A Girl and Her Oven

Shameless Self-Promotion: Pounds to Peru Launches Today!

2010-12-31T14:44:00.002-06:00

Alrighty, folks! Happy New Year's Eve. We made it through another year, and I'm happy to report that my bestie Jenna Leigh and I are seriously going to rock the momentum of eating more healthfully and moving our bodies, stat. So, welcome to Pounds to Peru, the new blog I'll be contributing to daily (yes, I did say daily... that's going to be a challenge in and of itself, but I won't have to cook anything for these blog entries, which = infinitely easier). As for the title, I picked it to get us revved up for an upcoming trip to Peru in August 2011.

We're going to see our good friend Elie get hitched, and we'll be bringing sleek North American bodies down South with us (wink, wink, nudge, nudge).

I will still bake several times a month (and try my hand at healthy AND delicious cooking). I will make this vow now though: I'm not down with fat-free cheese, margarine, or non-dairy creamer (ugh), so if I eat any of that delicious, fattening stuff, it's in moderation, bitches.

Hugs, high fives, and a healthy New Year,
Kella

Break-up Soup: Corn, Potato, & Gruyère Deliciousness

2010-12-29T00:26:00.003-06:00

“There is logic and order to cooking. What you put into it has everything to do with what you get out of it. With love, it’s not so cut-and-dried.”

–Giulia Melucci, I Loved, I Lost, I Made Spaghetti: A Memoir of Good Food and Bad Boyfriends

True story – He broke up with me six days before Christmas, over the phone. He said, “You’re the nicest girl I’ve ever dated, but…” I’ll leave the break-up story there, teetering on the edge of such a backhanded compliment that, at the time, I was left speechless – an event that doesn’t happen often. We had been an item for five months – they were largely fun and relaxing, involving meals of roasted chicken, beer cheese soup, lasagna, spinach-and-ricotta calzones, and his delicious chicken Parmesan. We played a lot of board games, hiked many Saturdays and walked around our neighborhoods on the weekdays, and discussed what 30-somethings do when they’re on the precipice of their potential. He was my rebound, I guess, though I didn’t see him as such until the phone call.

I was, of course, hurt after the phone call. I cried. I watched Season 1 and 2 of Dexter on Netflix in bed.I don’t know what it says about me and my love life that I console myself with a television series about serial killers. I called my mother, my best friends Jenna and Nicole, and dragged myself to the gym to pay penance for ordering crappy pizza delivery after not eating the whole day post-phone call. I huffed and puffed through the aerobics class, and swore I would return to expend my emotions and the extra calories consumed from wooing the wrong guy.

I spent Christmas in Independence, Missouri with my family – my mother, stepfather, sister, grandma, and grandpa. I briefly visited and hugged my dad, brother, and youngest sister on Christmas Eve. I looked on at my grandpa Bob, who is sick yet again and almost 90, at the head of the dinner table, his head bowed during the communal grace my 80-year-old grandmother organized. I read a poem by Ted Kooser, Year’s End. I liked believing that maybe one day I too would find my own red feather on the wind. I cried yet again in the car ride after Christmas dinner to my patient mother, who simply nodded, held my hand, and listened. Listening is such a supreme gift. I watched Scrooged once we arrived back at my mother’s home, and I hoped that one day Lumpy would look for me, his beloved Claire – that he’d apologize for taking me for granted, for being such a royal pain in the ass.

But my life isn’t a Christmas movie with Bill Murray or the Solid Gold Dancers – my life is real. Rarely have old flames come back into my life to tell me they were so, so wrong.

So, how do I move on from this small heartbreak?

I make soup, that’s how. Warm, comforting, nourishing soup that beats the heck out of clichéd pints of ice cream.

Corn, Potato & Gruyère Soup

Recipe adapted from Nicola Graimes’ The Vegetarian Cookbook

Ingredients

2 tbsp. unsalted butter

2 shallots, finely chopped

8 oz. red potatoes

4 tbsp. all-purpose flour

2 tbsp. dry white wine

1 ¼ cups whole milk

11 ½ oz. canned corn kernels, drained

8 oz. Gruyère

2 cups heavy cream

Directions

Melt the butter in a large, heavy-bottom pan over low heat (I use my dutch oven gifted by my generous friend Shane last Christmas).
Add diced shallots and cook them for about 5 minutes, or until they’re softened.
Add potatoes and cook, stirring, for about 10 minutes, or until the potatoes are also softened.
Sprinkle in the flour and cook to form the roux, stirring constantly, for about 1-2 minutes.
Remove the pan from the heat and gradually stir in milk.
Bring soup to a boil, stirring constantly, then reduce the heat to a simmer.
Almost there! Stir in the drained corn, shredded Gruyère, and cream and heat gently until the cheese is melted.
Ladle the soup into warmed bowls and garish with sage sprigs (optional, but delicious).
Serve immediately and savor – this soup is decadent and will sustain you.

Hugs, high fives, and Happy New Year!

Kella

What I’m Listening to: Anya Marina’s “Whatever You Like”

What I Just Finished Reading: Aimee Bender’s The Particular Sadness of Lemon Cake and Gary Shteyngart’s Super Sad True Love Story. Both are awesome. Read these authors pronto! All the cool kids are doing it.

The Cook's Guide to the Zombie Apocalypse: End of Chapter 2 and the Start of Chapter 3

2010-11-12T12:11:00.001-06:00

Writer's note: Thanks for your patience this week! I've been a little slower, but the fuel will be turned up this evening and weekend. I will make 25,000 words by November 15th or bust. Right now I'm over 12,000 words, so I have my work cut out for me in the next three days. Wish me luck and atta girls. I'll need them.

Special thanks to http://benblogged.com/?p=81 for the free images!

Listening to: Anson Funderburgh's "Some Sunny Day"
Laughing at: More Brains!: A Zombie Pinup Calendar

Chapter 2 (continued)

Back at Casa de Mona, Zelda was swiftly aware that something was seriously wrong with Chainsaw. The formerly food-fixated feline shambled around and then did stealthy fast sprints around the house. Normally such behavior was expected of Zelda – she was spritely, nimble, a jumper who once climbed up the exposed brick wall of Mona’s study and just clung to the wall for shits and giggles, but Chainsaw was not an active cat. All Chainsaw normally did – beyond make people laugh at his portly to-and-fro belly and unusual name, a nod to one of the many power tools on Mona’s father’s farm – was sleep on Mona’s red couch, sneak into her bedroom to burrow down into the down comforter, or bully Zelda when treat time came by swooping in to eat the most treats, despite Mona’s best tendencies to keep the two cats separated and to ensure that Zelda had an opportunity to eat her treats before Chainsaw got to them first.

This Chainsaw was a whole different picture of his past personality. No longer submissive or sleepy, this iteration, Chainsaw 2.0, was a little bit creepy as far as Zelda was concerned, which is why Zelda positioned herself on the kitchen cabinets above the refrigerator. No matter how much renewed zest for life and energy Chainsaw now had, Zelda was sure of this much: His fat-cat self wasn’t leaping onto the kitchen counter, on top of the refrigerator, and then on the cabinets. He was simply too big – and too out of practice – for such a standard Zelda maneuver.

When Zelda heard the keys in the back door of her home, she had to stifle her innate urge to run to the door and sidle up to her mistress. Zelda loved Mona – she knew when Mona was home there would always be fresh water, soft food, high quality dry food whose No. 1 ingredient was meat and not some pathetic corn filler, and lots of silly play time where Mona would throw crumpled up paper balls and Zelda would fetch. Sometimes, if Zelda was particularly feisty, Mona would get out the feather – a dust-buster looking contraption attached to the end of a thin purple plastic stick. Zelda was all over that game and often drug the Feather away from Mona as she pranced around the house, flitting from one room to the next, tearing through the ceramic-tiled hallway and coming to a scooching, sliding halt, legs almost akimbo, on the hard wood floors.

This time, however, Zelda stayed put. She had seen too much weirdness in the past 24 hours and knew instinctively that something was messed up with her furry friend.

“Zelda! Chainsaw!” Mona said when she came through the door. “Come here guys. Let’s get you fed.”

From Zelda’s vantage point she could see what Chainsaw was up to – shuttered behind one of the partially shut French doors in the living room Zelda say a stake-out if she ever saw one. Chainsaw was getting ready to pounce. His eyes were eery orbs of pinkish light, far removed from the routine gray and gold flecked eyes he normally had. His gray fur was on end and his claws were at the ready.

Zelda knew she had to do something. While she was typically a quiet cat, one who rarely meowed or yowled unless there was something really important to mention, she started making noise now.

“Zelda, baby,” Mona said. “Have you had a long day too? You need some lovin’?”

Zelda stayed on top of the kitchen cabinets and watched Chainsaw as he revved up his back legs like Bugs Bunny in some cartoonish race against Wile E. Coyote. This wasn’t looking good.

“Where’s your buddy,” Mona cooed. “Why are you all the way up there? Come down.”

No way, Jose, Zelda thought. A million salmon-flavored treats would never get her down from that cabinet. She needed to be here.

Suddenly, out of the corner of her eye, Mona saw Chainsaw tear out from behind the French doors and come charging straight for Mona. She had never seen her cat this animated and was, quite frankly, a little scared to see such a huge personality shift. Not only that, this didn’t appear to be a harmless cat game. Chainsaw wasn’t letting up and there was something wrong – familiar even – in the pinkish glow of Chainsaw’s eyes and at-end coat.

“Oh my god,” Mona said to herself. “Chainsaw? You’re infected too?”

Right as the realization that Chainsaw was no longer the sweet, lazy cat she had once known but rather the first feline undead Mona had ever heard about; Zelda lept off of the kitchen cabinets and miraculously, skillfully, landed on the in-motion Chainsaw. Zelda was intent on making this a quick fight and not biting her new nemisis. She had heard what had happened when Chainsaw was behind the house in the trash cans, and she had seen the foul-smelling creature – far worse than some of Zelda’s favorite soft food treats – who had turned Chainsaw into a souped-up attack cat. Biting was spreading something Zelda had no interest in catching herself, so it was not an option. The back paws were her only hope.

Before Mona could separate or even distinguish one ball of fur over the other, Zelda had successfully kicked the fatter cat to the side. Chainsaw, however, wasn’t going to take it. This time he knew that Zelda would be just as tasty, albeit smaller, than his initial prey. But before Chainsaw could lunge towards Zelda again and make his death-hunger move, Mona had run to the laundry room, grabbed a light-blue-and-white polka dotted sheet, and thrown the soft cotton on top of Chainsaw. With one fell swoop, Mona scooped the feral cat up in the laundry basket and then grabbed another basket to keep the crazy cat contained.

“Now what?” Mona said to Zelda as one of Chainsaw’s paws made an attempt to swipe passerby from the laundry basket.

Zelda looked up at her mistress from the floor – she hadn’t been bit or scratched thankfully, but she was so sore from landing on top of Chainsaw from such great heights. “Lady,” Zelda thought. “This is where being human should help you out.” Since Mona had no idea what Zelda was saying, she interepretted Zelda’s purring and circling around her feet as happiness and not a reminder to figure some things out for herself.

Chainsaw yowled something fierce. A noise emanated from the laundry baskets that finally made his name make sense. Mona kept her hand firmly on top of the top basket to keep Chainsaw in his makeshift plastic cage.

“Duct tape,” Mona said. “That’s what I need. I’ll tape the baskets shut and drive Chainsaw to the vet’s office.”

Gigi rolled over in bed. The clock read 2:30 a.m.; Pamela – Gigi’s girlfriend – was slightly snoring, her Pixie cut crested above her forehead like an unruly wave of spiky blonde hair. Gigi’s night vision had slowly become more and more acute, almost as keen as a chinchilla’s. Gigi touched her neck. The scratch Adolphe had given her in Paris wasn’t healing. The discoloration was deepening not fading, but Gigi couldn’t bring herself to seeing to Dr. Owen.

Denial was a sweet, intoxicating balm that helped Gigi convince herself that the vision Adolphe had been running from that early morning near the Catacombs wasn’t going to be her fate. If she really admitted what she knew, Gigi was certain that she would kill herself. That one brief glimpse was enough to know that she didn’t want that life. So, Gigi murdered the creeping thoughts instead. That was the only way to keep putting one foot, one f-stop and aperture in front of the other.

Yet her photography customers had noticed that something was off in Gigi’s photographs. The photos from Betsey’s new legging and tights line had been fine, beautiful and arresting amid all of those ancient Parisian skulls and femurs actually, but the images from the Austin rodeo were all wrong.

“Honey,” Burt Ralston said gruffly over the phone, “What the Sam hell are you doing taking shots of the cowboys heads and not the whole shot of the cowboy and the G-D broncin’ bull?”

“All of them are head shots?” Gigi stammered. She had seen the digital images prior to uploading them to the online server and didn’t remember only taking head shots of men in 10-gallon Stetsons and handlebar mustaches.

“Darling,” Burt said, “These shots are a mess. There are no animals in these photos.” Burt said photos like “faux-toes,” dragging out the o-sound long enough that it sounded like he was surprised or mildly amused.

“My readers pay for action, blood, maybe even a cowboy escaping an angry bull. They have no predilection for cowboy noggins.”

“Yes, sir,” Gigi managed. “What would you like me to do?”

“There’s another rodeo in Cheyenne, Wyoming in a few weeks. Try to get some full action shots of man AND beast. Otherwise, sugar, I’m going to be in the market for a new faux-tographer.”

With that, Burt Ralston hung up on Gigi Hernandez.

Gigi’s problems were bigger than messed up rodeo shots. She was ravenous, and yet everything she tried to eat didn’t satisfy her. The 13-ounce bison rib eye from Whole Foods didn’t put a dent in her appetite. Nor did the barbecued pork steak from Salt. Lately she had been drawn to culinary delicacies that used to completely disgust her – flash-fried squirrel brains that her granddaddy prepared as a throwback to his Depression-era palate, headcheese from her favorite Argentinean restaurant in Austin, and liver and onions from the greasy spoon across the street.

In the dark of Gigi and Pam’s bedroom Gigi reached over to her sleeping lover. Gigi adored Pamela – so efficient, so meticulous, so gorgeous, and German in everything she did. Gigi stroked Pamela’s neck, caressed her hair, and breathed in her citrusy-woodsy smell. She loved Pamela, and yet all Gigi could focus on was how big Pam’s head was, how generous and substantive her brain must be. Gigi lunged and bit into Pam’s neck – far from a love peck – and Pam woke with a start.

“Gigi, what are you doing?” she said firmly. Pam’s eyes were still closed by she had moved away from her partner, and was now turning towards Gigi.

“Nothing, darling,” Gigi lied. “Go back to bed.” She knew that what she hungered for was far removed from her granddad’s back-woods kitchen. She wanted Pam.

Gigi rolled over with a sigh, touched her neck, and closed her eyes, fitfully dreaming of Pam’s frontal lobe, wondering how one got passed the occipital bones to the custardy, meaty goodness of human brains.

Chapter 3

Ned Brandenburg had grown up in Abilene, Kansas, childhood stomping grounds of Dwight D. Eisenhower. Ned still lived in Abilene, almost 700 miles north as the crow flys from Mona Swicegood, a straight shot up I-35. He had never met Mona, but he was ready for the problems that had suddenly cropped up in her life. As a software engineer with little else on his hands in terms of a social life, he had an intimate knowledge of zombie lore and films.

When Ned was 11 years old – the year was 1990 – his stepmother Darlene had rented Night of the Living Dead, a remake of George A. Romero’s 1968 cult classic. Like most things Darlene did, she broke his mother’s rules when he came to visit his dad and Darlene. No scary movies or films rated R. “Ah, she doesn’t know what she’s missing,” Darlene said as she pushed the VHS cassette into the video player. “A little zombie flick never hurt no one.”

Darlene also bought pudgy, bookish Ned boxes upon boxes of Hostess Snack Cake products – Ding Dongs, Twinkies, and Ho Ho’s. It wouldn’t be until his freshman year of high school, when he joined the cross country team on a double-dare, that he lost the years and years of his love affair with those synthetic shelf-life-secure parcels of sugary, artificial goodness. At 6 feet 2 inches, Ned was now lanky and handsome. He looked like a young Jim Belushi with Malcolm X browline glasses.

Darlene had been gorgeous when Ned was a boy – silky black hair, a pale sweet face with pouty pink lips and the bluest eyes Ned had ever seen, bluer than Kansas spring skies at midday. She drove a dove gray 1977 Camaro, listened to George Michael and Madonna while sunbathing topless in the front yard, and smoked copious amounts of pot when his farmer father was down at the barn, tinkering with an old John Deere tractor or fixing fences on the north 40. Truth be told, Darlene wasn’t ready to be a mother – she was 20 years old to his father’s 35 and not particularly skilled in anything domestic. Dinner was often burnt hamburgers and canned corn or pizza rolls and an iceberg lettuce salad with a few wedges of tomato and shredded orange cheddar cheese. Sometimes if she woke up from a long weekend night of partying at Merle Syke’s in-town bar, Darlene would try her hand at pancakes. But, no matter how hard Darlene tried, she could never make the N-shaped or Yoda pancakes his mom would make for him on Sundays. Darlene knew this, but never told Ned. She may not have been wanted to be a mom just yet, but she cared for Ned and wanted to try for his father’s sake, even if that trying was met with quiet disappointment and against-the-odds expectations from Ned.

But the one instrumental lesson Darlene taught Ned Brandenburg was that zombies were one of the scariest metaphors one could encounter. The cemetery scene in the 1990 remake was one Ned would never forget. The geeky red-headed Barbra and her teasing bespectacled brother Johnny, who tries to show Barbra that the undead are one big joke was a lesson Ned and millions of other viewers learned: Laugh if you will, but the undead may stumble behind you, knock your head against a tombstone, and eat you when you least expect it. The shambling or reanimated undead represented so much to Ned – what people do and how they react when they’re no longer in control, how run-amuck consumerist tendencies consumed the masses and in many ways made them the monsters they feared, and the very concept of zombies hinted at how imperialistic and misguided we were when we tried to use or enslave others for our personal gain.

After that film, Ned started to watch less TV and help his father around the farm every other weekend, bailing hay, mending fences, brush-hogging, feeling the small head of cattle in the winter time, and walking the north 40 with his father, who seemed to know every species of flora and fauna. Ned listened and watched. Became more concerned with survival and physical fitness and less enamored with the lure of high fructose corn syrup and Hostess snack cakes. Slowly, Ned went from fat to chubby and then high school arrived. Joining cross country had been his friend Silas’ idea.

Ned had shown Silas every Romero film made by the mid-1990s and both were hell bent on being able to survive the zombie apocalypse should such a preposterous event ever come about. When Ned decided to live with his father full-time in middle school, Ned and Silas joined the Clay Club and started shooting clay pigeons on the weekend. They began hunting during prescribed seasons – deer, pheasant, and turkey. They became decent marksmen by the time they were both 17 years old. An infared scope rifle was a site to be seen for both boys. They practiced their shooting skills during the day and at night. Ned was especially keen on practicing his shots at night. He knew – if Romero’s warning was any indication – that he would have to be ready.

Silas and Ned also joined the local branch of the FFA – the Future Farmers of America – not so they could show off prize-winning hogs or cows or make the best apple butter or sweet potato-pecan pie laced with bourbon, but so they would know how to plant and raise food indoors. They experimented with hydroponic farming so soil never had to be used. They researched the best grow lights and even got busted by the local sheriff since someone in FFA had tipped off the authorities that they feared Ned and Silas were growing marijuana. They weren’t. They simply wanted to know how to grow their own food indoors. That was what they told Sheriff Hartzell and he believed the two young men. Inside Ned’s house overflowing containers of snap peas, green beans, tomatoes, carrots, turnips, potatoes, and kale were ready to be harvested. By this time Darlene no longer made dinner. Ned did.

A Cook's Guide to the Zombie Apocalypse (Chapter 2)

2010-11-06T20:13:00.004-05:00

Writer's note: I've been swamped with work and normal day-to-day chores, obligations, and an occasional social function, so here's what I've been writing since Thursday through today. I'm on target provided I write another 2,000 words on Sunday morning. I wrote 2,700 words tonight to make up for leaner word counts yesterday and Thursday. Go, NaNoWriMo team!

Chapter 2

If ever two sisters were different, Sadie and Mona Swicegood were. While the two young women looked like sisters – young, slimmer Sadie and three-year-older, plumper Mona shared the same blue-green saucer-shaped eyes, thick auburn hair, olive skin, heart-shaped faces, and height – their personalities were far, far removed from the other’s. Mona deliberated over every decision, from where she went to culinary school after leaving the law firm to whether she should cover the creeping gray hairs in her bangs with a semi-permanent or permanent hair dye at her favorite salon. Sadie jumped in with both feet and arms out-stretched in either victory or unadulterated joy – travel to Costa Rica to learn Spanish? – sure! Hike the Inca Trail? When’s the next flight to Peru?

In many ways Sadie was the right brain of the duo and Mona was the logical left hemisphere. Their corpus collosum - to stretch the metaphor a bit farther – was their friendship, but even that was strained from time to time when Mona’s loyalty, methodicalness were tested by Sadie’s impromptu, sometimes reckless adventures.

Despite all of this, Mona knew that Sadie was the one person she needed to see after almost being strangled to death by a rancid-smelling lunatic. Sadie was Mona’s only family in Austin. Their parents live back in the Midwest on the family farm raising veggies for personal use and grass-fed cattle for extra money to supplement their 9-to-5s. The elder Swicegoods were far removed from Texas bakeries and wanderlust trips to South and Central America. How Mona and Sadie ended up in the same place was actually a miracle.

This much Mona did know: Whatever that guy was, he wasn’t human. What bothered her, though, was if she had killed him, why he was still moving despite having his cheek pinned the bakery floor and sporting a stab wound from a pretty big knife in his back, if the police would get to the bakery in time to prevent the part-time bakers from being the next victims, or if the law enforcement’s bullets would even stop the man’s terrifying strength.

Just that thought made Mona look at her cell phone’s time. Five-thirty a.m. Still enough time to call the bakers, which Mona did. She let them know a sugar-coated yet serious version of the morning’s events: The bakery has been broken into while Mona was there, she had fought the intruder, and the person hasn’t been caught; don’t come in.

Mona pulled into Sadie’s driveway in the French Place neighborhood and put her truck in park and turned off the engine. She put her head down on the steering wheel for a minute and breathed deeply. “What a crazy morning,” Mona said to herself, not that saying it out loud made the strangeness any less vivid or present.

The sun was beginning to rise in the east – the peachy-pink light was intent on banishing the inky blue, purple-black darkness. Mona thought she’d never be so happy to see such a sight again. She took a deep breath and stretched – careful to look behind her and to the sides just to make sure that no one (or thing) was following her. The coast was clear.

