling consistency.  Drizzle over the bars while still in the pan.  Lift the foil from the pan and cut into bars.  Serve right away.   Store leftovers in fridge or freeze.

Serves 16  (Seriously? Maybe 8 or 9)

Cakebread chicken, with orange and olives

I don't mean to be braggy, because there are lovely things about living almost anywhere, but one of the best things about living in the Bay Area is that you can drive to Napa Valley for the afternoon. In just over an hour, you can be winding through some of the most gorgeous terrain in the world, headed toward the home of the French Laundry and vineyard upon vineyard.

A few years ago, the husband and I stayed in Yountville for a few days (at this wonderful place). While an afternoon trip is great, staying for a night or two is even better. First of all, you can eat in any number of delicious restaurants (like Bouchon, which I've been dreaming of ever since). Second, you can spend all day drinking wine without worrying about driving home.

I'm not sure when I realized it, but not drinking wine would be a deal-breaker for me in a potential partner. I get that there are all kinds of perfectly understandable reasons why someone would not or could not drink. I know this, and it's none of my business. But, I would find it incredibly difficult to be married to someone who didn't get giddy about wine.

Luckily, the husband also shares this standard, and together we live a boozy, happy life. (Oh, I'm kidding...sort of.)

Anyway, on this trip we visited a number of vineyards, including Merryvale, Caymus, and Cakebread Cellars. Not only do they make all kinds of delicious wines at Cakebread, but the grounds are stunning, which we enjoyed on a leisurely tour. At the end of our visit, I bought the Cakebread cookbook. It's a beautiful book I've poured over many times, but I am embarrassed to say I had not made a single thing from it until this weekend, when I decided to make orange-braised chicken with bay leaves and black olives.

The wait was worth it. This is a simple recipe, requiring no chopping, that comes together in less than an hour. I used chicken thighs instead of a whole chicken, and kalamata olives instead of oil-cured (because that's what I had; oil-cured would have been better, and prettier). Served over Moroccan couscous with almonds and currants, it was a quick and elegant dinner I'm certain to revisit.

Orange-braised chicken with bay leaves and black olives
from The Cakebread Cellars Napa Valley Cookbook

Serves 4 to 6

2 T. extra virgin olive oil
1 small fryer chicken (about 3 1/2 pounds), cut into 8 pieces
kosher salt
freshly ground black pepper
1 c. fresh orange juice
1/4 c. dry white wine
2 bay leaves (they recommend Turkish over California)
3 small dried red chiles
1/2 c. pitted oil-cured black olives, soaked in water for one hour

Heat the olive oil in a heavy-bottom stainless steel saute pan or skillet over high heat. Season the chicken with salt and pepper and add to the pan. Cook for about 3 minutes per side, until browned. Transfer the breast pieces only to a plate. Push the remaining chicken pieces to one side of the pan and pour out any oil. Add the orange juice and wine to the pan and decrease the heat to low. Tuck the bay leaves and chiles between the chicken pieces. Cook, covered, on a low simmer for 10 minutes. Return the chicken breasts to the pan and cook for 10 more minutes.

Transfer the chicken to a plate and increase the heat to high. Cook for 5-7 minutes, until the liquid becomes thick and syrupy. Return the chicken to the pot and toss to coat with the sauce. Add the olives and cook for 1-2 minutes. Serve hot.

Enjoy with Cakebread Cellars Rubaiyot, Napa Valley Chardonnay, or Pinot Noir.

Honey and vanilla pound cake

Sometimes a cake just calls to me, and no matter how busy I am or what I've got to get done, baking and eating said cake moves to the top of the list.

Of course, boring old life, like work and errands, can sometimes thwart the best of intentions. I started thinking about this honey and vanilla pound cake on Tuesday and didn't get around to it until today. See, I've actually been busy...working. Good grief! I guess a part of me idiotically envisioned working for myself as having an endless series of weekends piled on top of each other. Taking leisurely swims, poking around the farmer's market, finally cleaning out the hall closet. (I guess I mixed up working for yourself with being a kept woman.) It turns out, when you don't have a steady paycheck coming in, all of a sudden you're a much harder worker. And things like cakes and cookies have to take a back seat.

Not for long, though. After I got through a big project for the week, I was able to focus on important things, like softening the butter and making sure I had good vanilla in the pantry.

Like most of Ina's recipes, this one is simple, rich, and satisfying. Also like most her recipes, it's best not to dwell too long on the ingredients: the fact that this smallish loaf contained two sticks of butter, more than a cup of sugar, and four eggs made me hesitate momentarily in my tracks. After a few days of eating decadently (the way everyone should when they are on vacation), I wondered if I ought to be putting my efforts toward something more austere. But then I couldn't think of anything healthy to make that sounded remotely as wonderful as this pound cake, which I envisioned golden, delicate, and perfumed with my favorite scents: lemon, honey, and vanilla.

Sure enough, when the cake emerged from the oven, I knew I had made the right choice. Doesn't it look homey and inviting?

The recipe suggests you let it cool until, well, cool. I'm a free thinker, though, and so after a very brief wait, I sliced off a thick piece. There's no rule against warm cake in my house; in fact the rule is: eat it.

The cake was delicious and moist, with a tender crumb and a perfect, ever so crisp crust.

I wouldn't say this cake is overly endowed with the flavors in its name, though. If I were going to make it again (and I will), I might add more honey and more vanilla. My version tasted of lemon, if anything, but that may be because lemon zest is one of the things I don't measure, along with minced garlic and grated parmesan. So the recipe called for a teaspoon and I probably added two.

One of the many nice things about a simple pound cake is that it can be delightful on its own, or it can fill out another dessert. I can see making this for guests and serving it with ice cream or sorbet, or even using it in a trifle if you were so inclined. I also plan to eat it for breakfast tomorrow. I'm pretty sure that in the breakdown of cake categories (dessert/snack/breakfast), pound cake can be justified on all occasions. At least that's the way I'm looking at it.