Pretending to Farm

In Which I am too Tired to Format a Duplicate Post

So you'll have to go to its source:

"The Pastry Queen", Royally Untested for Home Kitchens

 

In Which I Get to the Vanilla Extract Eventually

Somewhere in my clouded memory banks, I recall tales of repressed fifties housewives, overwhelmed by expectations of perfection in all things, surreptitiously sneaking generous sips of vanilla extract, 35% alcohol by volume, to make their days bearable. While searching the internets for references to all things Mother’s-little-helper related, I came across this blog extolling “The Glorious 1950’s Housewife” and became so incensed that I almost forgot what I sat down to write about in the first place. This woman is deluded:

“These housewives would always wake up at least two hours before their husbands, so they could shower, do their hair, put on make up, and wear really nice dress and high heels.”

“A belief of always looking their best, when “he see’ s you first thing in the morning”, was of utmost importance.  They made it a point to never, ever have morning breath or look sleepy.”

(I won’t even get into her apostrophe catastrophes or other grammatical and spelling errors.)

“Men made the money back then and it was important for their wives to create a haven of peace once their husbands got home. Strong daily efforts to make him comfortable were routine. Like having him lean back in a comfortable chair or suggest he lie down in the bedroom. Have a cool or warm drink ready for him. Arrange his pillow and offer to take off his shoes. Speak in a low, soft, soothing and pleasant voice. Allow him to relax and unwind.

“It was also important to make the evening his, while still incorporating your relationship and keeping a budding romance alive. Complaining or arguments were very scarce or kept to a minimum. The obvious goal was to try to make your home a place of peace and order, where your husband can relax and be happy.”

I believe these housewives were strong, organized, respectable, and quite happy.”

You’ve got to be kidding me. This woman belongs in Pleasantville, broadcast in black and white before Tobey McGuire came along and turned the more progressive populace into living color. Maybe she’ll romanticize the Antebellum South next, comment that the slaves enjoyed picking all that cotton in sweltering heat because the gracious white folks put roofs over their heads and fed them almost as well as they fed the livestock. How they didn’t deserve being more than 3/5 of a person, after all, and how they needed a good whippin’ from time to time to keep their baser urges in check. Oh, and they hated their families so it was a good thing the plantation owners were kind enough to take those burdenous chillens away from them.

But I digress, I came here to teach you people how to make vanilla extract at home, better tasting and less expensive vanilla extract. Now I’m afraid to do it without sounding like a fifties housewife, never mind the foolish woman who romanticizes her; but I’m going to tell you anyway.

Almost a year ago, while perusing the aisles of our local big box warehouse store (read Costco), Hubby and I discovered vanilla beans in test tubes. Because I am drawn by all things unique, I had to purchase said vanilla bean encasing test tubes or live the rest of my life in denied misery. Once home, they sat in the spice cabinet for nine months. If I was younger and had more energy and untied tubes, I could have conceived and birthed a baby in the time those beans were wasting away in their adorable glass tubes.

Then, one day, I ran out of vanilla. And remembered the tales of miserable vanilla-swigging fifties housewives. This memory was joined by a vague recollection of making one’s own vanilla at home and the knowledge that my liquor cabinet was well-stocked (because I mainly drink beer and wine) and my course was set.

I rattled through the Corner Cabinet of Rampant Disorganization and, just before Narnia, found an old maple syrup bottle to repurpose, dusted off the neglected test tubes, and pulled out the Absolut.

I suppose one could use inexpensive Vodka for this endeavor but, personally, I think life is too short to drink, or create vanilla from, cheap booze.

How to Make Vanilla Extract

Split three vanilla beans lengthwise, leaving one end intact, put into a lidded glass jar or bottle, cover with vodka, and let sit for six weeks to two months, shaking two to three times a week.

Seriously, that’s all there is to it. Why are we all not making our own vanilla? Are we afraid that, if we do, the bottom is going to fall out of the extract market, causing the recession to dip again never to recover? Because this is beyond easy. The hardest thing was washing the inside of the old maple syrup bottle. AND, like sourdough bread starter or that horrid fruit fermentation that my mother kept for years in my youth, it never runs out! But instead of feeding it, you just give it a little more vodka when the level of extract drops. And who doesn’t need a little vodka now and then? It makes the world a better place and, unlike this poor soul here whose mother was probably one of those “strong, organized, respectable, and quite happy” fifties housewives, you still have enough vodka to pour yourself a drink instead of emptying the spice aisle and making a spectacle of yourself.