The door to Sadie Swicegood’s bungalow was gorgeous – a true tile mosaic that rivaled Marc Chagall’s works of art. Shimmery, iridescent tiles paired with broken thrift-store plates, pieces of mirror, old clay pots, and colored glass were arranged in a swirl of color and texture. The old-fashioned lion’s head knocker was spray painted a metallic jade green and made a clinking, musical noise on the colorful door.

No one answered. Mona figured as much. She knocked again. No response. She picked up her cell phone and called Sadie: “You know the drill,” Sadie’s recorded voice intoned. “Leave me a message, bitches.” Mona didn’t leave anything. She had the spare key to Sadie’s house, so she let herself in. She just couldn’t stand going to an empty house right now. Plus, her throat hurt something fierce. She wanted to know what her badass, nothing-grosses-me-out nurse sister would say: to be or not to be in an ER waiting room?

As soon as Mona crossed the threshold she heard a gasping, groaning sound coming from her sister’s bedroom. The lights were off in the house spare the brown-and-yellow owl night light that shone warmly in the bathroom, a little caricature of cartoon wisdom.

“Sadie!” Mona shouted. “Are you okay?”

“No, no, no,” was Sadie’s breathless response. “Oh, yes, yes, yes!”

“Well, which is it?”

“Oh my god, YES!”

“Sadie? Are you alone?”

No answer, but the rocking of a bed and the sound of well-worn springs became louder. The answer was no, Mona gathered. So, instead of barging in with her post-traumatic news, Mona sat down on the couch and flipped on the television. Chances were that Sadie’s cowboy boyfriend Frank was simply saying good morning in a friendly cowboy way that Sadie adored.

Of course, the Food NetworkGarten. Home cook and restaurateur of the popped collar and the glossy black-brown bangs. Ina was plump, well-spoken, a former D.C. bureaucrat who chucked it all for a foodie-fantasty-come-true – to open the Barefoot Contessa, be best buds with the rich and famous, and make the best pecan shortbread and lobster pot pie this side of the Atlantic. Ina was unflappable and when life got her down she didn’t just make lemonade, she spiked the pitcher with St. Germaine and champagne and made something delectable and most likely calling for several pounds of world’s best butter.

Beyond the fact that Ina was Mona’s culinary muse, Ina seemed like someone who inherently understood that life was short; therefore entertaining should come first in one’s home and that excellent ingredients prepared with simple, straightforward culinary procedure would garner the greatest good for both the hostess and her guests. She was the Jeremy Bentham and John Stuart Mill of the kitchen – she understood that one couldn’t slave behind a stove forever and not be expected to mingle and enjoy one’s company with a lively, stiff drink in hand. To Mona, Ina represented all that was right with the Food Network – grace, charm, humor, hospitality, and pragmatism. No spiked platinum blond hair and drive-ins and dives, no “almost homemade” schlepping, or cook-off competitions with that philandering host who had somehow managed to get banned from Las Vegas casinos for getting too handsy with the cocktail waitresses.

Ina was the real deal: unflappable, regal, and yet down-to-earth and approachable. Like the older, more responsible sister of Martha Stewart.

Mona had never been to the Hamptons, but she felt that if she ever did, she would feel at home because of Ina and her cooking show.

This morning’s cooking show covered two topics Mona thought Ina would never have covered: sweet breads, the misleadingly innocent and saccharine name for the thymus and pancreas of calf, lamb, and pig, and headcheese, a meat jelly made from the head of a calf or a pig. Mona had tried sweetbreads and headcheese only once at the Publican in Chicago. While salty, meaty, and generally tasty, the after-effects of this fried fatty offal and jellied tongue, feet, and heart were the culinary equivalent of an internal digestive bomb. Mona swore after several trips to the bathroom and an aching, fussy stomach that she would never be too cool to just say no to the foodie rage that had swept up all peasant food and re-claimed it as its own. Of course, Mona knew she was a pampered American eater – what other country typically, predominantly focuses its butcher’s knife on center-cuts of bacon or free-range, organic bison rib eye. Mona knew Americans were very spoiled and wasteful – she was as well – but she drew the line at sweetbreads and headcheese. Missouri frog gigged and fried by her father, sure. Blood sausage with potatoes and spices in sheep-intestine casings on the Navajo reservation of her friend Naomi, definitely. Poor man’s caviar – crappie eggs – prepared by her octogenarian granddad Bob Dee, wouldn’t miss it for the world. Those things were familiar, familial and comforting – but Mona couldn’t get behind the offal-face meat brigade. She found it pretentious and unappetizing.

“Why, Ina?” Mona moaned at the television. “Why you, too?”

Just as Ina was about to flash fry the thymus of some poor little lamb, Sadie’s door burst open with Sadie eyeing her older, stick-in-the-mud sister with a cock-eyed, black-lined eye. Sadie had the mussed-up, sexy look down – her auburn hair’s pixie flitted in every direction and her blue-green saucer eyes looked vibrant and verdant – they matched the jade green short silk robe she wore with fluffy feathery purple slippers. While Mona was an hourglass figure and then some, Sadie was still coltish and leggy in her early 30s. This was as girly as Sadie would look all day. Her de rigueur outfit was black like Johnny Cash and Sadie’s theme song may have well been Johnny’s “Cocaine Blues” or “Folsom Prison Blues.” Not that Sadie partook in nose-candy and prison time, but she liked others to think so.

“Hey, good lookin’! Whatcha got cookin’? Frank and I weren’t expecting you.”

“That’s his name?” Mona asked. “Where’d you meet him?”

“Seriously, sis. Lighten up,” Sadie said. “We met a few weeks ago at The Highball. He’s sweet, smart, and, well, you heard the rest this morning…”

Mona rolled her eyes and then grinned. What she loved most about her sister was her devil-may-care attitude: Sadie did what she wanted and to hell with the rest of the naysayers or judges. There were several times a week where Mona would ask herself, “What would Sadie do?” While Sadie had no idea how much Mona respected her younger sister’s resolve and grit, Mona also had no clue how much Sadie looked up to her or how much Sadie thought Mona knew more than Mona would ever – EVER – take credit for.

“Listen. Can I stay with you for a little while? I just had a really weird experience at the bakery and I think I’m going to close shop for a little while until I can improve the security at The Buttery Biscuit. I’m thinking of hiring a rent-a-cop too. That’s how freaked out I am.”

“Of course, you can stay here, babe,” Sadie said, stroking Mona’s head and using her other hand to fish out a cigarette from the pocket of her robe. “What the hell happened for you to be this spooked?”

“I don’t know, sis. Well, I guess I do. There was a man who broke into the bakery this morning and he started to choke me…” Mona’s eyes welled up and her voice shook, but she waved Sadie away from hugging her. That would be the pits, Mona knew. As soon as someone hugged her when she was on edge, she totally lost it and wept. Mona wanted to be tougher this morning than she had in the past. Sadie expected Mona to be a bit of a crybaby; in fact, Sadie would later say Mona’s humanity was one thing that would eventually get them through the impending mess.

Mona continued, “So, as he was choking me he lifted me off the ground.”

Sadie swallowed. Mona was not a featherweight. Whoever had broken into the bakery had to have been incredibly strong to lift Mona completely off the ground. Sadie, who was rarely scared by anyone or anything, felt a cold hollow place radiate in the pit of her stomach.

“How did you get away? Please tell me you did some damage? See? I told you those capoiera classes would be helpful!”

“They were,” Mona said softly. “I’m not sure I’d be telling you this story right now had I not remembered that the chef’s knife was a couple inches away from my left hand.”

“So you stabbed the bastard? Good for you, sis! What a creep.”

Sadie pause for a moment, a thought had just materialized – “Did you kill him, kill him?”

“I don’t think so,” Mona said. “Though when I left the bakery his cheek was pinned to the hard wood floor. He was still squirming towards me though, Sadie. I have never – I mean never – seen anyone take a chef’s knife to the back and then a chair leg to the face and still have the resolve to keep coming. Granted, this is the first fight I’ve ever been in minus the time you pushed me over the dishwasher when we were 11 and 8 respectively.”

“Um, you totally sprayed me with the kitchen-sink attachment, lest you forget,” Sadie said smiling. She wanted to get Mona away from what had just transpired at the bakery, if only for a moment. It was a relief to see her overly worried, already cautious sister in this much of a panic.

“Honey,” Frank called from the bedroom. “You okay?”

“I’m fine, baby,” Sadie called back. “Just talking with my sister.”

“Are you two hungry?” Frank asked, standing in the doorway of Sadie’s bedroom. Billy was the proverbial cool, tall glass of water that Sadie (and Mona, for that matter… really any hot-blooded straight woman, to be honest) would fall for. His tousled black hair, light-caramel-colored skin, and piercing black-brown eyes were definitely intoxicating. Couple those looks with a cowboy swagger, Mona thought, and she could see why Sadie didn’t think twice about hooking up.

“I am!” Sadie answered. Mona shrugged her soldiers, and then said yes. She had worked up an appetite fighting off the French man, she realized.

“I’m buying if you two can get ready in the next 5 minutes,” Frank said with a sheepish smile.

“I like him,” Mona said to Sadie in front of Frank. She winked at her sister; Frank blushed. And in five minutes flat they were headed to a hole-in-the-wall diner that made the best rolled omelets and crepes Suzette in town.

After breakfast, Mona, Sadie, and Frank dropped by the bakery to see what the police had found.

“Holy crap!” Mona screamed. “The doors are wide open. Where are the cop cars? What the….”

“Whoa,” Sadie said, holding her sister back. “Have you called the cops to find out what happened?”
“No.” Mona yanked her cell phone out of her pocket and dialed 911 and asked for the non-emergency Austin Police Department.

“Yes, m’am. I was calling about what happened after the respondents arrived at 217 South First Street.”

“Uh huh,” Mona said, her eyebrows knitted together and she looked down at her left arm where the knife tip had grazed her.

“Are you sure that’s right?”

“More officers are on the way?”

At that, Mona’s Chevy started to rock and heave. All three passengers turned around to see Mona’s attacker lifting the truck bed up and down.

“Uh, sis,” Sadie said quietly and with reserve. “I think Pierre, or whatever the hell his name is, is still pissed. What did the police say?”

“They dispatched someone here two and a half hours ago and neither officer would answer their radios. She’s dispatched two more patrol cars and said they should be here in 5-10 minutes.”

“Let’s hope it’s closer to 5,” Frank said as he reached into his glove compartment and pulled out a .44 Magnum.

Wordlessly, Frank opened the truck’s passenger side door, pivoted, and yelled toward the man: “What’s your problem?” Sadie quickly locked the door after Frank; she cared for him, but she didn’t want someone with super-human strength coming in after her, even if the man could tear the door off the truck. “Pierre” rushed at Frank with the initial speed the man had shown when he had charged Mona in the morning – rabbit quick and stealthy.

“Stop!” Frank yelled.

“I don’t think he speaks English,” Mona mumbled.

“Pierre” jumped on Billy seconds after Frank pulled the trigger and shot the “man’s” abdomen.

“I’ll give him this,” Sadie said, “Frank’s also a good shot.”

True to .44 Magnum form, the bullet’s entrance wound had obliterated the man’s mid-section, but the creature was still moving and in slow-motion the sisters watched as “Pierre” bit Frank’s neck.

“What the fuck, man?” Frank screamed.

Pierre was mute. His mouth was full of Frank’s neck.

Frank’s next movement was a blur, but what Sadie would later say was that Frank cold-cocked Pierre with the butt of his gun and then kicked Pierre to the ground. Pierre still moved toward Frank though, belly-crawling toward Frank’s Black Jack Rattlesnake cowboy boots.

“Don’t mess with the boots, man,” Frank yelled as one hand staunched the bite, which was streaming blood somewhat steadily. He kicked Pierre’s hands off of his boots, but Pierre’s grip was fierce. Frank took his other foot and smashed it down on the man’s hands.

Police sirens wailed in the near distance.

“Thank god,” Mona mumbled.

Sadie rolled down the window and yelled, “Get out of the way, Frank.”

With that, Mona threw the truck in reverse and rolled over the Pierre’s head. The sound of tire going over skull gave way to a sickening popping sound.

“That should do it,” Mona said quietly.

“Dude,” Sadie said, “you totally just killed that guy.”

“What alternative did we have?” Mona asked, looking directly into her sister’s eyes. “He almost killed me, he probably killed those poor responding police officers – I don’t know how many other customers he may have taken a bite of – and he just bit your boyfriend on the neck despite Pierre’s midsection being obliterated by the gun that Dirty Harry made famous.”

The truck door swung open. Frank stood there for a second and then fainted. Sadie jumped out to get him as Mona swung open her door and approached the police cruisers.

“Put your hands up!” the four police officers screamed in unison as they jumped out of two police cars. Mona did as she was told as they forced her to the ground and cuffed her. They didn’t know what they were dealing with, she thought. Neither did she. But she sure hoped they’d put her in the back of the squad care all the same while they investigated the scene and where their brothers in blue might be. While Mona was pretty sure Pierre was a goner, she didn’t want to take her chances, now especially since she was in cuffs.

“Antonio,” one officer said to another shorter, sparkplug of a man. “Radio an ambulance to get here ASAP. One person’s down over there.”

Mona pressed her head to the window of the sedan and turned her neck so she could survey the scene. In all of her dreams of opening the Buttery Biscuit, seeing her bakery criss-crossed with police tape, a dead body underneath her truck tire, and her sister attending the gnarly bite-wound on her newest lover’s neck did not figure into Mona’s imagination or reality. And yet here the scene was, live and in Technicolor.

After the police officers took Mona and Sadie down to the station and Frank was whisked away via ambulance to Saint David South Austin Hospital, they asked their questions and determined that the carnage they had seen at the bakery was in line with the Swicegood sisters’ story.

“Please remain in town for additional questioning,” Antonio told Mona. “We’re going to do an autopsy of the officers’ bodies and the French man’s. We may have more questions once the autopsy reports come in.”

“Sure thing,” Mona said. “I’m so sorry about your friends.”

“Me too,” Antonio said. “M’am, if you don’t mind me saying so. You don’t look so hot. Have you been to a hospital yet?”

Mona touched her neck. It hurt to talk and to swallow. She hadn’t thought of how badly Pierre had hurt her since the adrenaline, Ina Garten, and crepes Suzette had sustained her.

“No, I haven’t had time to seek medical attention.”

“If I were you, m’am, I’d see someone tonight.”

“Will do. Do you know where they’re questioning my sister Sadie?”

“She’s outside waiting for you, but I will only release you if you promise me to see a doctor.”

“I swear,” Mona said. She felt warmth and gratitude to this man and his responding officers. While they had been too late to see her throw-it-in-reverse, hell-hath-no-fury-like-a-woman-choked truck-driving skills, they helped Mona feel like maybe, just maybe, this strange incidence was just an isolated case of a meth addict who was looking for his next burglary target and fix. A solid, reasonable explanation. That’s what Mona needed right now. Some logic to explain away the fissures in reason that she knew for a fact were not fiction. How could the police officers explain away the man’s superhuman strength? The fact that his skin was blistered by what looked to have been third-degree burns? That he could life Mona and her pick-up truck up in the air with minimal fuss or strain? Plus, that bite on Frank’s neck was gruesome – much like the physiological reaction the human body has when bitten by a brown recluse. Frank’s neck started with volcano-like lesions, at least from what Mona saw before the medics hauled him into the ambulance, and was quickly turning blue, red, and lime green.

A Cook's Guide to the Zombie Apocalypse, Chapter 1 (Finished)

2010-11-03T21:52:00.000-05:00

Right as the word “practice” left her mouth, Mona heard a rasping, gasping noise over the whir of the oven and exhaust system. When she looked up from her master recipe book – smudged on various pages with splatters of cake batter and drips of butter and olive oil – she saw a ravaged face with deep-set dark eyes staring at her through the latched screen door. The face was unlike any man’s she had ever seen, and yet she clearly knew this was a man’s face as his visage was backlit by the motion security light in the alley behind the Buttery Biscuit. His salt-and-pepper hair was askew, the deep lines of his stubbled jaw and crow’s feet were encased with dirt and dried blood, and his mouth was open, asymmetrical, with his jaw diagonal, almost dislocated, from his top lip like a sugar bowl whose dainty top had been slammed on crooked.

A shrill scream escaped Mona’s mouth involuntarily. Then she remembered that despite her inherent powder-puff nature she should be the one asking the questions here. She hated being the damsel in distress, and yet that had been her default setting for far too long. Mona hated that her first reaction was to scream her bloody head off. At 33, she knew enough was enough. Finally, all of those capoiera classes her younger sister Sadie had dragged Mona to on Tuesday nights bitching and moaning and Mona’s secret, guilty pleasure of George A. Romero flicks would pay off.

“What the fuck, man!” Mona shrilly yelled with far more authority than she knew she had in her. “What the hell are you doing lurking at the back door of my bakery?”

The lurker grinned, if you could call it that – his teeth were broken, gums receding, the smile an afterthought to an emotion that perhaps he once truly felt. He began to speak in a language Mona was pretty sure was not English. In fact, if her recollections of The Beatles’ song, Michelle, and the nursery song Frère Jacques were accurate, this unexpected early-morning visitor was speaking French.

But before Mona could think more about her wasted high school French classes and long-forgotten Mademoiselle Carlotta, the man’s hand ripped through the screen door, unlatched it, and then he was on her – choking her, throttling her, one hand shredded so badly it looked as if he’d had a combine encounter on her father’s farm in northern Missouri. The damaged hand’s stump, replete with exposed and jagged radius and ulna, gripped her neck while the other hand lifted her plump, tall body in the air. Oh so strong. The wind went out of her lungs and she could feel her trachea closing. She had never been touched so severely. Pain like whiplash rocketed through her and she started to panic when she realized her feet were dangling at least a foot off the ground.

Mona could feel her breath leaving her, and she probably would have let this crazy man just kill her if she hadn’t remembered that the chef’s knife was less than three inches away from her. She went completely slack in the man’s ferocious grip and fell towards the stainless steel bakery counter. Her left hand grazed the just-sharpened tip, a small bit of blood trickled down the tiny cut. The man’s eyes widened at the smell of her blood.

Mona knew she was screwed if she didn’t grab the hilt of the chef’s knife on the first try. This man really didn’t care about choking her, she could see. His mouth, rank and foul, the pits of which smelled like a storm drain after a heavy rain, was mere inches from her ear. She could not only smell his stench, but she could also feel the cool breath of something she would later realize no longer depended on respiration or a circulatory system to survive.

“Cerveau!!!!!!” the creature moaned.

Mona felt beyond woozy and weak, but she grabbed the hilt of the chef’s knife and gripped it with the last bit of energy she had. Pure adrenaline and will fueled this fight. It would be a miracle if Mona could actually stab this man and not herself.

With the last bit of force left in Mona, she gripped her left hand tightly around the knife and stabbed the man in the back. He immediately dropped her. Mona fell to the ground with a thud – the knife skittered across the bakery floor, a couple of feet from her.

The murderous French bastard roared with anger. He didn’t look that hurt, Mona suddenly realized. “Shit, man,” Mona mumbled. “What is wrong with you? What did you take this morning? Why me? You can have the money.”

He started to lunge towards her again, albeit a little bit more slowly. Mona quit bargaining and scrambled to her feet. She ran towards the front door of the bakery with more speed than her breakfast-burrito body thought it had in her. The clock on the front of the house said 5 a.m. amidst the eerie glow of The Buttery Biscuit’s neon sign.

But when Mona got to the bakery’s front door, she realized that the door was locked. She never opened it until 6 a.m., when the part-time bakers joined her in the kitchen.

She frantically felt her jean pockets for the keys. The man was coming toward her, this time with the knife she had left on the floor. Howlin’ Wolf’s “I Ain’t Superstitious” began to play on the bakery’s speakers.

“Screw this!” Mona screamed. She grabbed one of the chairs and charged the jerk. He snatched the chair away from her just as she grabbed another one. This time she didn’t hesitate. She hit him aside the head with such blunt force that he fell to the ground.

“This time is going to be different,” Mona said as she took another chair and brought it down on his head. One of the legs of the chair pinned the man’s cheek to the hard wood floors.

“Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit,” Mona whispered. She hadn’t meant to kill him.

But she hadn’t. He started to move, the chair still piercing his cheek, this time the moans of cerveau were quieter but still insistent.

Mona felt her back pockets and found a comforting lump of metal, the jangling Hallelujah sound of her keys.

She grabbed them, unlocked the front door and ran into the morning. Sprinting towards her truck, Mona shakily opened the door, slammed it shut, fired up the engine, and burned rubber towards her sister Sadie’s house.

“Operator,” Mona said into her cell phone. “There’s an intruder at The Buttery Biscuit off South First Street. Please send help.” She hung up after that and gripped the steering wheel so hard her knuckles were clearly articulated and bone white.

No music played as she drove. She didn’t want to hear anything else but her heartbeat and uneven breathing.

A Cook's Guide to the Zombie Apocalypse - Chapter 1 (Continued) - Quiche Recipe Included!

2010-11-03T00:18:00.006-05:00

The storefront of The Buttery Biscuit sported huge glass windows, a pale yellow and black striped awning, and a neon sign with a fluffy buttermilk biscuit and a bright yellow pat of melting butter dripping down the sides of the carbtastic sign. Every time Mona pulled up to her shop she had to pinch herself. Was this really happening? Had she really left her law firm partnership to wake up in the earliest parts of the morning to play with pastry dough and fondle room-temperature European butter?

“I don’t miss that life,” Mona said to herself quietly as she parallel parked between the back alley and the side street bordering her bakery. She listened to the last eerie note of “She’s Not There,” and turned the ignition off.

South First Street was still sleeping. No cars or bicycles buzzed down the street, and Mona’s part-time bakers wouldn’t arrive until 6a.m. Two blissful hours to figure out all of the plans for the morning, to make the chocolate ganache and caramel from scratch, to get the quiches and cinnamon rolls in the oven, and to listen to funk, zydeco, and jazz until one of the bakers turned NPR on and the reporters and commentators of Morning Edition and Science Friday drowned out the heady rhythms Mona loved to sift powdered sugar and all-purpose flour to – rapping her hand against the mesh strainer and losing herself in the sweet, mindful moment.

After opening the door and locking it behind her, Mona flipped on the back kitchen’s lights. Everything was neat and tidy. She flipped on the ovens and turned on the exhaust fan. Galactic’s “Start From Scratch” began to play on the bakery’s internal speakers.

