A tisket, a tasket

Well, I was all set to come in today and write about the awesome homemade bread I had made with my starter. I went and got some tips from Chez Pim, and my bread was looking pretty good…except that it didn’t seem to rise much overnight. And didn’t seem to rise much after folding it. And didn’t really rise much in the oven.

So, no surprise that when I cut into the cooled loaf, and it was gummy, with very little air holes.

On the plus side, the flavor was pretty good, looking past the texture. A little sweet, nicely sour.

Time to build my starter back up and try again…

Chez Pim’s No-knead levain recipe

Cause every time I see your bubbly face

I have decided it is time to make my own bread. Actually I decided this last week. And I didn’t have any yeast, so naturally, I thought that instead of just up and baking my own bread, I should just up and start my own starter.

2 T of flour and 2 T of crushed grapes on Day 1, then 2 T of flour and 2 T of water everyday since and I have a quart container of wildly yeasty bubbling delicious. Ok not delicious yet, but more time plus actually making it into bread…Stay tuned.

Tell me lies, tell me sweet little lies

I hate potato salad.

That’s a lie. The truth is that I am extremely picky about my potato salad. Over the “hurricane”-filled and thus power-less weekend, my boyfriend and I picked up some fixins at the local grocery store. One item was potato salad. I took one bite, pouted, and gave it to my boyfriend to finish. Like most potato salad, it was too bland, too sweet, too much mayo and not enough flavor. And this is how I feel about almost all potato salad.

The first time I met a potato salad I liked loved, was at a restaurant called The Singing Bowl, just outside of Sister Bay, Wisconsin. It was delicious, full of flavor, and only whispered with mayo. Unfortunately, The Singing Bowl closed shortly after I fell in love with it, taking its fancy sandwiches, wheat grass filled smoothies and life-changing potato salad with it (maybe a little exaggeration).

Luckily, my mom was pretty down with the potato salad too, and her cooking chops were just slightly better than mine (for balance, an understatement).  We realized there was one huge difference between the delicious potato salad and your regular, run-of-the-mill stuff:

I hate to go and leave this pretty sight

At some point during my childhood, my parents came home from a trip in Germany full of stories about food and wine and imaginary things like castles. They were particularly excited about one dinner they had, where everyone gathered around a table and mixed together their own little concoctions, cooking them on something called a raclette. They decided firmly that this was an experience their daughters should have, or at the very least something future dinner parties should have. They scoured the internet, gourmet and off-beat kitchen stores. At first all they could find were European versions which would exile our use to electrical adapters and more likely, a short-lived machine. Finally, my mom discovered a Canadian model.

You say it’s your birthday

Last week was my dad’s birthday, which sent me home for a week to visit. I got in on Monday, and even though his birthday wasn’t for 24 hours, I needed a finished birthday dessert that night. We were going out for dinner Tuesday on his actual birthday, so who knows what sweets they would provide.  After a quick contemplation, and ruling out the obviously time prohibitive layer cake and semifreddo, my mom reminded me of my dad’s love for Almond Joys. His treats of birthdays past have included many a variation on the candy bar.

Suddenly I remembered a coconut macaroon tart shell I had seen a couple weeks ago. And the rest fell into place. The dessert was ready after dinner and definitely a hit. Salty almonds, rich chocolate and crunchy sweet coconut.

Sugar Pie Honey Bunch

What happens when you find yourself with too much horchata? Or really too much of any liquid (coffee, juice, etc)?

Make yourself granita.

Put the lime in the coconut

When people find out you have been to culinary school, they tend to ask the mainly the same few questions. One of them is always if you’re constantly making food.  My mom gets, “How wonderful! Jenna must make you things all the time!” My boyfriend endures, “So you certainly got lucky! You must have cookies and sweets in piles!” to which my family and boyfriend will undoubtedly scowl and give me a little stare followed by the truthful, “Nope. Not really.”

They were put there by a man, in a factory downtown

Certain things I make, I have no idea what the end product should taste like.  The first time I made a blueberry clafouti, it was as if with a blindfold. Trying to decide whether the alien object is finished cooking is not so simple when it is in fact alien.  This is how I feel about marmalade.  

I had never even whiffed at marmalade until I was in college. When I finally tried it, I was a little confused, “Is it supposed to be bitter? Why would someone want orange peel on their toast?”

For reasons I don’t know, when I started making jam, I started a fascination with marmalade.  Let’s just say the results have been less than successful.  Blood oranges were not at their shining best, regular oranges did not see their moment in the spotlight. Until now. This past Sunday, I decided today was the day. If not the day for success, at least the day to use up lemons on their last legs of life. But those lemons will live on! On my toast! In my mouth! Delighting my belly!

I hope you learn it note for note

I have a bit of an obsession with horchata. Mainly because it’s usually not how I expect it to be.  In my head, horchata is a creamy, nutty, spicy elixir, refreshing and satisfying.  Generally the reality tastes bland and watery, still refreshing, but not quite satisfying.

So, when all else fails, make your own…

I’m the bleeding volcano

It is insanely hot in NYC.  It wouldn’t be so difficult if turning on so much as a burner in my tiny kitchen didn’t heat the entire apartment for the next few hours.  Which then forces me to retreat into the one cool room in the apartment, and I just don’t like eating in the bedroom every night.

Which is how I land at gazpacho.  I’m not sure when I first had gazpacho, but I know I didn’t like it.  To me, it was blended up salsa with a fancy name and no tortilla chips. And then I went to Spain.  More exactly, my family took a vacation to Spain and in seeking out crispy suckling pig, we stumbled on the most delicious and refreshing gazpacho I have ever tasted.