 

Fugue at 350 Degrees Fahrenheit

In the past week, a week of emotional ups an downs as witnessed by yesterday’s morose posting, I have made a dozen muffins six times. For those of you who are rusty on your times tables, that is 72 muffins. All were eaten, none went to waste.

Jessica started it all last Sunday.

“I’d really love some blueberry muffins.”

“You would, huh? How do you plan on getting those blueberry muffins?”

“Um, you’re going to make me some?”

So bake muffins I did. And cinnamon rolls. And popovers. I baked myself into a fugue state in which the memory of recent unfortunate job-centric events disappeared and were replaced by the scents of delicious fat and sugar-laden carbohydrates.

Have I mentioned that I am (was) following a slow carb diet on which I lost ten pounds in two weeks? Did you know a day of drinking beer and eating baked goods causes all that no-bread-allowed suffering to be for naught? I need my manna from heaven. Or the grocer's.

My yen to bake has passed for the moment but my family’s yen to eat has not. So I am off to the kitchen once more, not at five a.m. and not donning a white paper cap, but still feeling a bit like the dead doughnut man. “Got to make the muffins.” The pint-sized farmer has requested orange. Thanks be to the gods of variety.

For now, a roundup of recipes from last Sunday:

Cinnamon Blueberry Muffins Gourmet | July 2006

Lillian Chou

Thus far this week, I have substituted chopped frozen strawberries and a strawberry-banana mixture for the blueberries. I also added a skosh of vanilla because I like it. I’d photograph them but nary a one remains.

Yield: Makes 12 muffins Active Time: 25 min Total Time: 1 hr 3/4 stick (6 tablespoons) unsalted butter, melted and cooled 1 cup packed light brown sugar 1/2 cup whole milk 1 large egg 1 1/2 cups all-purpose flour 1 1/2 teaspoons baking powder 1 teaspoon cinnamon 1/2 teaspoon salt 1 1/2 cups blueberries (7 1/2 oz) Special equipment: a muffin pan with 12 (1/2-cup) muffin cups; 12 foil or paper muffin liners Put oven rack in middle position and preheat oven to 400°F. Put liners in muffin cups. Whisk together butter, brown sugar, milk, and egg in a bowl until combined well. Whisk together flour, baking powder, cinnamon, and salt in a large bowl. Add milk mixture and stir until just combined. Fold in blueberries gently. Divide batter among muffin cups and bake until golden brown and a wooden pick inserted into center of a muffin comes out clean, 25 to 30 minutes.

Read More http://www.epicurious.com/recipes/food/printerfriendly/Cinnamon-Blueberry-Muffins-1222209?printFormat=photo#ixzz1CLsvMp76

Basic Popover

 
I didn’t change a thing. They were perfect as are all Alton Brown’s recipes. He’s my geeky chef crush. 

Recipe courtesy Alton Brown, 2008

Prep Time: 10 min

Inactive Prep Time: --

Cook Time: 40 min

Level:Intermediate

Serves: 6 large popovers

Ingredients

1 tablespoon unsalted butter, melted and cooled, plus 1 teaspoon room temperature for pan

4 3/4 ounces all-purpose flour, approximately 1 cup

1 1/2 teaspoons kosher salt

2 large eggs, room temperature

1 cup whole milk, room temperature

Directions

Preheat oven to 400 degrees F.

Grease a 6-cup popover pan with the 1 teaspoon of butter.

Place all of the ingredients into a food processor or blender and process for 30 seconds. Divide the batter evenly between the cups of the popover pan, each should be about 1/3 to 1/2 full. Bake on the middle rack of the oven for 40 minutes. Remove the popovers to a cooling rack and pierce each in the top with a knife to allow steam to escape. Serve warm.

Bread Machine Cinnamon Rolls

Try not to eat them all. Especially when everyone is asleep and you’re afraid your family will eat all that remains the next morning before you awake so you devour two around midnight. Don’t do that! Better yet, pass them out to the neighbors and be thankful for the temporary memory loss that a day of hardcore baking provided.

  

1 cup water

1 large egg

3 ¼ cups bread flour

4 tbsp Sugar

1 tsp salt

3 Tbsp dry milk

¼ cup butter

1 ½ tsp active dry yeast

Add ingredients to bread machine in the order listed and run under the dough cycle. Place dough on lightly floured board and divide into three pieces. Roll each into 8 x 9 rectangle, dot surface with butter, and sprinkle on a mixture of ¼ c brown sugar and 1 tsp cinnamon (divided into thirds as well). Sprinkle raisins as preferred.