When I look outside my window

I see troubles in my past

I’ve got this strange feeling inside

Better get up because this day could be my last…

As the small kitchen began to heat up, Mona opened the back door between the kitchen and the back alley and latched the screen door shut so fresh air could circulate before the air conditioning had to be turned on at 6 a.m.

The first thing Mona tackled after starting the ganache and the caramel was the quiche of the day: center-cut bacon, sun dried tomatoes, Fontina, and spinach folded into a fluffy-eggy goodness and surrounded by buttery, dense pie crust. She took her chef’s knife off of her magnetized bamboo wall strip, sharpened it with her sharpening stone, and began dicing bacon, tomatoes, cheese, and spinach to fold into the egg mixture.

Mona’s Start-from-Scratch Quiche

Yields 6 to 8 servings

Ingredients – Quiche Innards

½ pound center-cut bacon, fried and then crumbled

½ cup chopped yellow onions

8 ounces shredded Fontina cheese

2 ounces shredded Parmesan Reggiano cheese

8 ounces sun dried tomatoes, diced

8 ounces baby spinach, chiffonade

4 large eggs lightly beaten

1 cup half-and-half cream

Ingredients – Pie Crust

3 cups all-purpose flour, sifted

1 ½ teaspoons salt

1 teaspoon baking powder

8 tablespoons cold fresh lard, diced

8 tablespoons cold unsalted butter, diced

1/2 to 2/3 cup vodka, chilled

Step-by-step Directions

Preheat oven to 400 degrees F (200 degrees C).
For the crust, sift the flour, salt, and baking powder together. Slowly add bits of diced lard and butter, and using your hands, assimilate the butter and lard with the dry ingredients until the mixture resembles the consistency of bubble tapioca. Add the chilled vodka and handle the mixture only enough to moisten the dough and bind the ingredients together.
Dump the dough on a floured surface and knead into a ball (four or five quick counter-clockwise turns will do the job).
Wrap the pastry dough in plastic wrap (makes two quiche crusts) and allow it to rest for 30 minutes in the fridge. Once that’s done, line a 10-inch spring form pan with one ball of the dough.
In a medium bowl, mix the crumbled bacon, shredded cheeses, chopped onions, sun dried tomatoes, and spinach together. Place this mixture in the spring form pan with the pastry dough.
Lightly whisk large eggs and then slowly beat in half-and-half. Pour the egg mixture over the bacon-cheese-onion-tomato mixture in the pie-crust-covered spring form pan.
Bake in preheated oven for 15 minutes. Reduce heat to 350 degrees F (175 degrees C) and bake for 35 more minutes or until the top of the quiche turns a golden brown.

After getting the quiche in the oven, “Cold, Cold Feeling” played next on the bakery speakers. Mona began to sing along with Albert Collins: “I’ve got a cold, cold feelin’; it’s just like ice around my heart.” Sure, she was off-key but passionate in her sing-along; she rarely sang once others arrived at The Buttery Biscuit, which was a bit of a shame. Too many thought Mona a bit uptight and too serious, which really was a dual decoy for her shyness. Only one hour and thirty minutes before Mona’s solo-baking reverie was broken. She reveled in the blues, the smell of melting butter, and the breeze from the back alley. “This is why I left the practice,” Mona said as she hummed Collins’ sad, sad song.

For fun!

Knife maintenance and sharpening: http://forums.egullet.org/index.php?/topic/26036-knife-maintenance-and-sharpening/

A Cook's Guide to the Zombie Apocalypse, Chapter 1 (Continued)

2010-11-02T08:10:00.004-05:00

“Seriously, Gigi, that’s terrifying,” Mona stammered. “What ever happened to the homeless guy?”
“After Gregoire and I got the photo shoot set-up, we went to breakfast and had the best chocolate croissants I’ve ever eaten. The homeless man ate five and as he ate he told Gregoire how he came to be running near the Barriere d’Enfer city gate. Like I said, my French is horrible, but the man’s body language told me that whatever it was that was chasing him was relentless and fast.”
“What did Gregoire translate the man’s story as?”
“That was the semi-weird part of an entirely weird morning,” Gigi said. “Gregoire would only say that the man, whose name was Adolphe, found his attacker near Hôpital Hôtel-Dieu.”
“Adolphe,” Gigi said, continuing, “actually wasn’t homeless. Gregoire said he was an infectious diseases doctor at the hospital.”

“So,” Gigi said, pausing, “how’s that chai latte?”
“Delicious,” Mona managed. “I’m so glad you’re home.”
“Me too,” Gigi said, staring outside the big picture window. The people walking into the coffee shop looked like Mona now – milky and pliant, translucent and not quite human. Gigi wondered if she should see a doctor. She twisted the red silk scarf around her neck and felt the painful sting of the scratch Dr. Adolphe had left her with three days ago when he had shoved her down the stairs of the Catacombs.
Underneath Gigi’s scarf was a mass of color – deep violet, chartreuse, and deoxygenated blue. The scratch was festering, but Gigi was sure the infection would pass. Maybe she would see a doctor; maybe not.
Gigi returned her gaze to Mona.
“One more thing,” Gigi said. “Dr. Adolphe decided to join me on my flight back from Paris. Gregoire too. They said they were going to Atlanta to visit the Centers for Disease Control. They said they were doing something about a special project the good doctor was working on.”
Mona looked at her friend and nodded. She had a hard time understanding the story Gigi was telling her. She wished she wasn’t so stubborn and would see a doctor about the scratch. Mona was stupid. She could tell that scarf was covering up what Gigi didn’t want to deal with.
Mona took Gigi’s hand into hers.
“Promise me you’ll see somebody about that scratch. I think it’s important.”
“I’ll think about it,” Gigi said. “I’m just so tired.”

Zelda had waited in the botanical garden for what seemed to be hours. She was hungry, scared, ready to go home, but her instincts told her that whatever it was that had eaten Chainsaw wasn’t concerned with her needs. She climbed higher into the branches of an old honey mesquite and surveyed the scene. The sun was streaming through the tree branches and Zelda could see that whatever had chased her was not in sight, hopefully gone. She scurried down the tree and ran home as fast as she could, careful not to return to the back porch just yet.
As Zelda turned the corner, she saw Mona’s beat-up turquoise-and-white two-tone 1972 Chevy Cheyenne pick-up truck pull into the front drive. Zelda waited for Mona’s feet to touch the ground and then immediately the tortie cat started to purr and walk herself around Mona’s feet and legs.
“Hey sweetie pie!” Mona said. “Where’s your buddy, huh? Whatcha doin’? You want some food?”
Zelda head-butted Mona even more.
“Come on, silly,” Mona said. “Let’s get you fed.”

This is how Mona’s days at the Buttery Biscuit, her bakery situated off South First Street, usually started Tuesday-Saturday:
1. Alarm clock goes off at 3 am.
2. Tea kettle goes on the gas stove on low to prepare the French press coffee maker for necessary use.
3. Quick shower – 10 to 15 minutes – and then throw on blue jeans, a comfy cotton tee, and tennis shoes. Blow dry long brown hair if cold outside, which in Austin meant 40 or 50 degrees, otherwise wrap wet hair into a snug bun, and finish hairstyle with a bandanna do-rag style.
4. Make coffee. Steep for 5 minutes (or more) depending on the coffee bean and the level of tiredness.
5. Let the kitties out, give them fresh food and water, turn on NPR, and make an egg-white breakfast wrap with chorizo, caramelized onions, tomato, and a little bit of cheddar.
6. Savor breakfast and coffee and read The New York Times online.
7. Get in truck by 3:45 a.m.
8. Review bakery orders and specials by 4 a.m. Get to work and start baking.
9. Open the Buttery Biscuit by 7a.m. with the help of three other bakers and a few front-of-shop clerks.
10. At 9 a.m. grab a second cup of coffee. Decide which recipes worked and which ones will be tweaked for the next day. Grab a homemade cherry-dark-chocolate pop tart. Breathe and work until 4 p.m.

But the morning after meeting Gigi, Mona could not find Chainsaw, whose life revolved around his intake of cat treats, soft food, and, well, food in general. At Step 5, she began to get worried and, in fact, wondered where her fat little fur ball had waddled off to. She called Chainsaw, opened cans of tuna, and watched Zelda, who was normally fearless not go outside like she normally, gratefully did when the chance arrived. Zelda wouldn’t leave Mona’s back porch and seemed a little freaked out to even be that far outside the house.
“Where did your buddy go?” Mona asked Zelda. Zelda blinked a few times, yawned, and then stretched her back into a flexible umbrella of fur and spine.
“Well, hopefully he’ll come back once he’s eaten everything in the neighbors’ trash cans,” Mona mumbled.

At 3:45 a.m., Mona put the key into the ignition and drove to her shop. This was her favorite part of the day – when the world appeared brand new, safe and secure in the dark womb of early-morning hours. She loved driving at this time – the lights timed just so, rarely anyone on the streets. She turned the radio on and caught “She’s Not There” on the radio. Mona sang along with the chorus, hitting the steering wheel with the cup of her right hand:
Well, let me tell you about the way she looked
The way she acted, the color of her hair
Her voice is soft and cool
Her eyes are clear and bright
But she’s not there...

For fun! (related to the story above, too!)
5 Scientific Reasons a Zombie Apocalypse Could Actually Happen, http://www.cracked.com/article_15643_5-scientific-reasons-zombie-apocalypse-could-actually-happen.html
Smitten Kitchen’s kickass pop tart recipe: http://smittenkitchen.com/2010/04/homemade-pop-tarts/
The Zombies, “She’s Not There”: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f5IRI4oHKNU

A Cook's Guide to the Zombie Apocalypse: Chapter 1 - Updated

2010-11-01T07:57:00.010-05:00

This is what I wrote this morning from 6am-7am Central and on my lunch break from 12:30-1pm for National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo). I will write again tonight so I can meet my 1,700 words a day goal. Also, all of the content here and every single day in November is protected by a Creative Commons' license. You can share this with others, but there are to be no derivatives or commercial use of my emerging culinary arts-zombie story (grins).

Chapter 1

Mona Swicegood let Chainsaw and Zelda outside like she normally did when she first woke up in the morning. It was 2:30 a.m. in Austin, Texas in the Cesar Chavez neighborhood – a place with sunny little bungalows, herds of cyclists who swished through the roads at night with tinny bicycle bells and strobe-light-esque headlights, and an occasional bag lady or man, wandering the road with bags of essentials – flannel shirts, eggs, and a dog named Bandit. Mona’s bungalow was painted a sunny yellow like her favorite breakfast – a poached egg atop a freshly baked English muffin and served with chamomile tea and clover honey. Mona loved food almost as much as she loved her oddly named cats. Chainsaw was a plump little beast – short and squat with a belly that swayed back and forth when he walked. Zelda was lithe, a feral cat until Mona adopted her at two months. Zelda’s green-gold eyes and tortoiseshell coat made her blend in perfectly with her central Texas surroundings. Like most cats, Zelda and Chainsaw were serial killers of birds. It wasn’t unlikely to find a blue warbler or migrating cardinal at the foot of Mona’s yolk-colored home.

As soon as Mona opened the door, the cats raced out the door. The morning was pitch black and clear with a half moon overhead. Zelda zoomed toward the nearest tree and scurried up it to claim her usual stalking spot. Chainsaw ambled over to the garbage bins – he was fat for a very good reason; he loved to scavenge week-old pizza, goat cheese, bits of chicken, and, if he was really lucky, an old can of tuna with remnants of fish and the savory water.

Mona breathed in the still chilly air. She knew that in a few hours the sun would bake and people, despite the fall month of September, would still seek relief in air conditioning, cold beer, and the indoors. She yawned, stretched, and turned her back, bolting the door.

Had she kept the backdoor of her bungalow open a moment longer, she might have heard what was going to be the yowl heard around the world – the proverbial starting point for all of this mess, what no one really wanted to believe was possible from a purely logical standpoint.

Just as Chainsaw found the holy grail of dumpster diving – a half-eaten can of albacore – he felt something pull him back by the scruff of his neck. The pull was vicious, the hands rough and slightly damp, smelling of copper pennies or maybe blood. As Chainsaw turned his pudgy calico head toward the hand, he saw a ravaged arm and smelled a ripe, festering odor far worse than any songbird kill he and Zelda coordinated. That was all Chainsaw would remember before the garbage-dwelling creature stroked Chainsaw’s head in a cursory, clumsy, almost robotic manner and then twisted and broke Chainsaw’s neck. The rotting maw of this early-morning creature closed down on limp, lifeless Chainsaw.

Zelda saw this from the treetops and tapped into her feral origins, but not before whatever it was started to eat the head of what used to be poor, portly Chainsaw. Zelda flew into the air like a flying squirrel and landed directly on top of the zombie’s head.

She did what any self-preserving animal did with the undead: She scratched the zombie’s eyes out and then ran away to the adjoining park, waited a moment, heard hard, lurching footsteps, and then scrambled into the nearby botanical garden, assured that the high stone walls would hopefully keep whatever it was away from her feline heart. What she didn’t understand then, but would quite soon, was the zombie had no interest in her heart.

Because today was one of Mona’s scant days off she went to meet Gigi Hernandez at the coffee shop. The smell of espresso and sour cream coffee cake permeated the air. Redolent of brown sugar, Costa Rican dark roast, and Sammy, the surly yet sweet barista behind the counter, who shouted greeting at Mona as she opened the stain glassed door:

“Mona, baby. Where have you been? You’ve been holed up in that bakery of yours since last Sunday.”

“Hey, Sammy! Yep. What can I say, fellow Texans crave my goods.”

Sammy eyeballed Mona’s sassy response. He made a note of her light mood and countered: “Well, I wouldn’t mind sampling your goods, Ms. Swicegood.”

“Oh, Sammy,” Mona said. “You know I would crush you in the act.” Which was true, Sammy was definitely Mona’s Jack Spratt who could eat not fat. Sammy lived in white v-neck t-shirts, skinny jeans, and black Converse low-tops. Occasionally, for total effect, he’d roll a pack of cigarettes into the sleeve of his t-shirt like it was the 1950s and not the 21st Century, which it was. Mona, on the other hand, lived off of Plugra butter, Belgian cocoa, and zucchini muffins made with dark chunks of Callebaut chocolate, buttermilk, sour cream, and sunflower seeds. Her zaftig heft was womanly, shapely even, but she definitely weighed well over 200 pounds, and if she was really honest with herself, she knew she weighed more than her father’s golden college-football days when he played on the offensive line with uncharacteristic grace for a such a large Midwestern man.

“Baby, you’re beautiful,” Sammy said, “but you’re wasting my precious, precious barista time.” It was true – a line of three people were queuing up behind Mona as she and Sammy bantered. “What do you want this morning?”

“A medium chai latte, Sammy. Make it with soymilk, okay?”

“Gotcha, beautiful. One soy chai latte coming up!”

“A mug, Sammy, please. That jade green one with the thin lip that I love to drink from.”

“Yep, yep, yep.” Sammy turned to stream the soymilk and brew the chai. Mona sighed. She wished that Billy – her silent bass player boyfriend – would spend half as much time flirting with her as Sammy did, but that wasn’t going to happen. She shrugged her shoulders, made a mental note to make time to take a swim at the Barton Springs pool, and then scanned the room for Gigi.

Gigi Hernandez was stunning. There was no other word for it. Dark black hair cut into a pert bob, wide Audrey-Hepburn eyes with heavy lids and long lashes, and a slim, gamine physique, which seemed to be perfect for pedal pushers and tailored shirts. She was a 30-something Gidget with the style sense of Coco Chanel. She routinely smelled of patchouli and peonies and had the affection of snapping her fingers whenever she saw someone whose attention she wanted, and wanted now.

Snap. Snap, snap, snap.

Mona turned.

“There you are!” Mona shrieked. It has been months since Mona had last seen her best friend.

“How was Paris? Tell me everything.”

Gigi smiled, her pale pink lips spread evenly over her white teeth, and then twisted the red silk scarf secure at the nape of her neck. She looked a little paler than usual, Mona thought, but nothing that couldn’t be explained away by jetlag and a fashion photographer’s schedule.

“Paris was exquisite,” Gigi crooned. She looked at Mona and felt as though she were staring at a face made of milk, translucent, warm, and welcoming. It was really hard for Gigi to focus while looking at Mona. Her vision was somewhat blurred and the fact that Mona looked like something drinkable, edible even, was disturbing to Gigi. She snapped her fingers.

“You totally have my attention,” Mona said, giggling. She loved her fashionable, waif-ish friend. Gigi had always protected and loved Mona as-is since the two women had sat next to each other in art glass in sixth grade. Gigi had nailed 3-D perspective in a manner of minutes; Mona had needed help with drawing perspective, but Mr. Graves was busy preparing his sermon for the upcoming Sunday. Why he doubled as an art teacher-preacher was something many of the kids at Franklin Smith Elementary School had wondered. When the art lesson went too quickly or she didn’t understand the nature of the assignment, she would draw little sketches of Mr. Graves with devil horns and a pitchfork. One class period, when Mona thought Mr. Graves was preparing yet another homily, he stood behind her silently as she drew her best Mr. Graves’ parody yet: Mr. Graves as a zombie. As she was about to put the finishing touches on his face – a flap of cartilage removed from his nose so the bone peeked through – Mona heard Mr. Graves clear his throat directly behind her.

“Ms. Swicegood,” Mr. Graves said icily. “What have we here?”

“Portraiture,” Gigi said, interrupting. “Wasn’t that today’s assignment?”

“Why yes, Gigi, it was, but this looks more like a cartoon.”

“Can’t styles be different?” Gigi asked sweetly, batting her heavily lashed eyes.

“They can be,” Mr. Graves said. “Definitely. But Mona, seriously, why are you drawing this filth? Your mind needs to be elevated, positive, and far, far away from the perils of pop culture.”

“Um, sure, Mr. Graves. I’ll draw a picture of my mom.”

“Much better, Ms. Swicegood. Much better.”

So, Mona really had no problems with the snapping of Gigi’s fingers, though Mona knew that others did. Billy, for one, couldn’t stand it.

“Why does she do that to you?” Billy once asked.

“Ah, it’s just a cute habit,” Mona had replied. Mona snapped her fingers at everyone – her adorable mother, Sammy, and Gigi’s girlfriend Pamela, who, if anyone was going to protest, it would’ve been Pam. Pam was a no-nonsense blonde with an up-turned German nose, quick attention to detail, and above-board at all times in terms of manners and decorum. Both Pam and Mona saw Gigi’s snapping as an idiosyncrasy that was pretty easy to live with.

Billy had shrugged his shoulders and said he wouldn’t put up with friends who snapped their fingers as a way of getting others’ attention.

“You don’t have to,” Mona replied quietly. “She’s my friend.”

“Gigi,” Mona said, snapping back from the memory. “Do you hear me?”

Gigi re-focused her eyes and stared at Mona, her milky white, meringue-shaped friend, and brushed her bangs out of her eyes and smiled.

“Of course I hear you, babe,” Gigi said. “Sorry about that. I’m just tired from the trip.”

“I bet you are,” Mona said. “How long was the flight from Austin to Paris?”

“About 12 hours, maybe a little more when you consider the layover in Amsterdam.”

“Wow. Well, how was the fashion shoot? Where did you go to take your pictures?”

“Ah, that’s a very interesting question. Betsy wanted to do this really funky All-Souls-Procession-type promotion for this new line of tights she has out – you know the ones, with sugar skulls, ornate Virgin Marys, and those pretty little cut-out flags that hang throughout the rafters of Mexican weddings?”

“How cool!” Mona said. “So, where did you showcase these designs? Someplace with a lot of light?”

“Actually, no,” Gigi said. “We were in the Catacombs – l’Ossuaire Municipal – and it was so surreal – these leggy, slender, living models in brightly colored tights and short leather skirts against the backdrop of walls made of human bone and skulls. In some ways, to be perfectly honest, it felt a little – okay a lot – crass to be having a fashion shoot in an ossuary. I felt like I was disrespecting the dead somehow, but that’s what Betsy wanted...”

“So how did you light the cemetery?” Mona asked. “Did you have to wade around all of the tourists?”

“That was the cool part. A lighting designer and I were able to go down to the catacombs in the early morning hours before the tourists to prepare for the shoot. While he went to check out one section of the catacombs, I wandered back into the narrow spiral stairwell to go up for air. It wasn’t yet dawn – maybe ten minutes before sunrise - and I saw a homeless man running near the Barriere d’Enfer city gate.”

“Whoa. That sounds a little creepy, Gigi.”

“But it wasn’t. I just felt like he was running from something or someone. I felt bad for him. So, I shouted for him to come to where I was. He did. He ran so fast. He mumbled something in French, and then shoved me back down the stairwell. He slammed the door once we returned to the ossuary. He looked really scared.”

“Oh my god” Mona said.

“When he was shoving me down the stairwell, I could hear something running after us. After we made it back into the catacombs, I could hear something pounding on the door.”

“My French is pitiful. I would say, ‘Je voudrais this or that’ and then point. The man was so dirty and so terrified – his face looked lined with motor engine oil and his eyes were bloodshot and brown – that when I went to the door and attempted to open it, he slapped me hard and grabbed my neck; he actually scratched me pretty bad. Definitely drew blood.”

“What the...” Mona said, stopping short of the expletive on her tongue.

“I know, right? But he was very worried, very apologetic, even though I didn’t understand what he was trying to say. He took his hand and touched my neck and then my cheek. He kept staring at me and then at the ossuary entrance. He kept repeating what was inscribed there: ‘Arrête, c'est ici l'empire de la Mort’ or ‘Stop, this is the empire of Death.’

“Did you go to see a doctor after all of this, Gigi? You look a little pale.”

“No, no, no. I’m fine really. The only thing I was worried about is that the homeless man’s hand, the one he touched me with, looked ravaged. It was bloody and shredded. I wanted to open the door, but he stood before it and he blocked my path. I could still hear something on the other side, so I didn’t bother. I called to Gregoire, the lighting designer, to come quickly, which, thank god, he did.”

“He took one look at me,” Gigi said, continuing, “and gasped. Gregoire spoke French with the homeless guy and nodded his head. Gregoire told me it was probably just another homeless man chasing this guy off of his turf. He then told the homeless man something else in French and told me that we’d go up in a little while when it was light.”

TO BE CONTINUED...

Just for fun!

For a fun zombie gingerbread cookie recipe, click here.
Plus, yesterday in the car ride back from my granddad's NPR played this: "8 Things Everyone Needs to Know About Zombies." Pretty awesome.

