Food

As an Italian child, you become familiar with your family’s signature dishes. They become staples in your upbringing and you can’t imagine life without grandma’s Sunday sauce or dad’s turkey soup with acini di pepe. Yet, in high school, friends (familiar with my Italian background) began inquiring about things like gnocchi and rice balls. Um, what? Out of fear for embarrassing myself, I would either lie and say, “duh, who hasn’t heard of (insert unfamiliar food here)” or “…that’s not a thing.” I was not about to let someone put a scuff in my boot-shaped ego. I did, however, have curiosity about this “gnocchi” they spoke of. Once I accepted that I didn’t know all things Italian (which was a big first step), my world completely changed. As it turned out, there were tons of traditional Italian foods my family hadn’t incorporated into their kitchen routines. At this time, I decided that I would embrace the unknown and begin my own recipe traditions. Enter biscotti.

Last week, there wasn’t much to do except wait for the storm that was about to hit. In preparation for this storm, my apartment (read: large room with a kitchen) was near spotless. I am in love with the light that floods through the windows. It is generously diffused by the sheer curtains (from fabric that I purchased at Mood. Thank you, Mood!). This sight encourages me to bake because this light makes me happy and I associate happiness with baking.

This particular biscotti recipe is from my favorite cookbook, A Passion for Baking by Marcy Goldman. Her book includes the basic baking groups (i.e. bread, muffins, cakes, cookies, etc) but the recipes always have a little twist. Everything I’ve made from this book, with the exception of the strawberry tart (pastry dough and I have had our disagreements), has been amazing. And of course, the KitchenAid makes everything a little bit easier (and gets you to the eating part faster).

Until I master the art of French pastry, chopping seems to be my favorite part of being in the kitchen. So much so, that the chop-slap actually hurts my feelings a little bit. Because of this interest, my fridge is usually full of pre-chopped onions, parsley and tomatoes all holding “Occupy Fridge” signs.

Lately, I’ve really been attracted to mason jars. I know, I’m a few years late for the mason jar trend. They remind me of the country and I’ve become very aware of how much I miss the idea of country living in this big city. If I had my way, everyone would wear cowboy hats and call me “little lady” while opening doors for me.

When you eat these biscotti, they tease your sense of smell with the overwhelming pepper aroma and subtly sting your mouth with the saltiness of the parmesan. Their addictive flavors are responsible for the binge eating that’s transpired in my home this past week. Needless to say, there are none left.

And when my kid’s friends are asking her about Chianti and Parmesan Biscotti, she can honestly say, “duh, who hasn’t heard of Chianti and Parmesan Biscotti?”

Last Friday was defining. Defining in the same way that a line in the sand separates supportive and excessive. I am both embarrassed and thrilled to say that I’ve eaten at Num Pang seven times in the month of July. How could I resist their seasonal Five Spice Glazed Pork Belly sandwich with pickled Asian pear and the most amazing chili mayo I had ever tasted? These sandwiches are so flavorful, they make a mockery of the unused Sriracha sauce sitting on the miniature tables overlooking 12th street.

I’ve eaten Cambodian food only once before Num Pang. It was at a farmer’s market in Ithaca, NY. I don’t remember much of the experience but I’m picturing a rich black hot sauce with a tar-like consistency. As I hesitantly tasted the hot sauce, I made a mental note to revisit Cambodian food. If it tasted anything like the black tar, I was in for a treat. Naturally, like most mental notes, this one ended up stuffed between “movies I want to see” and “things I need to buy.” Three or four years later, I found myself wandering Yelp like a lost child in an amusement park of food. I thought I had made the find of the year but apparently Num Pang is a landmark in the city.

I began to look forward to lunch again. Lunch can become a mundane task in this city, despite its melting pot qualities. It seems there are too many options to make an educated decision. I am perpetually terrified of choosing a mediocre restaurant and wasting a meal. As an ironic result, I often find myself in the familiar and safe environment of the corner deli. Num Pang, as far as I’m concerned, was a godsend.