Acceptance & the Joy of Creating without an Audience

2010-10-27T12:05:00.004-05:00

Renunciation is not getting rid of the things of this world, but accepting that they pass away.
Aitken Roshi

Special thanks and photography credit to Elie Gardner (all rights reserved, 2010) for the picnic potluck shots: Basically any photo with me in a black-and-white polka dot dress, a baby, and beautiful sunlight is Elie's. So, be kind and don't use without permission. All other photos are mine (shout-out to Nicole Hunt, however, for taking the pumpkin & Kella shot too. You make me look great!).

In the past two months I’ve let this blog rest. I know it’s not a way to keep the few readers I have, and for that long absence I hope you’ll bear with me and forgive me if you’ve been wondering where I’ve been. My life has definitely been in transition – from having a serious health scare in late August and early September that resulted in outpatient surgery to regaining my confidence and joy in simple day-to-day living, from exploring Austin, Texas with my best friend Jenna and her amazing friend Julia, dating a terrific person who has recaptured my imagination and heart, meeting with fellow writers bi-monthly on the corner of Chippewa and Landsdowne, and pursuing three jobs that I love: online writing center and writing across the curriculum full-time work, part-time baking, and part-time teaching.

Honestly, I think for these two months I have simply wanted to experience life without documenting it. I wanted, and still want, to be in the moment. To feel the luxury of letting go, immersing myself in the here and now, and banishing negative thoughts and nagging worries.

I have been busy, but who hasn’t? One of my dear friends Elie is moving to Peru in a couple of weeks. My friend Nicole hurt herself pretty badly and yet came into work the next day. My mom went to Chicago for a young cousin’s funeral and kept on moving after she returned. That is what life often seems to demand – constant movement forward.

One of the challenges about moving forward is realizing when actions or habits no longer serve you. I hope this blog is still in my future, but there’s a part of me that’s been even more reflective and purposeful these days. I’ve always been the woman to burn the wick at both ends because I am in love with the world and the people in it despite the inevitable random bad things that occur. Like many people pleasers, I have a hard time saying no in a firm and kind manner. I’m realizing that I’m going to have to get better at saying yes to only the people and opportunities I really want to pursue. If I constantly think about how I’m letting others down but not myself, I’m not doing anyone any favors, especially me.

So, I’m going to see where this blog takes me. I may start a new blog in December or January after I complete my November National Novel Writing goal: 50,000 words in 30 days. I will chronicle a funny recipe-zombie novel on this site every day beginning on November 1st: A Cook’s Guide to the Zombie Apocalypse. I’m going to strive to share healthier recipes with you, my readers, but also dabble in the confectionary arts when the mood strikes me (and then share the yield with my students, friends, and family).

All in all, I want to enjoy the moment now so I don’t mourn the passing of people, memories, and time. Balance is my motto for 32. Balance and fun!

Hugs and high fives,
Kella

P.S. The photo montage showcases the following treats I have made in September and October: Peanut Butter Banana Smoothies, Whole Wheat Zucchini Muffins (recipe by my late grandmother, Anna Lee Hammond), Yogurt Biscuits and Pork Sausage Gravy, Spinach-Ricotta Pie, and Lentil Soup with Gruyere. I'll share recipes for these items throughout the end of this month and November.

P.P.S. Last weekend I made delicious Pumpkin Spice Cupcakes with Cream Cheese Frosting, but I didn’t get a chance to take any photographs because everyone at the Halloween party either a) ate them, or b) took them home. I’m making some more this weekend for my granddad, so I’ll share the pictures of John Dee with cupcakes when I return from Clinton, Missouri.

Uh oh: Change, Change, Change

2010-08-25T20:05:00.001-05:00

My best friend Jenna Leigh and me in Washington, D.C. July 2010.

This past Sunday I had the worst chest pains I've ever had. I honestly thought I was having a heart attack. I drove myself to the ER at 9 pm, after vomiting several times en route, and was poked and prodded and finally released at 2 am with prescriptions for anti-nausea, anti-cramping, and pain. The verdict is not yet set, but the ER doctor and the internist I visited on Monday morning think I may have gallstones, which is honestly one of the most embarrassing things to be diagnosed with since this medical issue almost always affects people who are overweight. I am one such person, I'm also part Native American (which makes me even more susceptible to gallbladder issues), and I'm a woman (we tend to have more issues with this part of our body than men).

I find out tomorrow, after getting an ultrasound of my stomach, if the gallbladder stays or goes. One thing is for certain though, my craptastic diet is going. As a result, I may not keep this little blog alive either. As much as I love to bake, I love living more. Getting healthy is my No. 1 priority. So, whatever happens, I'll still keep writing, but the content and the theme of this blog will be changing somewhat dramatically. I'm far too young (31 going on 32 in September) to have EKGs, trips to the ER, and chest pains that are so unbearable it feels like an elephant is standing on my chest.

So, I promise to update this little blog once I figure out what my new blog is going to be called and what I hope to write about. Till then, please wish me luck and healing, healthy vibes. I'm a little nervous about these turn of events.

Hugs and high fives,
Kella

Whole Wheat & Molasses Bread: Slowing Down

2010-08-16T00:12:00.005-05:00

"Smile, breathe, and go slowly." Thich Nhat Hanh, Zen monk

Whole Wheat and Molasses Bread with Wildberry Jam and sunlight.

For those who know me well enough, you know that many times I go too fast, do too much. I know I'm not alone in this bad habit, and there are even days when I think I would defend my actions as a result of wanting to be my best, of accomplishing more for myself, but also for the world and community around me. But the more I consciously think about my actions and my quality of life, the more I want to slow down and be present and focused on the moment, the people before me, and my life.

Last week I spent some time with my grandparents. My grandma Mary Ann will turn 80 in November; my grandpa Bob will turn 90 in January. We are ideologically different. They blare FOX News at top volume, my grandma has signed me up for some conservative newsletter that arrives monthly to my mailbox, and she is always sweetly nudging me, her Rubenesque granddaughter, toward a healthier diet. In turn, I urge her to get the fish and chips already, to drink an ice cold beer while bowling at my nephew's 9th birthday party, and to appreciate one's imperfections (and ultimately beauty) lovingly, with no more guilt, self-loathing, or doubt. We balance each other nicely despite our heated political discussions...

One of the best moments of my visit was the hour before I boarded my train to St. Louis. I found my grandma resting on her giant quilted bed (she has troubles sleeping at night), so I joined her. I held her hand as she told me stories, and I felt the world center in my heart. I knew that whatever happened next was negligible. That truly listening to my grandmother's voice and her life was the most important thing I could do that day. Time slowed down. I felt closer to her, less sad about my departure.

And here's the peculiar thing: I find that the more I slow down and really streamline my activities and my schedule, the more rested, happy and sated I feel, the more productive and thoughtful I am with work, hobbies and passions, and my family and friends.

I know other cultures and countries know that we Americans often move too fast. Sure, we're innovative, we're "cutting edge," and we're a nation that honors the adage, "time is money," but what would happen if we all slowed down on the interstates, our offices, at the grocery store or farmer's market, or with our loved ones and neighbors? How much healthier (mentally, emotionally and physically) would we be if we limited our choices and our time so that we were truly spending our lives with the people and pursuits we adore? What if we simply, politely, and firmly said no to people or demands that just couldn't be accommodated right this instant because the resulting actions would involve compromising one's well being?

I think we would be okay. I think the world, and Keats' "widening gyre," would keep on turning.

I'm just now realizing this concept at almost 32.

So, I've decided to bake my own bread from here on out, as an act of meditation and of slowing down. It's healthier, sure, and the smell of bread baking in my sunny apartment smells a thousand times better than the best French perfumes (and I love French perfumes). There's something we're missing in our culture when we fail to use our hands to create the food that nourishes our bodies and minds. I don't care how busy we all are. Bread can be baked. The pause button can be pushed. And if you don't believe me, read one of my favorite essays by Mark Slouka, "Quitting the Paint Factory: On the Virtues of Idleness," Harper's Magazine (November 2004).

So without further ado, I share a Mark Bittman recipe that's quick and the bread is heavy, hearty and delicious: Whole Wheat and Molasses Bread. I imagine it would be a great toasting bread if I owned a toaster. Today for breakfast I smeared my slice with wildberry jam and felt happy knowing that what I was eating came from my work and my oven.

I think baking my own bread from here on out is a resolution I can get behind. I also think I will finally win my battle against finding a delicious sourdough starter as well.

Hugs and high fives,
Kella

Amish Friendship Bread and Finding One's Self

2010-08-07T23:13:00.008-05:00

Friendship Bread Muffins with hydrangeas from Nicole H.
"I'm not into kvetching. I'm into changing the world."
Judy Chicago, artist, feminist, and rabble-rouser

I am sitting at the Chicago O’Hare Airport this afternoon, and an 11-year-old girl with a “Little Miss Bossy” pink t-shirt starts talking to me. I find out this girl spent a summer at camp, that this week she saw the Cubs wallop the Brewers (15-3), and that she is going into sixth grade in North Carolina, a state where I used to teach middle school language arts and social studies students just like her. Her Nana is a bespectacled and bemused woman with short blond hair and pretty dangling shell earrings. Nana listens patiently as her granddaughter, this spritely spitfire, rattles off how she is at the top of her class in math and science, and how she writes, produces and anchors the morning news crew at her elementary school, and how she loves Junie B. Jones books but not the Goosebumps series because the covers scare her. When the girl tells me she was born in 1998 and that she’s 11, I smile and say I was born 20 years before her in 1978.

She looks at me and smiles, and then says, “Wow. That’s back in the day. You’re as old as my mother.”

I laugh at her comment and then look at this spirited girl and think about how my life has veered a lot from her mother’s path, a path I really wanted to take when I was younger. When many of my college girlfriends said they didn’t want children, I always wanted a crew of kids. I even once mentioned the numbers five or six, which in retrospect sounds crazy.

But I live a very different life, one where I live alone with two cats, some plants, and a menagerie of beautiful, quirky friends and family. I am not giving up on maybe one day having a child, but I also know that I may not have children, especially if I cannot find someone who loves and adores me as much as he would a child. Some days this thought depresses me to no end. Other days I feel alive and liberated and ready to pack my bags for Austin or Buenos Aires. There’s a sweet pleasure in being able to direct one’s life without having to consult others, and I also wonder why I don’t have a spunky 11-year-old daughter who loves chatting with strangers in O’Hare Airport and living life to the fullest. I know I would be madly in love with such a child.

Despite these hypothetical thoughts, I am striving to dwell in the holy now. Admittedly, I sometimes compare myself to others, even though I know I’m where I’m supposed to be. I see my friends, almost all of whom are married, many with children, and I wonder how I’ve come to such a different point in my life. In the past several months it has been hard for me to see the benefits of being single, of being able to lead my life based on what I’m interested in alone.

Slowly, though, I’m emerging from this train of thought. When I was a little girl, I was a lot like the kiddo I met at O’Hare. And I’d want the girl I met today, and the girl I once was, to know that it’s going to be okay. That fairy tales with white knights and princes aren't real. That sometimes, in fact, all of the time, the heroine has to save herself. That story needs to be told more often.

I see a lot of possibilities, a lot of joy and necessary introspection from being quirkyalone. I am laughing and smiling more than I have in years, saying yes to people and opportunities I would have normally turned down in two seconds, and I’m excited to pursue some weighty and important dreams I had put on the backburner. I know that it’s often been easier for me to take care of others than it has been to take care of myself. I’m resolved not to do this anymore. It’s time to take care of business for myself first, so here goes nothing.

This muffin is delectable and a fun twist on a homey staple.

In celebration of all of my friends who have supported me, loved me and reminded me that where I’m at is a-okay, I share my good friend Nicole’s Amish Friendship Bread recipe.

I’d also like to thank the following people for lifting me up when I’ve been down (this order is totally random, so just know I love you beyond numbered lists):

Nicole H. for always being game for Mexican, funky brass bands, and impromptu dinner invites. You take care of my cats, soul, and fashion sense. You’re one of the reasons St. Louis rocks.
Beth D. I cannot believe you weren't on the original list. You really have inspired me to take stock of my life and what I'm capable of. I love you so much and I'm so grateful I got to see you in D.C. Rock on, chica.
Jenna Leigh for knowing when a strategic elbow to the ribs is in order to get me to wake up and smell the Capitol South roses. I love you more than you’ll ever know. You are definitely my sister from another mother.
Stefani for knowing just the right things to say on the telephone. For encouraging me and laughing at me when my boldness goes where no woman has been before (or at least this woman).
Shane, darling, I promise you when I get back from Kansas City that we’ll share some wine, plan our next trip to Little Rock, and something subversive for St. Louis. I adore you and I’m so grateful that you reach out to me even when I’m tangled up in myself. I hope you know how much I love you.
My mom for listening to me sort everything out, buying me dishes, glasses, and bottles of really amazing red wines, and giving me all kinds of hugs, atta girls, and strategic text messages. You’re the person I’ve turned to time and time again, and I’m so glad you’re in my life. I love you.
My dad and Jack (my mom's husband) for helping me lug heavy furniture down stairs and never complaining about all of the books I own.
My granddad John Dee and my grandma Mary Ann. You two remind me what true hardship is since you’ve lived through the Great Depression, WWII, and the loss of spouses. Thanks for grounding me, lifting me up, and always making me feel loved way down deep.
Elie, you remind me that life should always be lived with wonder and pizazz. I love your energy and spark and how incredibly thoughtful you are to so many, myself included. I’m so happy you’re back from Peru. I’ve missed you.
My work colleagues for being truly inspiring and sassy individuals. I’ve just spent a week in Chicago with them, and I’m always amazed that I work with these people: they’re artists, gardeners, raisers of chickens, writers of great American novels and cat books, singer-songwriters, parents, sommeliers and foodies, kickass curriculum designers, generous souls, and master bartenders. While I work remotely, I love learning and working with you. Thanks for letting me into the club.
Nicole F. for inviting me to lakehouse getaways, for wanting to learn rock climbing with me, and for always being so gracious with meals, time, and staple guns.
Julia - you're so much more than my hair stylist. You are one of my muses, and I always feel refreshed after I've been in your chair. Keep being you!
My writer's group - Mary, Paddy and Jack, I heart you big time. You write/tell incredible stories, remind me to write my own, and always, always make me laugh so hard that I almost pee my pants every Monday night. We have to continue this project during the school year. I would miss you too much.

Big hugs and, yes, high fives,
Kella

P.S. “I never lose sight of the fact that just being is fun.” Katherine Hepburn

Caretake this moment: Seasonal Berry Tart

2010-07-30T00:49:00.001-05:00

"Caretake this moment. Immerse yourself in its particulars. Respond to this person, this challenge, this deed. Quit the evasions. Stop giving yourself needless trouble. It is time to really live; to fully inhabit the situation you happen to be in now." -Epictetus

My life has been anything but expected in the past several months, and I'm finally grateful (and not a teary mess) for being given this golden opportunity to rethink where I was and where I want to go. I also want to have much more fun, to let my hair down, to soak up the sun, to let go of being so self-critical and fearful, and try new things and have new experiences.

In many ways, I want to be more playful, more present in the moment, more true to who I want to be and not who I was becoming or even who I was. Roz Savage, the British ocean rower and environmental activist, says she knew she needed to change her life after writing two obituaries, the one that she knew would be written if she died today and the one she wished her life could more closely resemble. I understand where she's coming from, and I hope that it's not too late to live the life I've always dreamed: a creative, imaginative thinker and doer who serves and supports her community, her friends and family, and follows and practices her writerly, scholarly, and culinary fancies. I know I can get there, and I think 2010-2011 is going to be a fertile turning point in my life. I am so grateful to my parents, grandparents, siblings, my friends Jenna, the Nicoles, Shane, Stefani, Amy, Julia, my Monday night writing group, and new friends for helping me see the possibilities, and not the limitations, of life and living.

What better way to celebrate succulence (hello, Sark!) than the sweet, sweet bounty of summer: blueberries and blackberries? A week or two ago, my work colleague and super sweet friend Joni B. suggested I make something with berries for the blog, so I took her challenge and made a seasonal fruit tart with pastry cream twice last week: the first time was for my delightful friend Brandon and the second time was for an amazing lake house party in Hot Springs, Arkansas. The pics for this blog are from Brandon's tart (which, admittedly, I ate most of, to be honest) and the pics from Arkansas are lurking on Shane's gorgeous digital camera (he's holding them hostage until we meet-up for wine and conversation, which I hope is soon more for his awesome company than the photos). I'll post the other pics as soon as Shane and I powwow.

In the meantime, pastry cream is lovely, custardy goodness that was, at least for me anyway, a disaster the first time I made it at my part-time baking gig. The pastry cream recipe I use for this dessert is not from Sweet Art but rather Epicurious. The problem the first time I made pastry cream rested in how I combined egg yolks with corn starch and the temperature certain creamy, frothy mixtures need to reach in order to set. Chef Lou Jones of the Culinary Institute of America gives a surefire recipe that, so far, has produced two delectable tart innards.

To make the crust and glaze the berries, I Frankenstein-ed (it's a verb) a recipe from Bon Appétit (June 2010). I still plan on making Lime Tart with Blackberries and Blueberries (I'm a sucker for all things citrus). Lime and lemon curd are two of my favorite things along with the already mentioned frozen lemon-lime meringue pie at Duff's in the Central West End. I'm hellbent to recreate that recipe so I can make it with my lovely buddy Nicole H. Together we're on a mission to find Nellie & Joe's Famous Lime Juice in Missouri or Illinois. I'll be in Chicago for business next week, and that's one thing I'm bringing back if I can find it. That pie is absolutely unbelievably amazing. I have yet to taste something so sublime. Seriously. It's that good.

So, on the promise of more yummy treats and personal adventures, I'm going to hit the hay and be back next week with a homey but goody recipe (also from Nicole H.): Amish Friendship Bread. Cinnamon deliciousness that also pairs well with old-fashioned chocolate ice cream from Serendipity.

Till then, from the land of Chuck Berry and Nelly, I give you hugs and high fives!

Kella

Groundedness and Peanut Butter Cookies

2010-07-13T01:14:00.001-05:00

These are a few of my favorite things: baking peanut butter cookies for my kickass hair stylist and sweet inspiration Julia, Blackstreet and Dr. Dre turned up super loud ("I like the way you work it / No diggity / I have to bag it up."), Fourth of July long weekends in D.C. with Jenna and Ed, my super incredible hosts and friends (thank you!), my Monday night writers' group (Mary, Paddy and Jack = rockin'!), my new part-time baking gig at The New York Times-mentioned bakery, Sweet Art, (thank you so much, Reine ... I won't mess up the pastry cream this week), discovering new interests, from bellydance to rock climbing to the Palace of Wonders, and simply re-discovering how much fun being single can really be.

So, of course, my little blog has been neglected. Why does anyone read this thing at this point? I can only hope you'll know that I'm getting my groove back and that this blog (and my life) ain't seen nothing yet.

In the meantime, I'm sharing the peanut butter cookie recipe I made a couple of weeks ago. I still have most of the dough in my refrigerator because a) it's been too hot to bake, and b) as a single lady I don't need massive batches of cookies laying around. I need to start leaving care packages on my neighbors' and landlord's steps. That sounds like a nifty way to get in others' good graces, too.

Peanut Butter Cookies
Recipe adapted from Debbie Kokes' recipe in The Taste of Home Baking Book (thanks, Dad!)

Ingredients
1 cup unsalted butter (soften to room temperature, otherwise you're making it harder than it needs to be)
1 cup creamy peanut butter
1 cup sugar
1 cup packed light brown sugar
3 eggs
1 tsp. vanilla extract (do not, under any circumstances, you imitation... ugh!)
3 cups all-purpose flour
2 tsps. baking soda
1/4 tsp. salt

Directions
1. In a large mixing bowl, cream the butter, peanut butter, and sugars until light and fluffy. Add eggs, one at a time, beating well after each addition. Beat in vanilla extract. Combine the dry ingredients and then gradually add to the peanut butter-sugar mixture.
2. Shape cookies into 1-inch balls. Place 2 inches apart on an ungreased baking sheet. Flatten each ball by placing criss-cross marks on the cookie dough with a fork (think train tracks). Bake at 375 degrees F for 7-8 minutes or until golden brown. Remove cookies to wire racks to cool completely.

Enjoy! This recipe yields about 4 dozen cookies and takes about 20 minutes to prep, so it's super simple.

What I can say with certainty is that I will be making a delicious fresh-fruit tartlet for Thursday night when I go to visit Shane, my favorite attorney/PhD candidate in bioethics, person from Wasilla, Alaska (sorry, Sarah... you never stood a chance), and overall go-to guy. So, there will definitely be a posting next Tuesday. Also, my great buddy Nicole has inspired me to discover how to replicate Duff's frozen lemon-lime meringue pie. That pie is going to grace my 32nd birthday party in September. Honestly, I've never tasted such heady, citrusy goodness. So, two postings in the next 2 weeks for sure.

You betcha! ;)

Hugs, high fives, and a renewed sense of wonder,
Kella

Fried Chicken with Granddad

2010-06-16T02:30:00.005-05:00

Cool neon sign, located in Clinton, Mo., where John Hammond lives and fries chicken.

I've written about my favorite guy before (See Fried Zucchini), but he's such a charmer that I had to bring him back. John Dee Hammond is my father's father and my terrific granddad. He's 84, but he'll turn 85 on August 25, 2010. For someone who was born in Warsaw, Missouri in 1925, he's pretty hip.

My granddad has always believed women should be educated long before it was the norm (take that misogynist jerks), never really freaked out when my sister or I came home with tattoos or weird piercings, though he did say, "I survived WWII as an enlisted man in the Navy without getting that crap," and he rolls with the punches (from the Great Depression to losing my grandma to lung and colon cancer in 2003, whom he was married to for over 50 years) by embodying his favorite phrase, "hang in there." Honestly, he's my hero and one of the people in my life who has always loved me as-is, which is pretty damn special. I love my granddad without reservation. He's had my back from day one, even if he didn't want to call me Michaella (he thought I wouldn't be able to spell my name) but Mindy (after the TV show, Mork & Mindy).

So it brings me great pleasure to pass along a family recipe, one he learned from my grandma Anna Lee: Fried chicken. And if you haven't noticed the pattern, Granddad is our go-to man for all things fried.
Fried Chicken by John Dee Hammond
As told to Kella on June 5, 2010 in Clinton, Missouri

Ingredients & Materials
1 whole chicken, segmented and ready to fry
Salt and pepper
Flour for dredging (he always fills a pie pan full of flour)
Bacon render for frying said chicken
1 large cast-iron skillet

1. Heat about 3-4 cups of bacon render on medium-high heat until the grease is popping. Turn the grease down a shade and get ready for some delicious Southern-style fried chicken.
2. Liberally salt and pepper chicken pieces on both sides and then dredge the chicken in flour on both sides.
3. Place the chicken into the pan of hot bacon render and cook each side for 15-20 minutes. Here's the trick to fantastic fried chicken: Don't futz with it once you put it in the pan. Cover the skillet and wait. Patience is the trick to fried chicken. Patience and bacon render.
4. Carefully turn the chicken on to the uncooked side and again cook, with the pan covered, for 15-20 minutes on the other side.
5. Remove the chicken and place on a platter with paper towels. Serve with green beans, biscuits, gravy, homegrown tomatoes, and my granddad's personal favorite, cornbread.

Enjoy!

Hugs and high fives,
Kella

Necessity is the Mother of Figuring Crap Out for Yourself: Roasted Chicken & Greek Yogurt with Berries, Mint & Honey

2010-06-09T02:10:00.007-05:00

These past three weeks have found me slowly sorting through boxes at my new apartment, learning how to identify and use an Allen wrench, and mastering the art of roasted chicken (for the recipe, click here). These last two feats are accomplishments I am most proud of because I had quite simply relegated these duties to someone else. I think it’s very easy to do—to let a loved one take a defined role and run with it. Yet, when I was confronted with the fact that I was the only person who would be able to attach the legs to my dining room table and to make a delicious dinner (the cats Zelda and Willa didn’t volunteer), I learned new skills and felt more self-sufficient in the process.

Roasted Chicken, The Montage, from A Girl and Her Oven from Michaella Hammond on Vimeo.

So, this week’s recipes are dedicated to all the single people out there who are holding down the fort, depending on numero uno, serving as the life of the party and patiently looking at yet another friend’s new baby photos (by the way, a beautiful little one was born 5 weeks ago—Go, Sinclaire and Sinclaire’s momma Lesley!), attending yet another June-time wedding alone but not afraid to boogie with the little kids who bound across the dance floor, and for anyone who is figuring out what to do since your loved one left or passed away.

Hang in there! Buy a beautiful chicken from a farmer’s market or the grocery store, pre-heat the oven, pop open a bottle of wine or San Pellegrino, put Tarnation’s haunting alt-country songs on the radio, and relax. Dinner is in the oven and you are the master of the universe. Seriously, that’s how awesome this roasted chicken smells and tastes.

And for dessert, reward your palate with a simple, summer-time dessert for one:

Greek Yogurt with Berries, Mint and Honey

Ingredients
1 container Greek yogurt
A handful of blackberries (or whatever seasonal fruit you adore)
A few sprigs of mint (I harvested mine from my old apartment's garden)
A healthy drizzle of honey (I’d like to buy some buckwheat honey, but I settled for clover in this instance)

Sprinkle berries and mint over a dish of greek yogurt. Drizzle an ample rope of honey over the concoction. Enjoy!

Hugs and high fives,
Kella

p.s. Don't underestimate the power of the "bacon shield." Not only does it flavor the chicken quite nicely, but it also keeps the breast super moist and chaste (j/k). Bacon is better than SPF 70, if you ask me.

p.p.s. Please, please, please check out my dear friend Shane's amazing food blog, Eat Day. He's super talented, literary-minded, and funny. You'll fall instantly in love with him. Trust me on this one.

Caldo de Pollo = Yummy, Healthy, Healing Food

2010-05-11T21:52:00.006-05:00

One of my absolute favorite foods is caldo de pollo, Mexican chicken soup. Seriously delicious and definitely my go-to comfort food. Lately I've needed some comforting, so this soup has been on my mind.

Last week I went to my neighborhood Mexican restaurant, and they forgot to put my take-out order in. I waited a very long time for the soup that nurtures all lows and replenishes my spirit, so I thought, "Why not try my hand at this soup?" I'm glad the do-it-yourself ethic is alive and well in this chica as I was inspired to try my hand in making this flavorful dish. Never again will I wait for something I can easily make at home. This recipe takes less than an hour to prepare and is well worth the time you'll invest.
So, here's my version and recipe (inspired by the Penzeys Spices' Chicken Tortilla Soup):

Caldo de Pollo
Yields 8-12 servings

6 chicken thighs
4 8-inch flour tortillas
1 1/2 tbsps. olive oil
1/2-1 tsp. kosher salt
8 cups chicken broth
2 tsps. ground cumin
2 tsps. adobe chili powder
1/2 tsp. cayenne pepper
24 oz. jar of chunky salsa
1 cup black beans
1 cup kidney beans
1 cup sweet white corn (frozen works in a pinch)
1 cup uncooked rice (yields 2 cups cooked rice)

Garnishes:
cilantro, chopped
avocado, sliced thickly
lime wedges

1. Salt and pepper the chicken thighs (front and backside) before placing the chicken into a cast iron skillet.
2. Put 2 tbsps. olive oil into a medium hot cast iron skillet. You'll know the skillet is ready for the chicken when a flick of cold water sizzles and beads into droplets in the pan.
3. Pan fry the chicken thighs for about 5-6 minutes on each side. Don't fuss with the chicken while it's cooking. You want the chicken to to seal in the juices.
4. After the chicken is done cooking, let it cool to room temperature and then shred with a knife and fork or clean hands. Put shredded chicken off to the side. We'll be using it soon.
5. Cook the 1 cup uncooked rice (I used jasmine rice, but feel free to use a different variety) in 2 cups water with a pinch of salt. You may use a rice cooker or a the stove top. Keep rice off to the side to; we'll be getting to it in a second as well.
6. While you're cooking the chicken and rice, bake the tortilla strips for the soup's crunchy garnish.
7. Brush both sides of the four flour tortillas with olive oil, sprinkle lightly with salt. Cut tortillas into strips (with a sharp knife or pizza roller). Place strips on a baking sheet and into a cold oven, then turn the oven on to 375 degrees F.
8. When the oven reaches 375, turn off the oven but don't open the door until it cools down (about 15-30 minutes, depending on your oven). Tortilla strips will be golden and crunchy.
9. In a stockpot, simmer the chicken broth, shredded chicken, spices, and salsa over medium heat until heated through (about 10-15 minutes).
10. Add beans, corn and rice and cook an additional 5-10 minutes.
11. Serve the soup with tortilla strips, cilantro (yum!), and avocado wedges. Don't forget to squeeze some lime juice over this nurturing soup.

Buen provecho!

Abrazos,
Kella

A Mother's Day Shout-Out: Thanks, Mom!

2010-05-09T00:26:00.001-05:00

This bitchin' Rainbow Brite cake is one my mom Carla made for my kid sister Jenna in 1985. My mom made tons of these types of cakes for our birthdays until we begged her for insipid ice cream cakes from Dairy Queen. Before our bad taste dictated a different route to birthday-cake glory, my mom labored over sunshine cakes with pink and orange rays, Cookie Monster (our teeth and tongues did turn blue), Barbie in all of her cotton-candy-pink glory, and lots of other works of frosting art that pre-dated Ace of Cakes' Duff Goldman's out-of-this-world cake creations.

For all of these reasons, and many more, I am thankful for my mom, her creativity, and love. She always strived to make us feel special on our birthdays, so I hope she feels special today on Mother's Day.

Love you, Mom.

Kella

Recipes, like life, are not fail proof.

2010-05-04T23:31:00.001-05:00

This past weekend I was able to spend time with my mother (Happy Birthday, Mom!) and one of my dear friends, Stefani. Stef and I talked about old memories, present times, and future hopes, like we often do when we finally catch up. One thing I told her during our chat has been with me since we spoke: I’m tired of all those people and blogs that are seemingly perfect. You know the type? The ones who promise their recipes will never go wrong, their pictures showcase nary a burnt crust or a caved-in cake, and the china is never chipped or worn with age.

As a human being, and an infinitely fallible one at that, I know there is no such thing as fail proof. I’ve watched the oven helplessly as my sourdough round just sat there, like a lump and not the proofed and loved object it had been for the past several hours of my life. Ursula K. LeGuin, the sassy, uber writer, knew better too when she said, “Love does not just sit there, like a stone; it has to be made, like bread, remade all the time, made new.”

In my case, I feel like I may have failed love and the person who has occupied my heart and mind for the past six years of my life. It’s hard not to think of Dave when I write this blog. He was the inspiration for the first essay I wrote for Sauce Magazine, when I decided to quit worrying about being perfect and just put my writing out there to see what happened. From that essay I decided to create an online journal that would chronicle my mishaps and victories in the kitchen and my life.

When I review what I’ve written this past year, I see that Dave inhabits most of my entries, often quietly, patiently on the margins, kindly eating what I’ve offered him, never complaining bitterly like I might when the results are botched or dry.

It pains me to acknowledge that my life, like some of the recipes I’ve tried, isn’t working out the way I envisioned. That I won’t marry my best friend in October. That by the end of this month I’ll move into a one-bedroom apartment on the edge of the Missouri Botanical Garden with two cats and lot of remorseful Etta James and John Lee Hooker on the playlist (and a fair amount of insipid pop music that Dave never really liked, but I often turned up at top volume on the car stereo).

So, dear readers, I share all of this heartache with a small glowing hope for all of us: That we’re more honest about what we’re struggling with to our family and friends so they can help us get through and appreciate the imperfections we’re bound to experience. That we embrace our imperfections and tease the folds out of these experiences so we emerge, as Dag Hammarskjold once said of his hopes for growing older, “firmer, simpler, quieter, warmer.” Yes, this growth is what I hope for now more than anything.

P.S. And the maple-oatmeal scones are delicious, but as you can see, this one was baked a bit too long. Click here for the recipe.

Drop In & Decorate Project: Take 2

2010-04-27T22:26:00.006-05:00

For faithful readers who know that my IDS 101 (interdisciplinary studies) students at St. Louis Community College baked and decorated cookies for Safe Connections last semester, you'll recognize the theme of giving and baked goods with the second iteration of this service-learning project. This semester my super creative students decorated over five dozen sugar cookies for the Ronald McDonald House off West Pine Boulevard in St. Louis, Missouri. Some of my favorite cookies included an alien head, a volcano replete with gel lava, an island scene, kaleidoscope cookies, and super stars.

As always, big props to the folks (thank you, Lydia!) at Drop In and Decorate for starting this nationwide movement. I'm always inspired when one small idea becomes a force to be reckoned with, and the Drop In and Decorate mission is one I truly love.

So, my parting thought is this: Who's interested in doing another Drop In and Decorate event this summer? Let's pick a project that benefits women and children in the St. Louis metro. And for my readers elsewhere, why not join in the fun and learn how you too can host a Drop In and Decorate project? I promise these projects are addictive and, I truly believe, make a difference.

Hugs and high fives,
Kella

Banana Crunch Muffins and Change

2010-04-20T14:13:00.005-05:00

"Every one of us is called upon, probably many times, to start a new life." Barbara Kingsolver, High Tide in Tucson

I don't know how many of you buy a bunch of bananas with the best of intentions, and then watch as the cheerful yellow skin spots, turns leopard print, and, then finally, completely brown, but I do.

I have had a long and storied past with bananas.

They are my former nemises, my now reluctant friends. There's something about the texture of a banana, especially if overly ripe and mushy, that disgusts me, sets off my gag reflex in an uncomplimentary way. But smoothies and banana bread were two of the converting factors that helped me let go of my hate for all textures banana in my early 20s. I love that my tastebuds change. That I discover new foods that I once relegated to the "do not like" list. Like most writers and people, I am a fan of progression.

To be honest, though, I am not a picky eater. There are only a few things I do not, will not, eat: creamy coleslaw (horrible childhood memories of being forced by a babysitter to eat the unctuous shreds), Sun-Maid raisins, and water chestnuts. Otherwise, bring on the blood sausage made from fresh sheep's blood, potatoes and spices that I ate on a Navajo reservation in Arizona during my friend Christie's Beauty Way Ceremony, let me enjoy the down-home cooking of freshly fried frog legs or crappie (my dad's family), or parsnips cooked with bacon and olive oil (my mom's invention).

But bananas, I feel meh about (shoulders shrugging upwards and down again).

So, if I give you a recipe that involves bananas, just note that said recipe has to be something special, something I will actually eat. As usual I go to my patron saint of the oven, Ina Garten, whose 1999 book, The Barefoot Contessa Cookbook, is one that always makes me wish I had a hint of east coast blue blood in me so I could summer on Martha's Vineyard, wear boat shoes, and bike around the island.

Maybe someday I'll find myself on the island, wearing gemstone flip flops, sipping Small's gin and tonic (The best gin I've ever drank. Period.), and bumping into Ina and telling her how much I love her use of butter and sugar. Until then, I'm going to take the brown bananas life has given me and make banana crunch muffins.

Warmth and wellness,
Kella

Three Pepper Goat Cheese, Bacon, & Tomato Scones

2010-04-13T02:25:00.002-05:00

Yield: Makes 7 large scones

Ingredients
1 1/4 cups all-purpose flour
¾ cups whole wheat flour
1 ½ teaspoons baking powder
2 tablespoons granulated sugar
1 ¼ teaspoons sea salt (finely ground)
½ cup (1 stick) unsalted butter, cold and cut into ½-inch cubes
1 medium tomato, roughly chopped
4 ounces three pepper goat cheese, broken into large walnut-size pieces
10 strips smoked bacon fried, cooled and then coarsely chopped
6 ounces whole plain yogurt*
Fresh rosemary, one sprig denuded of its heady herb
2 tablespoons milk, plus more for brushing**

Recipe
1) Preheat the oven to 375 degrees Fahrenheit. Instead of parchment paper, I doused my baking pans with olive oil and then smeared the yellow-green goodness across the baking sheet with a paper towel. Either way works, though the parchment paper route is easier to clean post-baking. I will, however, endorse the taste of the olive oil on the bottom of the scone. These scones were made for olive oil.
2) Put the flour, baking powder, sugar, and salt into a medium-large bowl and stir the contents.
3) Add the butter and break it into eraser-tip-size pieces with your fingertips until the dry ingredients and butter are evenly distributed. Hint: Don’t overdo this as you’ll ruin the tender-making-scone properties of cold, unsalted butter.
4) Sprinkle the tomato, crumbled goat cheese, bacon and rosemary over the top of the flour mixture and gently toss together, being careful not to obliterate the goat cheese chunks. You’ll ruin the fun of biting into a warm chunk of goat cheese enveloped in a savory scone.
5) Soften the yogurt by whisking in two tablespoons of milk. Pour the yogurt over the flour mixture and gently blend everything together with a plastic spatula, again being protective and respectful of the goat-cheese chunks.
6) Depending on how sandy looking the mixture is, you may need to add 2-4 tablespoons more of milk to ensure a moist scone.
7) Divide the dough into seven or eight equal mounds on the baking sheets, leaving about 1 inch between each scone.
8) Brush the tops of the scones with a little milk.
9) Place the baking sheet in the center of the oven and bake for about 20 minutes until lightly brown.
10) Remove scones from the oven and transfer to a cooling rack. Serve warm and enjoy!

Hugs and high fives,
Kella

*When I baked these Easter morning I used one container of Stonyfield Organic French Vanilla with Cream Top yogurt since that’s what I had in the refrigerator. The scones still tasted every bit as savory and moist as I imagined plain yogurt would yield.

**Mary Cech recommends whole milk, and I normally would too, but again, I had 1 percent in the fridge, and the scones were still fan-freakin’-tastic.

Carbtastic: Mac and Cheese & Coconut Cake

2010-03-04T01:02:00.010-06:00

Before I launch into these comfort-food recipes, I'm going to share a brief West Coast travelogue. Yesterday afternoon I arrived in Los Angeles from St. Louis for six blissful days of vacation and then was whisked away to Dana Point with my guy Dave and his brother Jeff. We spent this afternoon with Dave's aunt, uncle and brother eating lunch at the very funky local eatery, Ramos House Cafe (I discovered what a Scotch egg was via their super renowned Bloody Marys), exploring San Juan Capistrano and its beautiful Mission and celebrating Dave's 34th birthday with sunshine and tranquilty by the Mission's Moorish style fountain (Happy Birthday, love!).

We ended tonight with a very lovely meal at Gemmell's French Restaurant. Dave's birthday cake was a lemon tart (delightfully crisp, clean with a decadent buttery crust and raspberry drizzle). And while I loved (absolutely loved!) the lemon tart, I think I'm a bit of a traditionalist when it comes to birthdays. Bring on the cake (and the Orange County weather)!

So, I'm happy to share an original cake recipe I created especially for Dave's dad Charles, who celebrated his 71st birthday last Saturday. I was pretty happy with the final result, though I still would like a more moist cake (the frosting, however, was pretty damn good as is). Meanwhile, the mac-and-cheese was inspired by my friend Shane who made the best baked mac-and-cheese I had ever eaten. This recipe was a jazzed up version of Mark Bittman's How to Cook Everything.

So, savory before sweet...

Baked Macaroni and Cheese

After clicking on the link above for Bittman's recipe, also include cooked bacon or prosciutto in the mix prior to baking this cheesy goodness. I also used buffalo mozarella with cheddar (I've tried other, fancier cheeses, but the classic mozarella-cheddar mix rocks my palate and Dave's). I like gooey mac-and-cheese, so the mozarella gives this dish extra texture and creaminess.

Now, for one of my favorite original recipes. I'm so excited to make this Coconut Cake again--in fact, I hope to start taking some cake decorating classes this summer to help me jazz up my rustic frosting skills, though I do have a very handy bent frosting knife that my friend Patty gave me last year for helping her decorate her brother's wedding cake.

Coconut Cake
Recipe by Kella

Cake ingredients
10 Tbsps unsalted butter, softened to room temperature
2 cups all-purpose flour
1 1/4 cups sugar
4 eggs, room temperature
1 Tbsp orange zest
1/4 Tsp almond extract
2 1/2 Tsps baking powder
1/4 Tsp salt
3/4 cup milk

Frosting ingredients
1 pound cream cheese
3/4 pound unsalted butter at room temperature
1 Tsp Mexican vanilla
1/2 Tsp pure almond extract
1 1/2 pounds powdered sugar
2 cups sweetened dried coconut

Cake step-by-step directions
1. Preheat oven to 350 degrees F. Butter the bottom of two 8-inch layer cake pans. I used silicon pans and the result was great. No need for parchment paper when using silicone, though I still butter the pans.
2. Cream the butter until smooth and then add the sugar and then the eggs, one by one. Beat until light and fluffy, about 4-5 minutes.
3. Add vanilla and almond extracts and orange zests to the cake batter.
4. Sift together the dry ingredients: flour, baking powder and salt. Add dry ingredients to the egg mixture by hand. Alternate wet with dry until the batter is smooth.
5. Place batter in the pans and bake for about 20-25 minutes (the cake will be done when a toothpick placed in the center of the cake comes out clean). Cool on racks for 5-10 minutes and then place cakes onto cooling racks. Cakes should be room temperature before frosting.

Frosting step-by-step directions
1. Blend cream cheese, butter and extracts into a blissful yellow mixture.
2. Add the powdered sugar gradually and mix until smooth. Add 1 cup coconut into the frosting mixture and then keep 1 cup to decorate the top of the cake.
3. Lick the beaters when finished blending.Yum!

Happy birthday, Charles and Dave! XOXO

Buckwheat Pancakes: Ah, the Beauty of Breakfast for Dinner

2010-02-23T04:06:00.001-06:00

This week's post is a shout-out to all foods breakfast. Why not add a little buckwheat to the mix?

This recipe was adapted from food stylist and blogger Tina Bell Stamos' (Go, natives of Lawrence, Kansas) awesome pancake flow chart loveliness found in the February/March 2010 issue of ReadyMade.

Enjoy!

Hugs and high fives,
Kella

Chocolate Cake: A Recluse's Return

2010-02-16T15:51:00.001-06:00

I’ve missed this blog like a little kid loves birthday cake. Sorry 50 for butchering your go-to rap lyric, but I couldn’t resist.

The past month and a half has been one where I’ve baked a tasty buttercream chocolate cake for my grandpa’s 89th birthday (a success!), so-so lowfat brownies from a mix (not recommended), several chicken pot pies from scratch (I now know how to make a killer pie dough), tried-and-true yogurt biscuits (they’re hard to screw up, folks), a failed attempt at home-cut sweet potato fries (too much egg white in the batter; I shall return to this recipe), and eaten several delicious rounds of Dave’s homemade bread and lentil soup (thank you, Shane, for the artisan bread cookbook, and Dave for perfuming the house with homemade bread and simmering onions).

To be blunt, I’ve been a bit uninspired lately and my baking and writing routine has, regrettably, dovetailed with my funk.
Maybe it’s because I spent half of January in Phoenix taking care of my grandma for 8 days (note to self: consume plenty of calcium now because your 70s beckon and osteopina runs in the family) and then 4 days in Miami for work (hello Greek and Cuban street food). Or maybe I haven’t felt like writing since Dave got laid off in early January—I want to be an affirming, kind cheerleader, someone who stands by her partner when the going gets tough. We’re hanging in there, but to be honest, writing odes to pastry and cake seemed a little frivolous until Dave reminded me yesterday that you need to write, Kella. It’s important, he said.

So here I am: Writing about chocolate cake and the economic downturn.

And while the two don’t go hand-in-hand, I think they should. I teach a course at a local community college about the do-it-yourself ethic, and when times are tough, that’s exactly what people do (and have always done)—they create what they need, often from scratch.

Yesterday at lunch in Columbia, Missouri, my best buddy Jenna reminded me of this self-sufficiency latent in all of us. She told me how she did a clothing swap with her photographer friends since money is tight and most of her creative collective has been laid off. Dave gave me the coolest Valentine’s present a girl could want: conversation hearts en español and the sweetest card a girl could want. My sister Jenna (same name, different girl) also got laid off two weeks ago, and yet she’s pretty upbeat about the situation. She thinks it’s the universe’s way of reminding her to get busy doing what she’s passionate about, and to do so now, and not later.

So, of course, I am inspired by my friends and family who are reinventing themselves and learning new tricks in the process.

And while chocolate cake isn’t as daring as my darling or two Jennas, I think it’s a traditional dessert that doesn’t cost that much to make and still receives oohs and ahhs when someone special needs a little boost of love.

So, what are you waiting for? Rekindle a forgotten passion or bolster a struggling loved one with a slice of chocolate cake, a cold glass of milk and an encouraging hug.

Chocolate Buttercream Cake
Recipe by Ina Garten (my unofficial patron saint of baking)

Preheat oven to 350 degrees
Preparation time: About 2 hours

Cake Ingredients
1 ¾ cups all-purpose flour
1 cup good cocoa powder (let me recommend Missouri-made cocoa, Askinosie)
1 ½ tsps baking soda
¼ tsp salt
¾ cup unsalted butter at room temperature
2/3 cup granulated sugar
2/3 cup light brown sugar, packed
2 extra-large eggs at room temperature
2 tsps pure vanilla extract
1 cup buttermilk at room temperature
½ cup sour cream at room temperature

Chocolate Buttercream Ingredients
10 ounces bittersweet chocolate
8 ounces semisweet chocolate
½ cup egg whites (3 extra-large eggs) at room temperature
1 cup granulated sugar
Pinch of cream of tartar
½ tsp salt
1 lb unsalted butter at room temperature
2 tsps pure vanilla extract
2 tbsps dark rum (I prefer Myer’s dark rum)

Cake recipe: click here please because I'm tired of typing.