On my fourth visit, I had a mini heart attack when, in response to my “One pork belly please!” I heard, “We’re out. Sorry.” That’s it. No condoling pats on the back or empathetic smiles. I knew this day would come. After all, it IS a seasonal sandwich. I took it for granted. After some delay, I cleared my throat and disappointingly ordered a pulled pork sandwich. When my order was up, I took a bite of my consolation prize, but not before bitterly stink eyeing it. Wow. Needless to say, I went back a fifth, sixth and seventh time and haven’t ordered the pork belly since visit 3.

It’s a small feat to have conquered but just a little over a month ago, I didn’t even know this place existed. It reminds me that there are so many things I haven’t tried and it pushes me to welcome new experiences. After Saturday. I can’t go another day without one of these babies.

It was time. I needed to face my fear of baking with blueberries. Again. Up until this point, everything I had baked with blueberries was a disaster. That’s just not like me; I usually do things right the first time. Yeah, I said it. I’d like to say that Mary Poppins strongly influenced me as a child but our “practically perfect in every way” attitudes are pure coincidence. Not only did I get this wrong the first time, but the second and third time were equally disappointing. “What am I doing wrong?!” became my catch phrase when blueberries were nearby. Yet, I put on my apron and braved the oven/blueberry combo once again in the form of a scone.

I should also mention that this would be my first attempt at scones. I had high expectations.

If you’re wondering, “does she always pour ingredients from a foot above the bowl?” The answer is yes.

I love the way freshly poured brown sugar moves around in the bowl like quicksand. This part happens so early on in the baking process that I sometimes indulge in a 2 minute break to observe and appreciate the phenomenon that is brown sugar.

So far, so good. This doesn’t say much because I hadn’t even added the blueberries. Yet, I think it’s important to take a few minutes every now and then to pat yourself on the back for not burning the apartment down. And by “pat yourself on the back,” I clearly mean “play with your food.”

The thing about blueberries: they are so juicy, they interfere with baking time. You can’t choose your blueberries as if you were going to eat them in handfuls. This is a common mistake. Instead, opt for smaller, less juicy blueberries. And let’s take a minute to appreciate the windows in my kitchen, allowing for such beautiful afternoon light to pour in like a waterfall.

Good luck, little guys!

The curse has been broken!

I was appropriately relieved to open the oven door and see something other than a puddle of blueberry soup. I’m sure that letting the blueberries sit a few days and dry up contributed to my success (next time I will do this part on purpose). To be honest, I’m not sure what I did right. I’m terrified of making blueberry scones again. Now that I’ve successfully baked blueberries, there’s no excuse for failure. No blaming the oven temperature or the incorrect measurements in the recipe. These scones were edible practically perfect.

This past Saturday, with Easter approaching, I attempted to make another family recipe. This particular recipe is new to my culinary resume as this would be my first time making sausage pie unsupervised. This was a defining moment. If I couldn’t make sausage pie, I would bring shame to my family. Spoiler Alert! I did not bring shame to my family. Let’s discuss…

I had been debating for the last two weeks whether or not I had enough time, energy, skill or money to take on such a significant food challenge. And what would I make? Easter in my family consists of sausage pie, Easter bread, spaghetti pie, anchovy pie and Italian cheesecake. I was torn! I didn’t want to let this holiday pass by unacknowledged [in the kitchen] but it just snuck up on me this year. Yet I decided to spend what would be the next 7 hours “celebrating Easter” by making sausage pie.  (more…)

On Wednesday evening, mostly for reasons of a nostalgic nature, I revisited a local favorite, Rabbithole. On my first night in Brooklyn, my sister and I trudged through the slush and ice in a celebratory fashion to consummate my arrival and status as a New York resident. Although the snow from last weekend had already melted, the Rabbithole looked exactly as it did on my first visit.

Upon entering the rustic restaurant, Nicole and I quickly found an adequate table right near the kitchen window, but not before gathering up our third party member from the cozy bar. Together, Jonathan, Nicole and I settled into our seats and ordered drinks. The Pinot Noir was smooth and satisfying and a perfect compliment to our appetizer (which sat in the window long enough for our mouths to water and our stomachs to grumble). (more…)