Hugs, high fives, and keep trying,
Kella

Chicken Pot Pie and Maple Pecan Sticky Buns: A Baking Farewell to 2009!

2009-12-30T01:51:00.000-06:00

Perhaps it's no surprise to my faithful readers that this blog has not been updated regularly this month despite the fact that I have been baking: turkey meatloaf, coffee cake, shortbread cookies in the shape of angels and pine trees, numerous chicken pot pies, my first attempt at sticky buns, and much more. I will save my New Year's Resolutions for 2010, but just suffice it to say that a regular posting schedule for this blog is high on that list.

I'm okay with making mistakes so long as I learn from my blunders and procrastinations and begin to practice baking and writing with more care and discipline. I really love sharing what goes on in my oven and head, so it's up to me to be a bit more vigilant in the process. No woulda, shoulda, couldas from me!

Overall, though, I'm pleased as punch with 2009. We--um, I mean me; there is no royal we behind the blog here unless you count my three cats and Dave--kicked off this blog in February 2009 and one of the most exciting, happy moments in my writing life this year is that I found out this month (Dec. 23rd to be exact) that one of the two essays I've published for Sauce Magazine is going to be nominated for a 2010 James Beard Foundation Award in magazine writing. Holy flip! To read the nominated essay, "The Procrastinator's Guide to Baking," please click here.

In the meantime, to bid adieu to all that is happy and warm about baking during the winter months, I thought I'd offer a two-part tribute to homey, comfort food: the humble pot pie and the delicious sticky bun.

For the chicken pot pie recipe, click here. Please note: I omit the lobster and fennel and add a pound of roasted or pan-fried chicken (with thyme) and 2 cups steamed carrots. Superb!

For the maple pecan sticky bun recipe, click here. Please note: This recipe is not the one Gesine shares (though it's pretty damn close), but I think that whole copyright infringement thing prevents me from listing it word for word in this blog of mine.

The backstory: I was inspired to try my hand at pot pies after my dear friend Shane made one for me in exchange for dog sitting his adorable puppies, Bonnie and Suzie. Shane's pot pie was incredible, and I was hell bent to recreate the lovely, buttery roux that enveloped the pot pie's innards. It's actually easy to do, so I hope others will try this recipe while the temperature outside is still cold and dreary.

Lastly, the second recipe I'll share is the maple pecan sticky bun recipe by Gesine Bullock-Prado, whose whimsical memoir, Confections of a Closet Master Baker, was a Christmas gift from my buddy and avid blogger/photojournalist, Elie Gardner. Bullock-Prado does a really excellent job interspersing a bittersweet narrative about loss and remembrance (I see this book as a literary tribute to her influential, bad ass, opera diva German mother) with recipes a la Like Water for Chocolate meets Dorothy Parker if she knew how to make puff pastry. I like Bullock-Prado's chutzpah and her accessible recipes of treats I would never dare attempt unless I had such a warm and witty person narrating exactly how to attempt chocolate-filled croissants and Opera Cake.

New Confections of a Closet Master Baker Trailer from Raymond Prado on Vimeo.

Hugs, high fives, and a very Happy New Year!
Kella

Thanksgiving Redux

2009-12-02T23:23:00.002-06:00

This year I spent Thanksgiving with my guy Dave and his family, the Hall family, in Washington, D.C. Dennis, Dave's brother, and Lara, Dennis' wife, cooked up a lovely, generous feast for six (soon to be seven): roasted turkey, butternut squash soup, rosemary-cream-infused mashed potatoes, cornbread stuffing, cranberry relish, green beans, and pumpkin pie with homemade cinnamon ice cream. Dave and I were so inspired by the divine ice cream, that this weekend we're going to experiment with egg nog ice cream. Oh, yes; we're up for the challenge.

I'll also post a recipe by Sunday of this week. I'm going to start experimenting with a new posting schedule beginning next week: Thursdays and Sundays. The Tuesday weekly post isn't working for me or my work schedule, so Thursdays and Sundays, here I come. Stay tuned.

Hugs and high fives,

Kella

P.S. My class' service learning project is featured on Drop In & Decorate's site. Woohoo!

East Coast Baking with My Best Buddy: Chocolate Chip Oatmeal Cranberry Cookies

2009-11-25T15:45:00.001-06:00

This week I've been staying with friends in Washington, D.C. The great thing about my job is I can work from anywhere (thank you coolest job ever!). I'm so grateful that I made the decision to leave last Friday to see Lara, my future sister-in-law, and Jenna, my best friend in the whole wide world. On Sunday night Jenna and I thought it would be fun to do some baking in her cute Constitution Avenue apartment, so we got busy making Chocolate Chip Oatmeal Cranberry Cookies. [Please click on the hyperlink for the recipe, por favor, and just add one cup dried cranberries to make this receipe extra tasty!]

This week we also managed to dine at some delicious eateries across DC: Etete, fantastic Ethiopian (I recommend the peppered beef and collard greens), Rasika, the best lamb chops with mint chutney I've ever tasted in my life (hello, chocolate samosa), and Teasim's (in Dupont Circle) cutie pie salmon, edamame, cucumbers with pickled ginger and vinegar, and brown rice bento boxes. While St. Louis has some great places to eat, I was so excited to experience Ethiopian, Japanese and Indian in a city that has some incredible chefs and good eats.

In the spirit of Thanksgiving, I'd also like to give thanks for my mom and dad, sisters and brother, my granddad, grandpa and grandma, my adorable and wicked smart 8-year-old nephew, the love of my life Dave, his family, our friends (we are so lucky to have so many... thank you for making life fun!), and the cute little fuzzy creatures (aka, my three cats) who share the ups and downs of our lives.

While I won't be responsible for baking or roasting a turkey tomorrow, I do want to give a shout-out to all of you who will be. May tomorrow's meal be a great reminder that we all slow down, give thanks, and enjoy a delicious slow-cooked (or baked) meal.

Hugs, high fives, and Happy Thanksgiving!
Kella

Giving Thanks One Sugar Cookie (and House) at a Time

2009-11-21T23:45:00.001-06:00

I love the renowned food blogger Terry of Blue Kitchen. I e-mailed him at the beginning of my humble little baking blog waaaaaaaay back in February 2008 (doesn't sound that long ago to me) and he gave me great advice on the same night I e-mailed, even told me he had lived in St. Louis for awhile. I was smitten! What a terrifically generous and kind blogger, I thought. Then, I discovered Terry's endorsement of a fantastic nonprofit organization, Drop In and Decorate. I thought, what a really generous and kind blogger, and then I began to drool at two of my favorite things combined into one artful, cheerful place: community action and baking. Terry's link to Drop In and Decorate planted a seed in my mind: I wonder if my students would be interested in such a project... ? The answer: YES!

At the community college where I teach part-time, there's a terrific service learning coordinator there by the name of Donna Halsband. Donna supports and promotes all things service learning. She too is generous, kind and really helpful. For those who are new to service learning, let me briefly explain what it is all about. Service learning asks students to determine a problem in their community, brainstorm ways to influence or change that problem, and to do hands-on service projects to address the problems they've highlighted and then to reflect on what they've learned in the process.

To me, service learning is what education is meant to do: instill courage, creativity and compassion in the community at-large, connect students to the bigger picture, and remind others that inaction doesn't have to be our default setting. We can truly get up, stand up each and every day, in small and big ways.

This semester, my interdisciplinary class, IDS 101, at St. Louis Community College identified two problems in our community of St. Louis, Missouri: affordable housing and curbing (heck, eliminating!) domestic violence. As a result we've completed two service-learning projects that I'm incredibly proud of: a Drop In and Decorate sugar-cookie-baking-and-decorating extravaganza for Safe Connections, a St. Louis organization that empowers women and teens who have experienced sexual and physical abuse, and an all-day Habitat for Humanity build in the JeffVanderLou neighborhood.

I also have to give HUGE shout-outs to my amazing and generous friend Nicole Hunt and Holly Cunningham, owner of Hollyberry Baking Company. My students kept gushing about how cool it was to bake in a real, honest-to-goodness commercial bakery. I couldn't agree more, and I'm so happy (and thankful) that you let us "borrow" your kitchen last Sunday. Thank you!

So, in the spirit of Thanksgiving, I want to give a huge shout-out to my students: Adam, Adrienne, Alex H., Alex M., Amber, Brett, Caitlin, Chinara, Ed, Inam, Jessica, John, Kristin, Kris, Leyda, Liz, Randi, Ryan and Sean. You baked a 100 cookies a week ago. You helped a mother and daughter put the finishing touches on their new home in mid-October. The tulip tree you planted will shade their home for years to come.

Every Monday and Wednesday night I'm grateful for the time I spend with you and the lessons I take away from your personal stories and experiences.

Maybe sugar cookies and tulip trees don't solve the big problems (global warming, poverty, violence, injustice), but I think these things are a step in the right direction. There's something intensely satisfying knowing that our hands and bodies (and minds) can effect change.

So, on that note, work it!

Hugs and high fives,
Kella

P.S. If you'd like to know the recipe for the sugar cookies we baked last Sunday, click here. Same goes for the royal icing.

Gingerbread Scones: Tea & Comfort

2009-11-10T23:36:00.003-06:00

Gingerbread Scones
Adapted from A Taste of Home

Prep time: 20 minutes
Bake time: 15 minutes
Yield: 8 large scones or 12 smaller sized scones

Ingredients
2 cups all-purpose flour
3 tbps. brown sugar
2 tsps. baking powder
1 tsp. ground ginger
1/2 tsp. baking soda
1/2 tsp. salt
1/2 tsp. ground cinnamon
1/4 cup cold unsalted butter
1/3 cup molasses
1/4 cup milk
1 egg, separated
Penzey's Vanilla Sugar for Sprinkling

1. In a large bowl, combine the flour, brown sugar, baking powder, ginger, baking soda, salt and cinnamon. Cut in the butter until mixture is crumbly. In a small bowl, combine the molasses, milk and egg yolk until smooth; stir into the crumb mixture just until moistened.
2. Turn dough onto a floured surface; knead gently 6-8 times. Pat into an 8-inch circle; cut into 8-12 wedges. Separate wedges and place 1 inch apart on a greased baking sheet. Beat egg white until frothy; brush over scones. Sprinkle with vanilla sugar. Bake at 400 degrees F for 12-15 minutes or until golden brown. Remove from pan to a wire rack. Serve warm.

Enjoy!

Hugs and high fives,
Kella

Fudgey Brownies: Part 2 of a Belated Series

2009-11-04T00:54:00.007-06:00

Photo caption: Fudgey Brownies topped with local Caramel Apple ice cream and garnished with caramel sauce. Don't think about the calories, okay?

On Monday night, Dave and I looked at each other across the dinner table and said, "Wouldn't something sweet be nice?" My answer is unequivocably YES! Alas, neither of us had the motivation to go to the store for ingredients, so we did what we do best: we foraged in our pantry to see what we could create.

Luckily, I have two things going for me! 101 Best Brownie Recipes, a gift from my friend Beth D., and standard items such as sugar and unsweetened chocolate readily on hand.

If you're craving something chewy with a rich chocolate base and no more than 7 ingredients, then look no farther than the Fudgey Brownie recipe.

Fudgey Brownies
from 101 Best Brownie Recipes

Ingredients
4 (1 ounce) squares unsweetened chocolate (I prefer and use Ghiradelli's 100% cacao)
1/2 cup unsalted butter
2 cups sugar
4 eggs, beaten
1 cup sifted flour
1 tsp. vanilla bean paste (or you could use plain old vanilla, but I've been turned on to the paste for a much richer vanilla flavor... and totally get rid of imitation vanilla, okay? That stuff is evil.)
1/2 cup chopped pecans (more nuts are better, but that's what we had in the freezer)

Preheat the over to 325 degrees F.
Melt chocolate and butter in a small saucepan over medium heat and stir constantly to prevent burning.
Remove from heat and cool several minutes. While the chocolate is cooling, place sugar in a separate bowl and add beaten eggs, one at a time, blending after each addition.
Stir in chocolate and pour in flour a little at a time.
Add vanilla and pecans and stir to mix well.
Pour batter into a buttered and floured 9-inch square pan.
Bake at 325 degrees F for 30-40 minutes (mine took all 40).
Insert a toothpick into the center of the brownies to check for doneness. If the toothpick comes out clean, brownies are done.
Cool, cut into squares and serve.
Make about 9 hefty brownie squares.

Enjoy!

Hugs and high fives,

Kella

Lasagna al Pesto: Part I of a Belated Series

2009-11-03T22:22:00.025-06:00

I'm woefully embarrassed that I only had one post in October, and I'm hellbent to improve my posting ratio in November, the month of plenty and giving gratitude. Sure, there are legitimate hold-ups from last month and even a real-life tragedy of a friend of mine and Dave's who died suddenly last month. I also have been working my booty off at two jobs I love, travelling to see family (Dad's 55th birthday, Grandma's impending sojourn to Arizona to escape another Missouri winter), caring for my new kitten Zelda (I'm officially the "crazy cat lady" with three cats), and figuring out how to plan for a wedding. Did I mention starting another Master's in January 2010? Yes, there's that too.

So, despite all of these very real, very good commitments, I've missed my blog, my writing schedule, my humble little audience, and also my creative outlet: the kitchen. I've kept cooking and baking last month, but I didn't feel up to the challenge of posting pics and then writing about what worked, and what didn't, until now.

There's something to be said about fallow periods. Just resting, recuperating, taking a deep breath, maybe a nap and then pouring a cup of Harney & Sons organic passion plum tea with a smidge of honey. One of my favorite essays of all time is "Quitting the Paint Factory" by Mark Slouka, an article I read in Harper's when I was living in Tucson, Arizona for a couple years. I love what Slouka says about the beauty of being idle: "By allowing us time to figure out who we are, and what we believe; by allowing us time to consider what is unjust, and what we might do about it. By giving the inner life (in whose precincts we are most ourselves) its due."

I sometimes forget that we need to give pause, say grace in silence, offer up space and time before grand ideas and actions are realized. I feel like many other cultures and people understand this. They're not in an all-fire hurry to get to work, to take the requisite grab-and-go lunch, to beat rush hour, to grab the kids, to make dinner in 30 minutes or less, and to slump into the recliner or bed before a TV after an exhausting day of to-dos.

In many ways, I'm less busy than my counterparts. I have no children. I work from home at a job I adore. I can walk to the grocery store or lunch at Winslow's Home (thanks, Amy!) and pass a sweet gum tree that's turned a blazing, golden yellow. I definitely breathe and pause despite my reputation for being a caffeinated go-getter and Type-A planner who sometimes forgets about the almighty present.

So, I think lasagna is one of those meals that embodies the art of letting go and letting the oven do its part while I read a book (Pride and Prejudice and Zombies) or drink some wine. So, to all of you who are over-worked, in a hurry, feeling the approaching winter doldrums, or simply need a comforting dish to remind you why it's okay to slow down and breathe, I present an adapted recipe from Mollie Katzen's Enchanted Broccoli Forest: Lasagna al Pesto.

Time frame to bake
30-40 minutes to prepare
50 minutes to bake (assuming you have pesto on hand, be it bought or homemade)

Ingredients
a little olive oil for the pan
about 16 lasagna noodles (I used no-boil noodles when I made this, I recommend not doing that)
1 lb. fresh spinach
2 lbs. ricotta cheese
2 cups pesto
1/2 tsp. salt
fresh black pepper to taste
1 cup grated parmesan
2 lbs. mozzarella cheese, grated

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees F. Lightly oil a 9 x 13" baking pan.
Bring a large potful of water to a boil. Add noodles and cook for 4-5 minutes. They should be undercooked. Drain noodles and lay them flat and straight on a table, counter or tray.
Thoroughly wash and dry the spinach. I never discard the stems, though Mollie Katzen recommends that you do. I think she says this to prevent bitterness, but I honestly cannot tell the difference, so I leave the stems alone. Finely mince leaves or seriously, just leave the whole leaf alone. It will work out just fine without mincing or stemming (tastes delicous, too!).
Place the ricotta in a large bowl and stir in the spinach, pesto, salt, pepper and 1/2 cup of the parmesan. Mix well. 5) Place a layer of nooddles in the bottom of the prepared pan. Spread about 1/3 of the filling over the noodles and don't stress if it's uneven. Sprinkle about 1/3 of the mozzarella on top. Follow with another layer of noodles, another 1/3 of the filling, and another 1/3 of the mozzarella. Repeat this pattern one more time with a third layer of everything (your pan will be mighty full). Top lasagna with one final noodle layer and the remaining 1/2 cup of parmesan on the very top.
Bake for 50 minutes and if the top is browning too fast, simply cover loosely with foil.

Enjoy!

Hugs and high fives,

Kella

Rowdy Baking Blues: Spinach-Rice Casserole

2009-10-06T23:26:00.023-05:00

Last week was kinda crazy. I applied to Mizzou's Educational Technology Master's program, attended the Association for General and Liberal Studies annual conference in St. Louis, taught my part-time interdisciplinary community college class and prepared for our Habitat for Humanity service learning project for this upcoming Saturday, and managed to go to a winery to celebrate my good buddy Nicole's 30th on Sunday.

This week is no different. Work is awesome but busy with another conference (this one virtual), planning for new and improved resources, and keeping up with a burgeoning inbox, grading journals and projects before midterm, and eating delicious Spinach-Rice Casserole, which has fueled my long, long days for the past week. Cheesy, ricey goodness with plenty of greens, garlic, and onions. Yum.

Before you knock the humble casserole, consider its origins. While it's believed the English legitimized the word "casserole" by defining it in 1708, the casserole has been with us since prehistoric times. I believe casseroles will be with us many more years to come since it's a dinnertime staple and liberator of home-cooks, often women, everywhere. And, to be honest, I think the modern version of the casserole is far more appealing than mud-encrusted Beggar's Chicken of China. Then again, I've never tasted mud-encrusted anything, so maybe I'm missing the point.

Yet, I think the casserole does what Charles Baudelaire mentioned in 1863 in The Painter of Modern Life: "Modernity...to extract from fashion the poetry that resides in its historical envelope, to distill the eternal from the transitory..." Lyrical words for a dish that often gets ridiculed by foodies and chefs, but I still hold steady that there's something lovely about baking a meal in one dish, often from left-overs, without sacrificing taste or lots of time. And in our economic times, I'm sure casseroles are as popular as ever.

What I'm proposing is a return to savory, rustic cooking. Food that showcases the ingredients and ingenuity of the maker just as much as the presentation. And while I've sometimes been made fun of for learning how to cook, at my last job I was chastised for baking cookies since it was assumed that such an action was decidedly un-feminist and unprofessional, I continue to bake because there's something incredibly fun to see disparate ingredients transformed into a tastier whole.

So, to working professionals, men and women alike, vegetarians, and people who love a "hot dish" redolent of garlic, spinach, and cheddar, this dish is for you.

Spinach-Rice Casserole
Adapted from Mollie Katzen's Moosewood Cookbook

4 cups cooked rice (brown or white, you make the call)
1/2 cup unsalted butter
2 cups minced onions
10-16 oz. fresh spinach, washed
2 tsp. salt
1 head of garlic, minced
1/2 tsp. nutmeg (I recommend freshly grated nutmeg)
1/2 tsp. cayenne
black pepper, to taste
1 tbsp. Dijon mustard made with white wine
2 beaten large eggs
1 cup lowfat milk
2 cups grated cheddar
1-2 tsp. paprika
1-2 tbsp. olive oil

1) Preheat oven to 350 degrees F. Oil a 9x13-inch baking pan with 1-2 tbsps. olive oil.
2) Heat the butter in a deep skillet. Add onion and saute 5-8 minutes ~ until soft. Add spinach, salt, and garlic, and cook about 5-7 minutes more over medium heat, stirring frequently. Add this mixture to the rice, along with the seasonings and mustard. Mix well.
3) Beat together eggs and milk, and stir this into the spinach-rice mixture, along with the grated cheddar.
4) Spread into the prepared pan and dust with paprika. Bake uncovered for 35-40 minutes ~ until heated through and lightly browned on top.

Enjoy!

Hugs and high fives,
Kella

Mmmm, Baked Bacon.

2009-09-25T00:39:00.008-05:00

This week has been a blur. Last weekend Dave and my friend Elie took me camping in the Ozarks for my 31st birthday, and on Saturday it rained biblical proportions on a tent that was downright sinful (and soggy).

Despite the downpour, life was still good. We found a greasy spoon diner in Osage Beach called Kay's Home Cooking--home of the all-you-can-eat breakfast, no kidding--and drank hot, plentiful coffee, ate biscuits and gravy, Western omelets, French toast, and sausage links until we were about to burst. S'mores, grilled steak, roasted carrots & garlic, and biscuits on a stick were also a part of Dave's campfire cuisine prior to the Kay's orgy. His food was decidedly more tasty and healthy, and our hike down to the Lake helped burn off a S'more or two until we headed in town for Kay's.

Ultimately, dear readers, there is something you should know: Dave is the cook in our relationship; I am the baker. And boy howdy did he cook last weekend. Elie was expecting hot dogs (and I was too), but Dave wouldn't hear of it. He even roasted a surprise baked apple that was quite delicious.

So, I let Dave continue cooking when we got back from the Ozarks. On Tuesday night, Dave made dinner--BLTs with a twist. Dave baked the bacon at 400 degrees for 12-15 minutes, paired the center-cut bacon with sourdough I had bought from a local bakery, patio tomatoes I grew on our front porch (they're still growing and supplying us with late-season goodies), Boston leaf lettuce, and Hellman's mayo to make my favorite sandwich of all time. The sandwich that was, and will forever be, the figurative apple Eve gave to Adam if Adam were a vegetarian and that apple were a tasty pork product. I know pigs are sentient, intelligent creatures, but as long as there are BLTs, I will no longer trek in vegetarian cuisine despite all of the Molly Katzen cookbooks I own (and love).

So, dear readers, try baking your bacon sometime. We're not sure if it's any healthier for you, but the bacon is crispy, which is my favorite, and still tender.

And since fall is finally upon us, I hope to go apple picking this weekend so I can make an apple pie. I think, thanks to my friends Jane H. and Joni, that I know the trick to flaky, lovely pie dough too. So, stay tuned for more ovenly goodness.

Hugs and high fives,
Kella

If the Stars Were Mine, I'd Bake You Mint-Filled Brownie Cupcakes

2009-09-16T00:34:00.010-05:00

Tonight was a relaxing little jazzy interlude from a busy day. I got my hair cut at Lemon Spalon, met Dave at home with cupcakes from The Cupcakery, had a lovely laid-back Qdoba dinner, and then walked with Dave to browse music at Vintage Vinyl on The Loop. I came away with two CDs I've been dying for by a jazz artist I just love: Melody Gardot.

We came home and twirled around the kitchen to "Our Love is Easy" as the Mint-Filled Brownie Cupcakes I baked for the class I teach on Monday and Wednesday nights did their thing in our little gas oven. I turn 31 on Thursday, and I believe birthdays should always be celebrated. Another year of life is another year of life, and for each year I'm given, I'm eternally grateful.

So, I'd like to wrap my baked goods in ribbons and give them all to you, loyal readers and dear friends. Here's to another year of life, love, and learning! Thanks for supporting me along the sweets-filled journey.

Mint-Filled Brownie Cupcakes
Adapted from Martha Stewart's Cupcakes

Makes 2 dozen cupcakes

Ingredients
16 oz. semisweet chocolate, coarsely chopped
1 cup unsalted butter
2 cups sugar
1 1/2 tsp. salt
6 large eggs
1 cup all-purpose flour
1/2 cup unsweetened Dutch-process cocoa powder, sifted
24 small chocolate-covered peppermint patties (Hello, York!)

1. Preheat oven to 350 degrees F. Line a muffin tin with paper liners. Place chocolate and butter in the top pan of a double boiler--not in the pan of simmering water. Stir occassionally until just melted, 4-5 minutes.

2. Remove bowl from heat. Whisk sugar and salt until mixture is smooth; whisk in eggs. Stir in flour and cocoa until smooth, but don't overmix.

3. Spoon 1 heaping tbsp. of batter into each lined cup. Place one patty on top, pressing into batter. Top with 2 tbsps. batter, covering patty completely. Bake, rotating tin halfway through, until the cake tester comes out with only a few moist crumbs (um, I use toothpicks... doesn't everyone?). In other words, bake the cupcakes for about 35 minutes. Transfer tin to a wire rack and cool completely before removing cupcakes.

Enjoy!

Hugs, high fives and 31 birthday candles,
Kella

Chocolate Chip Cookies: Sometimes Traditional is Beautiful

2009-09-08T15:33:00.017-05:00

I'm all for experimentation in art, jazz, love, and life, but sometimes plain old vanilla ice cream, chocolate chip cookies or a simple shot of amaretto are flavors I crave. I don't think one has to always muddle lime basil in her salsa or make goji berry-flaxseed-chocolate chip cookies to make traditional fare taste great, though I will admit little fusion tips and tricks like these amuse me.

Sometimes, though, it's easy to understand why some tried-and-true recipes are just that: unflappable, honest, and incredibly comforting. Great bakers know that you don't have to be exotic to create delicious food. There's something beautiful about the simplicity of high-quality ingredients.

So, in tonight's post, I want to pay respect to the unfussy Chocolate Chip Cookie. You are simple, you are humble, but oh-so good when you come straight from the oven. And now that fall is settling in, let's fire up the ovens and bake.

Classic Chocolate Chip Cookies
by Mark Bittman, How to Cook Everything
Makes 3 to 4 dozen

Time: About 30 minutes

1/2 pound (2 sticks) unsalted butter, softened to room temperature
3/4 cup white sugar
3/4 cup brown sugar
2 eggs
2 cups all-purpose flour
1/2 tsp. baking soda
1/2 tsp. salt
1 tsp. vanilla extract (pure... no imitation, folks)
2 cups premium chocolate chips (I like Ghiradelli)

1. Preheat the oven to 375 degrees F.
2. Use an electric mixer to cream together the butter and sugars; add the eggs one at a time (this is key!) and beat until well blended (smooth, baby, smooth!).
3. Combine the dry ingredients--flour, baking soda, and salt--in a bowl and add them to the batter by hand, stirring to blend. Stir in the vanilla & then the chocolate chips.
4. Drop by teaspoons or tablespoons onto ungreased baking sheets and bake until lightly browned, about 10 minutes. Cool for about 2 minutes on the sheets before using a spatula to transfer the cookies to a rack to finish cooling. Store in a covered container at room temp for no more than a day or two.

Blackberries, Part I (Not the Things You Text On...)

2009-09-01T23:34:00.014-05:00

I've been a reluctant food writer lately. For the past two weeks, I've been in the spin cycle of busyness at my job, my part-time teaching gig, planning an engagement party with the hostess with the mostest, Nicole H., and also working out with my personal trainer on Tuesdays and Thursdays (and making time for the gym a day or two beyond those days). This past weekend Dave and I drove down to see my granddad, John Dee, who just turned 84. Happy Birthday, Granddad! Even though I know he's never seen a blog, I hope my message goes out to the universe at-large...

Ultimately, though, as good as all of these calendar items sound, I know they are excuses. Sad but true. Sometimes the truth is boring, even though I know it doesn't have to be. I really want to prize my creativity, my writing, and you, my lovely readers. I am really going to step up my game, and get to blogging on a more regular schedule. Whenever I e-mailed Terry B. of Blue Kitchen about advice for new foodie bloggers, he told me to keep to my schedule. Once a week is what I'm good for, and so I'm going to endeavor to post my goods, my odes to oven-raised goodness, by Tuesdays at midnight. It's going to be tough some days, but the girl knows she can do this, wants to do this. So, enough talk.

Let's bake!

Tonight, instead of the chocolate chip cookies I thought about making, I realized that Blackberry Pie was in order. I had all of the ingredients at home, including the blackberries I had frozen from my two-flat bounty this past July at the Soulard Farmer's Market. The Scharf Family Farms (shout out, Illinois!) have some great deals on produce, especially if you visit the Soulard Market before it's closing on Saturday. The berries I used in tonight's recipe were beautiful looking, but not necessarily the sweetest blackberries I've ever eaten. Therefore, baking pies and cobblers (and making jam... more on that front next week) for not-quite-there produce is ideal.

Again, I go to my favorite minimalist cookbook author, Mark Bittman. I truly believe that in life, as in baking, less is more if you have quality ingredients and simple cooking ethos. I'm not into culinary foams or deconstructed BLTs. I like my food real, tangible and enjoyed by many. While I may never write for Saveur or Gourmet, I know that the trick to good eating rests in making the ingredients you do have taste as lovely as possible with minimal (there's that word again!) fuss or obfuscation. Opaque, I am not, nor is my kitchen.

So, without further ado, here's the skinny on how to make Blackberry Pie--one last huzzah to summer fruit before fall completely takes us over.

Blackberry Pie
Recipe adapted from Mark Bittman, How to Cook Everything

Makes about 8 servings

Time: About 30 minutes ('cause I cheated tonight and used pre-made pie dough*)

5 cups blackberries, picked over, briefly rinsed
1 1/2 cups sugar
3 tbsps. corn starch
Pinch of salt
1/4 tsp. cinnamon
1/4 tsp. freshly grated nutmeg (It's the best when freshly zest... Use it!)

Pre-made pie pastry (see *)

1) Gently toss the blackberries with the sugar, corn starch, salt, and spices.
2) Roll out the pie pastry and place the first layer into the pie pan.
3) Pile the blackberry mixture in the middle of the pie pan, making the pile of blackberries a little higher in the center than at the sides.
4) Cover with the top crust; decorate edges with a fork or your fingers.
5) Refrigerate the pie while you preheat the oven to 450 degrees F.
6) When the oven is ready, place the pie on a baking sheet and brush the top with milk and sprinkle sugar all around.
7) Use a sharp knife to cut two to three 2-inch-long vent holes in the top crust to let the steam escape while the pie is baking (I always gravitate to what my mom taught me: a stalk of wheat.)
8) Place in the oven for 10 minutes and bake at 450 degrees F.
9) Reduce to the heat to 350 degrees F and bake another 40 minutes until the pie is golden brown. Do not underbake.
10) Cool on a rack before serving warm with Vanilla Bean ice cream. Yum!

*I know I'm going to baker's hell for admitting that I used pre-made pie dough, but it's true. I still am learning the fine art and craft to making truly exquisite pastry dough. If you have tips, I'm all ears.

Hugs and high fives,
Kella

The Procrastinator's Peach Raspberry Crisp

2009-08-14T01:48:00.013-05:00

The two handsome men pictured at the end of this Animoto flick are Dave, my fiancee and overall swell guy, and Reese, my cute and funny and smart little brother, age 21.
Peach and Raspberry Crisp
The Barefoot Contessa, Ina Garten

Serves 10 (or in my little brother Reese's case, 1)

4-5 pounds firm, ripe peaches (10-12 large peaches)
Zest of 1 orange
1 1/4 cups granulated sugar
1 cup light brown sugar, packed
1 1/2 cups plus 2-3 tbsps. all-purpose flour
1/2 pint raspberries
1/4 tsp. salt
1 cup quick-cooking oats
1/2 pound cold unsalted butter, diced

1. Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Butter the inside of a 10 x 15 x 2 1/2" oval baking dish.
2. The tricky part: Immerse the peaches in boiling water for 30 seconds, then submerge peaches in ice-cold water. Peel peaches and slice them into thick wedges. Place peach wedges into large bowl and then add orange zest, 1/4 cup granulated sugar, 1/2 cup brown sugar, and 2 tsps. of flour. Toss well. Gently mix in raspberries. Allow the mixture to sit for 5 minutes. If you're like me, you'll have too much liquid. Add 1-2 more tbsps. of flour to the mix. Pour ooey gooey peach & raspberry mixture into the baking dish and gently smooth the top.
3. Combine 1 1/2 cups flour, 1 cup granulated sugar, 1/2 cup brown sugar, salt, oats, and the cold, diced butter in the bowl. Stir with a wooden spoon until the butter is pea-sized and the mixture is crumbly, hence the "crisp" part of this creation (wink).
4. Sprinkle dry mixture evenly on top of raspberry and peach mixture.
5. Bake for 1 hour, until the top is browned and crisp and the juices are bubbly. The scent will be heady, way better than a candle.
6. Serve immediately with vanilla or cinnamon ice cream. Repeat & enjoy.

Hugs and high fives,
Kella

The Girl Promises An Update by the Weekend's End! [I Lied Earlier]

2009-08-04T21:28:00.007-05:00

This week, albeit only being Tuesday, has thrown me a few curve balls: air conditioning died on Sunday, so the apartment is 90-degrees and the landlord won't fix the problem (I'm shaking both of my fists at you, crappy landlord); my wifi died yesterday, so I spent the night at my future father-in-law's home so I could get work done today; and I'm plum exhausted. Therefore, my baking adventures will be postponed until this weekend. Dave has rigged an ethernet connection, hence the update and my promises.

Until then, I thank you for your patience and understanding. Be well, rest easy, enjoy baked goods, and consider enjoying an apt red wine: Murphy's Law.

Hugs and high fives,
Kella

Pizza Dough

2009-07-29T00:01:00.016-05:00

Tonight's post is going to be short and savory, but it's well worth the time and energy if you decide to bake your own pizza this summer, and who doesn't love garden-fresh tomatoes, buffalo mozzarella and center-slab bacon on a beautiful slice of homemade pizza? There is so much fresh produce that a garden veggie pizza is not only easy to make, but delicious, cheap and healthy (minus that bacon, of course!).

For the record, I know lots and lots of people swear by Trader Joe's pizza dough, but I'd like to challenge them to try this quick and easy recipe from "The Minimalist," Mark Bittman, cookbook author extraordinaire of How to Cook Everything.

Basic Pizza Dough
Makes 1 large or 2 small pizza(s)

Ingredients
1 tsp. instant or rapid-rise yeast
3 cups bread flour, plus more as needed
2 tsps. coarse sea salt, plus extra for sprinkling
about 1 cup water (perhaps 1/4 cup more if need be)
2 tbsps. plus 1 tsp. olive oil

1. Combine the yeast, flour, and 2 tsps. salt in the container of a food processor. Turn the machine on and add 1 cup water and 2 tbsps. of oil through the feed tube (Believe it or not, I did all of my pizza dough by hand... It wasn't that hard, but Mark's way will definitely save you precious time.)
2. Process mixture for about 30 seconds, adding more water, a little bit at a time, until the mixture forms a ball and is slightly sticky to the touch. If it is dry, add a tbsp. or two of water and process for another 10 seconds. (Mark's caveat is if the dough is sticky, add flour, one tbsp. at a time.)
3. Turn the dough onto a floured work surface and knead by hand for a few seconds to form a smooth, round dough ball. For great kneading tips, check here.
4. Grease a bowl with remaining olive oil, and place dough in it. Cover bowl with a damp towel/cloth and let it rise in a warm, draft-free area (I used my front porch... It worked perfectly!)
5. The dough will double in size in about 1-2 hours. You can also let the dough rise more slowly, in the refrigerator, for up to 6-8 hours.
6. Proceed by rolling out dough and shaping into a circle (or square, if that's your preference). I'm still not an expert at tossing pizza dough, so count me out on that front, but I've found with a rolling pin (or makeshift bottle of unopened wine) and patience, you can shape a nice looking pizza.
7. Preheat oven to 500 degrees--the hotter the better, so do this on a cool evening, if possible. Bake pizza with all of your preferred toppings for about 20 minutes. The crust will be a golden bubbly loveliness. I think that's the technical term...

For the pizza above, I created a tomato sauce using diced and stewed tomatoes, shredded mozzarella, crispy center-cut bacon and Missouri-grown yellow tomatoes. The result, I think, was delicious!

Well, I'll be back next week with more tales of blackberry jam, pico de gallo (viva el tomato!), and cherry pie. I've been meaning to get to these three recipes all summer long, and now I finally have the time.

Hugs and high fives,
Kella

A Girl and Her Stove: Cooking with Granddad (Fried Zucchini)

2009-07-22T01:17:00.026-05:00

I've been a very bad blogger lately. Blame it on the post-Europe sinus infection, the spreading of news to family and friends that the girl is getting hitched to Dave in the fall of 2010, or the fact that I've enlisted a personal trainer on July 27 to whip the post-injury girl into bride-fighting shape. I'm still gonna bake, but I'm not going to put as many of my tasty creations into my mouth. The girl has some sit-ups to do while the oven timer is running.

This week's installment, however, does not count calories but rather childhood memories of swimming with my granddad and kid sister Jenna in the Pomme de Terre Lake (which literally translates to Potato Lake; you've got to love Midwesterners and their earnest sense of French flair), eating homemade vanilla ice cream that my granddad spent a whole day making, and sipping sassafras tea by the wood-burning stove of my grandparents' country home in Weaubleau, Missouri, Pop. 518 (9 years ago that is... I think it may be less now).

My grandfather, who I always call Granddad, now lives in Clinton, Mo., former Baby Chick, as in fowl, Capital of the World. I went to visit him July 10-12, and we participated in our regular routine of reminiscing, watching the Gameshow Network, and eating at the Golden Corral on Sunday.

Saturday, well before the insipid buffet that is Golden Corral, was magical. We drove to the Clinton town square and purchased peaches, tomatoes, zucchini and cucumbers from a little produce stand that procured its wares from an Amish greenhouse in Windsor, Missouri. My granddad John Dee haggled with the other elder statesman behind the wall of zucchinis about the quality of his tomatoes. True to my granddad's hard-scrabble, skeptical "show me" nature, my granddad threatened that he would be back if the tomatoes weren't good; and while I would never have the chutzpah to say something like that to a roadside vendor, my granddad comes from a time period (b. August 25, 1925) where what you sell should be quality, or else.

Thankfully, Granddad had nothing to worry about. The tomatoes were juicy and steak-like in their thickness. The cucumbers were "dressed" quite nicely, as Granddad would say, with white vinegar, sugar, a little water, and salt and pepper. The peaches were the best I've ever had, and that's saying something for a girl who doesn't really like the fuzzy texture of a peach. Forgive me, readers. Based off of the peaches I ate in Clinton, I've seen the error of my ways. Peaches can be delectable if ripe, juicy and cut with a serrated knife so the sweet fruit can be bitten into first. But the highlight of our Saturday afternoon adventures was my granddad's fried zucchini.

Fried Zucchini
Recipe by John Dee Hammond (aka, Granddad)

Ingredients

3 healthy sized zucchinis, sliced into coin-size pieces
A skillet full of bacon render (this ain't low-fat cooking)

Batter:
1 large egg
1 cup of flour
salt and pepper to taste
1/2 to 3/4 cup whole milk

1. Prepare the batter by whisking the egg into the cup of flour. Add milk to this mixture until the batter is the consistency of a medium-thick liquid. Note: the batter should be able to coat the slices of zucchini easily without falling off the zucchini before it enters the frying pan.

2. Heat up the skillet full of bacon render at medium heat until it's a lake of glistening fat. You'll know it's ready when you drop a dash of batter into the pan. The batter will fry into a tiny, crispy golden-brown dot. You're ready!

3. Fry the zucchini for 2-3 minutes on eat side until golden brown. Turn once and repeat. Then place the fried zucchini (which looks and tastes like a croquette) on paper towels or newspaper to soak up the excess grease.
4. Serve hot with other summertime produce. Enjoy!

All I Want in Madrid and Normandie

2009-07-07T23:55:00.000-05:00

Make a Smilebox slideshow

Coconut Cupcakes & Rustic Veggie Tarts

2009-06-16T23:00:00.042-05:00

Well, all I can say is I hope no one else accidentally downloads a Russian rogue virus. Let's just say the best of baking-blog intentions fall away when your laptop is in the shop for 4 days. So, in an attempt to make up for lost time, I offer you two of my creations, coconut cupcakes and a rustic veggie tart. The cupcake recipe was created by the lovely and talented Ina Garten; the rustic veggie tart was inspired by my buddy Sarah, who found the original recipe in the Taste of Home (Aug./Sept. 2008).

So why did I make coconut cupcakes of all things? My friend Shane just graduated from law school, so when I received his text message asking me to bake for him, how could I refuse? The recipe is really easy and the cake, when cooked just right, is moist and lovely with the vanilla-bean cream-cheese frosting. Seriously addictive sweets that really are not just the domain of often over-priced cupcakeries. (though I wholeheartedly endorse Sweet Art... tasty cakes and art... what more could a girl want?)

On the savory front, to keep ourselves sane and healthy, Dave and I have split up our cooking responsibilities so that he cooks Mondays and Wednesdays and I cook Tuesdays and Thursdays. So, tonight I made Sarah's rustic veggie tarts for dinner, and they tasted as good as the day she made them. Before going to beginning yoga, I roasted eggplant, tomato, zucchini, garlic, red onion, white mushrooms and a red pepper in olive oil, salt and pepper. When I got home from an incredibly awesome class, I picked some fresh basil for the tarts' garnish from the plants I grew from seed on my front porch and rolled out the pre-made pastry dough (I'm a cheat on week nights, what can I say?) and then stuffed each circle with roasted veggies. The savory beauties cooked for 20 more minutes and voila! Dinner was served.

The really cool part about dinner was that Dave and I bought almost all of the ingredients at the Soulard Farmers Market on Saturday for super reasonable (read cheap) prices. I also discovered locally made, nationally award-winning Baetje goat cheese, which is handmade in Bloomsdale, Missouri, mild, and oh-so good. I secretly fantasize about moving to a farm, raising goats, and becoming a cheesemonger, but the Baetjes beat me to it (and they do a damn good job, so I can't complain). Next week I plan on making the recipe Veronica handed me on Saturday: three-pepper goat cheese and carmelized onion pizza!

Oh, but I digress. Here are the recipes for today's posting. I'll be back later this week for some Father's Day baking. I'm taking the train to Kansas City, and I want to surprise my dad with something tasty.

Coconut Cupcakes
The Barefoot Contessa Cookbook by Ina Garten, 1999

For the full recipe, please click the link here.

Rustic Veggie Tarts
Los Angeles Times recipe

For the full recipe, please click the link here.

The only difference between Sarah's tart and the LA Times' recipe, is that we didn't use goat cheese, eggs or shallots (I used red onions). Dave doesn't like goat cheese, which honestly breaks my heart many nights, especially since I found a fine local purveyor, but hey! Parmesan works just fine! (and Dave's worth it, no matter how bad I'd like to make out with chevre by the log)

Enjoy!

Hugs and high fives,
Kella

A Girl & Her Stove: Caesar Potato Salad with Snap Peas

2009-06-02T21:49:00.001-05:00

I'll admit, some days it's just too hot and too tiring to bake. Today's temperature was in the 80s, a severe thunderstorm whipped through St. Louis and felled a gigantic sweet gum tree limb, which promptly landed on top of my little red truck. All is well, but baking coconut cupcakes is going to wait until tomorrow. I'll post a bonus blog entry tomorrow (Wed., 6/3) after I bake those little, yummy post-modern white-on-white creations, so don't worry. The girl and her oven will make an appearance this week, especially since I promised my good buddy Shane that he would be the lucky recipient of these bad boys.

Yet, Dave and I knew that dinner must go on, regardless of my baking rut and fallen tree limb issues. So, I consulted Epicurious.com (oh, how I love thee) to find a recipe that would use our russet potatoes and sugar snap peas. While Dave grilled chicken thighs in a sesame oil, maple, cilantro, garlic, ginger, soy sauce, honey glaze, I whipped up a recipe from Bon Appetit's June 2009 issue: Caesar Potato Salad with Snap Peas. I contend that this recipe would be made even better with bits of bacon and perhaps a dollop of honey and cilantro, which I picked fresh from my garden tonight. The storm spared my herbs, thank goodness.

So, after a long, rainy afternoon, Dave and I enjoyed a blissful dinner replete with a crisp, apple-flavored Eve Chardonnay. And as I sipped my wine, forked my potato salad and conversed with my honey, I thought of a quote I read (The Geography of Bliss by Eric Weiner--thanks, Jenna!) today at lunch on my front stoop: "Maybe happiness is this: not feeling like you should be elsewhere, doing something else, being someone else."

I agree. Happiness, for me, is often found in the everyday going ons of my life and often catches me completely unaware.

Listening to: "It's Coming Down," Cake

Sourdough: 1, Kella: 0

2009-05-26T22:16:00.000-05:00

Well, the results for my first loaf of sourdough are not in the basket. Nope, that lovely picture is Smaku's work for Good Eats. I want to make sure I give Creative Commons' users credit where credit is definitely due. I'm using Smaku's image to help you imagine what I was gunning for but did not achieve: crusty, yummy sourdough bread.

The starter I made on Friday and baked tonight did excellent through all fermentation and enrichment steps except the baking part, or so I thought. Perhaps I could have better cultivated the wild-yeast gathering for the starter, which is, I think, the trickiest step in the process. Dave seems to think that I didn't let the sourdough starter ferment enough, which is also entirely possible. There were some issues with the starter separating into liquid and dough early on, so I think I should add more flour in the beginning of the process.

While my loaf doesn't look pretty or as poofy as I would like to see, it did rise somewhat, which means I did collect yeast from somewhere off my porch. The tail ends of the loaf taste tangy and the texture is chewy and shows the requisite air pockets that indicate the presence of yeast.

However, the good news stopped once I cut into the loaf from the middle. A giant air pocket formed a cavernous tunnel much like the picture here. I think I didn't proof and shape the bread well enough, especially the latter. While I let the dough raise for 5 hours and then rest for another 2 hours, something went wildly wrong. I used bread flour, only glass containers, and filtered water, but my sourdough saga make me feel like General Douglas MacArthur: "I shall return."

All I know is that the Egyptians have been making starter breads like the one I made this week since 2500 BC, so I need to cut myself a little bit of slack and try again.

For those of you who are uber adventurous, the recipe I used came from a back issue of the now defunct magazine, Craft. As soon as I find a suitable recipe, I'll share. Till then, I'm sure you'll wait with "bated breath."

Let Them Eat (Cheese)cake

2009-05-20T21:12:00.000-05:00

I don't know about you, but I'm on a budget. I realized this today when I went through the grocery line and had to mentally do the numbers before checking out to make sure I had what I could afford. Let's just say the Hellman's mayo (heck, I can make mayonnaise) and family pack of flour tortillas (I'm making a sourdough starter, so carbs are a plenty) didn't make the cut and were stealthily put back on the proper shelves. Seriously!

So, in coming posts, which from here on out will be posted weekly by Tuesdays at midnight, I'll detail some cost-efficient recipes that don't sacrifice flavor but do manage to be nice to your wallet and your palate. And don't worry. I'll still make room for Scharffen Berger chocolate and nasturtiums.

But, for one last hooray into decadence for the coming weeks, let me quote my sassy godmother of food writing, MFK Fisher:

"Permit your disciplined inner self to relax, and think of caviar, and thick cream, and fat little pullets trotting through an oak grove rich with truffles, 'musky, fiery, savory, mysterious.' Close your eyes to the headlines and your ears to the sirens and the threatenings of high explosives, and read instead the sweet nostalgic measures of these recipes, impossible yet fond."

The fact that Fisher's essay, "How to Practice True Economy," first appeared in her book, How to Cook A Wolf, in 1942 is truly awe-inspiring and yet not. We're surely not the first who have gone through an economic downturn, and we won't be the last.

In many instances, I hope to see a resurgence of home cooks and victory gardens. We owe it to ourselves to discover that good, healthful eats are not a luxury but a necessity. I'm a busy lady, but the older I get, the more I realize that there's something cathartic and rejuvenating about making a mess in the kitchen.

And in that spirit, I offer you one of my first original recipes--a recipe my mother perfected as I grew up in Blue Springs, Missouri: Turtle cheesecake.

Turtle Cheesecake
Recipe by Mary Carla Ligon (aka, Mom)

Ingredients

Cheesecake filling
3 packages cream cheese (the real deal, no neufchatel low-fat nonsense)
1 1/4 cups sugar
1/2 cup sour cream
2 tsp. vanilla
4 eggs
A squirt of fresh lemon
A dash of salt

Chocolate ganache
12 oz. bag of semisweet chocolate chips (I use Ghiradelli)
8 oz. heavy whipping cream

Crust
3 packs graham crackers crushed
2 sticks of butter

Garnish
1 cup pecans, halved
Smucker's Caramel Sundae Syrup (or homemade caramel sauce)

1. Preheat the oven to 350 degrees F.
2. Liberate your 9-inch springform pan from underneath your frequently used cookware; you know the pan that has the cool little release latch that always makes me think of parachuting. They look like so.
3. Use a food processor on the graham crackers, or use a heavy duty plastic bag that you can beat the crap out of with a rolling pin. The latter is great for the low-tech cook.
4. Once the graham crackers are finely crushed, melt 2 sticks of unsalted butter in a saucepan or the microwave. Combine butter and crumbs to make the cheesecake crust.
5. Using clean hands and the bottom of a flat juice glass, press the graham cracker-butter mixture into the springform pan to make the bottom and side crust.

Now it's time for the ganache:
1. Using a double boiler, melt the 12 oz. of semisweet chocolate.
2. Once the chocolate is thoroughly melted, add 1 cup of heavy whipping cream. Stir together and let sit for 10-15 minutes until somewhat cooled.
3. Pour the chocolate ganache into the springform pan. This chocolaty goodness will be your surprise layer in the cheesecake.

Moving on to the cream cheese filling:
1. Blend the cream cheese, sugar, vanilla and eggs on medium until smooth. Lumps will not do, so get rid of them.
2. Add the lemon, salt and sour cream into the smooth mixture.
3. When all ingredients for the filling are mixed, gently pour the cream cheese filling on top of the ganache in a circle, being careful to segregate the filling from the ganache (i.e., cover the chocolate, don't mix the two layers up).

Final steps:
Once the three steps are finished, bake cheesecake for 50 minutes to an hour until the middle is wobbly but firm (i.e., set). Let cheesecake cool overnight and then refrigerate for several hours before garnishing dessert with fresh pecans and caramel syrup. A cheating-heart trick for the caramel syrup: I use Smucker's Caramel Sundae Syrup even though I can make caramel. Call me lazy!

Enjoy with a robust pinot noir or big-bodied cabernet sauvignon (or as Dave says, Baileys).

Looking for A Big Bloom on A Short Vine

2009-05-07T20:04:00.000-05:00

title after Lee Ann Womack's song, "The Bees"

My seeds are sprouting into cilantro, basil and chives. Zinnias and California Poppies are coming, so today I drove my little red truck to my local gardening shop and bought more potting soil, pastel pink impatiens and purple sage. I love the guys at University Gardens, 8130 Delmar Blvd. in University City. They're down to earth, have a lot of cool tats, and excellent advice on how to grow a garden (a stinky yet Hulk-like hint: fish emulsion).

In the next month or so, I'm going to start my organic summer vegetable garden because, let's face it, the girl and her oven are going to want to conserve a little heat for summer-fresh fare. And I think it's a crime to go all summer without fresh pico de gallo.

But until the heat becomes the "hot mess" my friend Lindsey M. often called St. Louis summers, I'm still baking. In the past two weeks I've made six dozen chocolate chip cookies and a lovely pan of the lime bars pictured above. Lime Bars were an impulse bake on Monday night. Chocolate chip cookies continue to be chewy, buttery crisp with lots of Ghiradelli semisweet chocolate. When my friend Beth comes to town on her way to her professorship at Bucknell, I'm going to use Scharfenberger to make her extra special delicacies. We're also hitting that taqueria on Cherokee St. and buying chocolates from Kakao. Hello, Maker's Mark chocolates and shrimp burritos. Yum.

But the best part of this week besides digging in the dirt and then baking (with liberal hand washing in between), was the little package that arrived on Wednesday night from Fed Ex. Our tickets from Travelocity arrived, which means Dave and I are definitely flying to Madrid in late June to visit some of his friends and then hitch a train to France for Carmella's wedding in Normandy on July 1. You best believe there will be a European edition of "A Girl and Her Oven." Double swoon with ripe camembert on top.

So, without further ado, to celebrate this week's bounty, here's my homage to tart lime bars (I promise to bake more chocolate chip cookies soon!). May the two flavors unite on this blog sometime soon. And if you're ever in town, let me know. I'll invite you to dinner, or at least dessert.

Hugs and high fives,
Kella

Lime Bars
a recipe modified from The Taste of Home Baking Book, a gift from my dad

Shortbread Ingredients
2 cups all-purpose flour
1/2 cup confectioners' sugar
1 cup butter (unsalted), melted

Filling Ingredients
4 eggs
2 cups sugar
1/3 cup lime juice
1/4 cup all-purpose flour
1 tsp. baking powder
1/2 teaspoon grated lime peel

Dust confectioners' sugar on top once the bars are cool to the touch.

1. In a large mixing bowl, combine the first four ingredients. Press into a greased 13" x 9" x 2" pan. Bake at 350 degrees F for 13-15 minutes, or just until edges are lightly browned.

2. For filling, combine eggs, sugar, lime juice, flour, baking powder, and lime zest in a large mixing bowl. Beat until frothy while listening to some good music. I recommend James Brown for this step.

3. Bake 20-25 minutes longer or until light golden brown. Cool on a wire rack. Dust with confectioners' sugar.

Enjoy!

Harvest + Urban Gardening

2009-04-25T15:35:00.000-05:00

In addition to Patty's farm-fresh Banty and brown eggs I brought home on Friday, I also received a bunch of green onions from her garden! (Thank YOU, Patty) Due to this bounty, I'm planning on making two quiches with baby Portobello mushrooms, gouda and green onions on Sunday (one for Patty and one for me). I also have some more biscuits to make since it's time to use the plain yogurt in my fridge. I'll freeze those bad boys and then have them on the ready when guests or carb-cravings strike.

This afternoon I planted chives, sweet basil and cilantro in containers. In my little clay-based (ugh!) flower garden, I planted larkspur, pinwheel zinnias, wildflowers, and California poppies.

I have a feeling I didn't plant the flowers far enough apart, so I may need to thin them out when seedlings begin to show. My mint is already flourishing (I planted it last year) and Dave can't wait to make homemade mint-dark chocolate chunk ice cream. I love steeping iced tea with fresh mint while Dave loves making mojitos. I'm sure I'll plant something next weekend too... If only I had better soil and a place to put a compost bin!

Photo Credit: I created the "Polaroid effect" of California poppies with Picnik.

How to Win Friends & Influence People One Pecan Shortbread Bar at a Time

2009-04-22T21:24:00.001-05:00

Even though it's Wednesday and I'm pressed to grade several papers for the class I teach and projects for the class I help another professor with, I think it's time to share my secret weapon: pecan shortbread bars.

Whatever the stakes, however grumpy colleagues, friends or family might be, these bars are surefire squares of happiness, barring any anti-nut-lovers. The first time I ever made this recipe I was living in Tucson, Arizona. Generally speaking, I don't recommend baking in Tucson beyond March until November. Nature's oven is quite enough! In any case, I really messed up the first batch because I didn't have the appropriate equipment: namely an 18 x 12 x 1-inch baking sheet. So, my shortbread was way too thick and the pecan mixture dripped over the pan and onto the oven.

Fast forward four years later, and, I'm happy to report, that silicon bake ware makes this treat a cinch! That and, my sous chef nee boyfriend, Dave operates a mean food processor when it's time to coarsely chop two pounds of pecans.

So, without further ado, here's the recipe I fully endorse a) if you're not too much of a perfectionist and know that maybe the first try may be a little messy, b) you acquire two pounds of pecans without having to take out a small loan, and c) you're not trying to bake something in 30 minutes or less. Rachael Ray I am not.

Pecan Squares
by Ina Garten, The Barefoot Contessa

Makes 20 Large Squares

Crust
1 1/4 pounds unsalted butter, room temp
3/4 cup granulated sugar
3 extra-large eggs
3/4 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
4 1/2 cups all-purpose flour
1/2 teaspoon baking powder
1/4 teaspoon salt

Topping
1 pound unsalted butter
1 cup good honey (I love Tupelo but I use Trader Joe's clover honey)
3 cups light brown sugar, packed
1 teaspoon grated lemon zest (I put in 2 tsps since I had no oranges)
1 teaspoon grated orange zest (delish!)
1/4 cup heavy cream
2 pounds pecans, coarsely chopped

Preheat oven to 350 degrees.

For directions, click here.

A word about corn syrup: Avoid it like the plague. Seriously. Don't listen to those on Ina's site who extol its virtues. Honey makes this dessert, as does the lemon and orange zest. Trust me. My English department and writing-center colleagues would not lead you astray. Trying to turn these bars into pecan pie is like making a sunny outdoor picnic go indoors. Just don't do it; sacrifice, and buy the honey.

In other news, my good friend and colleague Patty has brought farm-fresh eggs to work. I keep forgetting to take this bounty home--I don't know why--but I'm excited to use these eggs for a quiche or custard or cookie that I can then regift to my work-day friends. I also am hankering for homemade granola, so stay tuned and let me know if you have suggestions, requests or gripes.

A Wink and A Wave from the Calvacade

2009-04-06T21:47:00.000-05:00

Last weekend, as in a week ago, I baked yogurt biscuits and roasted Brussels sprouts. I invented a chicken-pinto-bean-sake soup and made roasted garlic and potato pierogies with Dave, my unflappable, generous boyfriend (yes, he really is that nice). I was on a baking-cooking frenzy. I drank red wine and slept late. I was unstoppable and fully sated.

This weekend I did absolutely nothing, which is fitting given the fact that I started this little experiment in bake-blogging (it's a verb) because of an essay I wrote about procrastination-baking (also a verb).

So I offer up last weekend's twofer (as in two-for one) recipes on a Monday night. A candle is burning, but only one wick. My little cat Nora purrs in my lap as I type this. I have a chance to simply be present, and it feels nice.

Yogurt Biscuits
by Mark Bittman, How to Cook Everything

Makes 9 or more biscuits

Time: 20 or 30 minutes

2 cups all-purpose flour
1 scant tsp. salt
3 tsps. baking powder
1 tsp. baking soda
5 tablespoons cold butter
1 cup plain yogurt

1. Preheat oven to 450 degrees F.
2. Mix dry ingredients together in a bowl. Cut the butter into bits and pick up a bit of the dry ingredients, rub them with the butter between your fingers, and drop them again. All butter should be thoroughly blended before proceeding.
3. Use large spoon to stir in the yogurt, just until mixture forms a ball. Turn dough onto lightly floured surface and knead (10 times or so).
4. Press a 3/4-inch-thick rectangle and cut into 2" rounds with your favorite juice glass (or if you're really serious, a biscuit cutter). Place rounds on a greased baking sheet. Makes approximately 9 generous biscuits, probably more.
5. Bake 8 minutes (7-9), or until biscuits are golden. Serve within 15 minutes with honey and reggae music (my note, not Mark's).

Crispy-Edged Roasted Brussels Sprouts
by Molly Katzen, The Vegetable Dishes I Can't Live Without

Serves 4

Time: 15 to 20 minutes (maybe less depending on your knife skills; mine are sub par)

1 tbsp. extra-virgin olive oil (more is better)
4 cups (1 pound) Brussels sprouts, halved or quartered lengthwise (or left whole, if small)
Kosher salt (I don't think it's optional, but Molly does)

1. Preheat oven to 425 degrees F.
2. Place Brussels sprouts cut-side down on an aluminum-foil lined baking sheet that has been pre-coated with olive oil.
3. Place the tray in the oven for 10 minutes. Shake tray or redistribute sprouts so that their surfaces can come into contact with the hot olive oil.
4. Roast for another 5 minutes or until taste tells you that the sprouts are done (crispy, fragrant goodness).
5. Remove tray from oven, cool for 5 minutes and enjoy hot. Sprinkle salt on while sprouts are cooling.

Enjoy!

Spinach Pie, Manute Bol, & Inner Strength

2009-03-23T20:39:00.000-05:00

On Saturday afternoon en route from D.C. to St. Louis, I spotted one of the tallest men to play in the NBA, Manute Bol. Mr. Bol was amazing, took up two seats, and friendly enough to say hello as I deplaned with Dave, my boyfriend, and Dave's dad Charles. Funny enough, Mr. Bol lives fairly close to the Kansas City area, where I grew up in Blue Springs, Missouri. In fact, Dave and I had our first date in Olathe, Kansas at a Waffle House; now Mr. Bol calls Olathe home. And for those of you who were like me, and didn't know how cool Mr. Bol was/is, he is not only a great basketball player, but also an exceptionally generous activist for his homeland of Sudan.

I mention Mr. Bol because I noticed how so many people in Lambert Airport pointed and stared at his 7'7" frame, and I think it takes strength to be ogled and looked up to when you're simply trying to claim your luggage. I mentioned as much to Mr. Bol when I asked him if he got sick of people staring. He seemed to believe that most people were simply curious, generally kind. I think about his war-ravaged country and his ability to still believe this, and I feel incredibly awed by his kindness, his sense of humor and strength.

So, this post goes out to Mr. Manute Bol, one of the tallest and kindest celebrities I've ever met. In honor of Mr. Bol, I channeled my What-Would-Popeye-Eat? energies and created a spinach pie that combines savory chunks of feta with almost three pounds of spinach, all wrapped up in a buttery phyllo crust. Again, credit must be given to the lovely Ina Garten, whose recipe book, The Barefoot Contessa, I again consulted. The next recipe, I promise, will come from another cookbook.

Banana Cake Blues

2009-03-08T19:04:00.003-05:00

Lately it seems like everyone I know is going through something hard. My best friend Jenna was laid off in January and had to euthanize her cat Norma last week. I ruptured my Achilles tendon three days after the New Year, and I'm still not walking without the assistance of some pretty hefty gear and physical therapy (and sometimes major painkillers). My boyfriend Dave lost his mother last August. And I'm beginning to sound like a really depressing, poorly written country-western song...

The point is that life often sends us grief and hardship, and there are some days that seem harder than others. For me, baking often softens the blow, makes the kitchen smell nice, and soothes my need to be busy with something productive, tangible and comforting. I also think of my grandmother, Anna Lee Cooper Hammond, when I bake; she taught me a lot about life, love and how to run a respectable kitchen.

Today I got the chance to drive past the farm my grandma and granddad owned in Weaubleau, Missouri. I spent many summers watching my grandma bake, cook, and tell stories. I knew I had arrived at my grandma's house when my sister Jenna and I sang "Over the River and Through the Woods." We also knew that by the time we crossed grandma's door, we would smell food unlike anything our busy momma had time to make: cinnamon rolls heavy with brown sugar and pecans, new potatoes and peas in cream, pecan pie, homemade chicken and noodles, blackberry cobbler, and a caramel cake with boiled frosting that I still haven't figured out how to make.

Before my grandmother died six years ago, she wrote out her top 20 favorite recipes for me, my sister Jenna, and my cousin Sheila. Those recipes, while saved for special occasions and all-out caloric mayhem, are a part of my heritage. And despite the sentimentality of this post, my grandma was anything but. She was finicky and particular about how to knead bread, bake her much-requested chocolate sheet cake, and prepare family meals. She would fuss if I futzed with the gravy or didn't check on the biscuits like she had told me to do. She was a tough teacher who had high expectations for the quality and flavor of the food she served.

So, this post and the banana cake I made on Thursday night is for my grandma Anna Lee, who was born on March 8, 1930. This windy afternoon, right between Collins and Weaubleau, Missouri off 54 East, I put some day lilies on her grave in the Robinson Cemetery, said hello, and then hobbled back to the car with my guy Dave. So, Happy Birthday, Grandma! Your life and love still live on in me and many others.

Outrageous Gratitude and Brownies

2009-03-07T18:52:00.001-06:00

Today was one of those days where everything went right. The weather was in the 70s; I gave away my crutches because my orthopedic surgeon says I can put weight on my bum leg and massive black monster-truck boot (I ruptured my Achilles tendon on Jan. 4, 2009, and I'm still on the mend). Dave and I slept in, and I baked brownies as he slept some more. These brownies are not to be trifled with--these aren't your box-mix brownies. The richness and density of Ina Garten's glorious recipe take decadence to a whole new level. For those who love European-style sipping chocolate, these brownies are your friends.

Once household chores and the brownies were finished, we made our way to chocolatier Brian Pelletier of Kakao. Dave selected 25 amazing truffles (lavendar-vanilla, Maker's Mark, chai, Turkish coffee and cardamom, etc.) as a belated birthday present. Then we walked to Taqueria El Bronco on the corner of Cherokee and California; the shrimp burritos and horchata (cinnamon rice milk) were superb. My genuine keening for decent Mexican food was finally relieved from this little outside lunching experience. St. Louis' idea of Mexican counters my experiences growing up in Kansas City for the first 18 years of my life and then living in Tucson, Arizona for two years for graduate school. Hacienda just doesn't cut it; their salsa assuredly leaves something to be desired, to say the least.

Tomorrow I'll be baking up a storm in memory of my grandmother Anna Lee Hammond (March 8, 1929 or 1930; she had no birth certificate) and using up some bananas that have started to get pretty spotty and ready-ripe.

Putting the "Pro" into Procrastination

2009-03-01T22:49:00.001-06:00

The good news: My second essay in Sauce Magazine just got published today!! Hip, hip, hooray.

The bad news: I didn't bake the citrus bars I was planning on baking this morning because Dave, my boyfriend, and I slept on the floor of his father's apartment. Dave's dad Charles just celebrated his 7oth, and wow, I hope I'm that rowdy when the next 40 years pass me by.

But I have a big, fat promise: Tomorrow night I make Outrageous Brownies from Ina Garten's loverly cookbook, The Barefoot Contessa (the original). Nothing says food porn like chocolate. This recipe is so over the top that I think Dave will feel the love on his 33rd birthday this Tuesday (33 on 3/3)!!

P.S. I really want to read her new book. Oh, non-arrogant foodies unite!

Welcome!

2009-02-27T21:03:00.002-06:00

"A Girl and Her Oven" is a silly title for a fun experiment—to share photographs and stories of recipes I try every week in the midst of the busy blur of my everyday life. I hold no culinary degree or certificate. I never had an Easy-Bake Oven. I don’t have a top-of-the-line oven in my spacious University City, Missouri apartment. I simply have the desire to slow down, discover a killer sourdough starter, write while the timer’s going, and bake.

My promise to readers is four-fold:
1) Have fun and be honest about what works and what doesn’t (and why),
2) Try at least a different recipe every week (and blog about it), and
3) Find inspiration in bakeries and books (and a lot of places and people in between), &
4) Share what I’m learning in the process.

In the meantime, this week’s first recipe will be something sweet. My best friend Jenna is in town from Florida, and I have to whip up a no-fuss dessert for the event since I’m still hobbling along on crutches (your Achilles tendon is a very important part of your body, so treat it well).

Hmmm. Cupcakes have been done this evening; not ones I’ve made, but theirs. I love the lemony and red-velvety goodness of their mini-cakes (moist, non-cloyingly sweet, and just the right size), but cake has already been done (at least for this weekend).

So, I’ve been give the mission to make a dessert that pairs well with margaritas. We shall see what my humble oven cooks up on Sunday. Until then, thanks for reading!