Roll jelly-roll style, pinch seam to seal, and cut each third into eight pieces. Place on greased baking sheet, cover with damp towel, and allow to rise in a warm place until size doubles, approximately 45 minutes to an hour.

Bake at 375 degrees, 10 to 15 minutes. Glaze with a light mixture of confectioner’s sugar and milk.

Happy Baking!

 

Four Years and Counting

Four years until I’m at the age Daddy was when he died, he was 52 and, in another month, I’ll be 48. This weighs heavily on me, more than it should. My inner self-loathing gets the better of me and I think of all the success he had, all the success I have not.

 

Last week, my neighbor Michelle suggested that I need Ritalin. Ritalin, like I have ADD and can’t focus on anything. But that’s wrong. I can focus on a myriad of subjects, hobbies and creative interests, reading, knitting, farming, painting, sewing, glasswork, writing, computer programming for Chrissakes. I just can’t stay interested in them for long periods of time and I don’t know why. I tell people I bore easily and I do but it’s more than that. I’m interested in learning to do something, I figure out how, and then I am no longer interested. My intellectual curiosity has been met. I know a moderate amount about many, many things, Jack of All Trades, Master of None.

 

This flaw of mine has gotten worse in recent years. I’m afraid my time is drawing nigh and, if I can’t discover that one thing, all this life will be for naught.

 

Yes, I have beautiful brilliant children who, without me, would not grace this world with their presence. Yes, I’ve made a lot of things that I have sold or given as gifts, objets d’art and craft that I’m reasonably confident are admired.

 

But honestly? I’m almost 48. Instead of a career, I pick up bartender and server jobs for needed household-running funds. I’m terrible with money management; I fail as a homemaker. Laundry piles flow like lava out the laundry room door, dog hair rests in clumps in the corners, windows are dirty, floors are worse. I’m a good but inconsistent cook. I have a good but inconsistent life.

 

When Daddy reached 50, and before he was diagnosed with the melanoma that would kill him, he commented that he had made it farther than his own dad, a binge-driven alcoholic who went to “dry out” and failed, no “rehab” in those days, at least not in its current incarnation. Part of my father doubted he would make it to 50. Perhaps, that is why he worked as hard as he did, became such an enormous success at a relatively young age. I haven’t done that.

 

Years move faster as one ages. Tempus fugit and all that. And I’m not afraid to die. I’m afraid to not live.

Give Me a Slug of Booze!

Technomic has come out with its restaurant trend predictions for 2011. Now, I've never heard of Technomics before but, by their name, I assume they have something to do with technology and economics. I'm clever that way. Why they're talking about adult beverages, I haven't a clue. But I like adult beverages so I'll bite. 

"Adult beverages, from retro cocktails and high-end spirits to craft beers will get more play in appropriate markets." (Photo: Thinkstock)

So the Mad Men craze is still going strong. And influencing what we drink. With the exception of craft beer, as every man in 1964 drank Pabst Blue Ribbon. Women did not drink beer at all and instead had to chug cough syrup and vanilla except for Betty Draper and her ilk, thin as rail women who could work some undergarments and pearls to their best advantage.

I like adult beverages (yes, I am repeating myself). Sometimes I enjoy going to BevMo and fantasizing about all the high-end liquor and craft beer I would buy if money was no object. You see, the appreciation for alcohol was ingrained into me from youth. My Great Uncle Charles, Helen's brother, a crusty Baltimore born-and-bred codger who loved to drive his huge white Caddy with red leather interior and laughed in a way to betray that he smoked way too many cigarettes, taught me at two or three years old to ask for adult beverages. 

"Lauren, what would you like to drink?"

"Give me a slug o' booze!"

He thought it was really funny.

 

At four or five, I could serve the Jolly Girls their cocktails made to order. I could also concoct an old-fashioned, muddling fruit with the best of bartenders. My parents often took me to their favorite piano bar, The Eager House, where special attention was paid to me, where I sat in a special bar stool, drank umpteen million Shirley Temples, and had songs sung just to me by the piano player. I was princess of the Eager House. 

As I light tonight's drinking lamp in preparation for Friday cocktail hour, why don't I share a few concoctions to ready you for 2011. 

1. The Classic Martini 

"I'm not talking a cup of cheap gin splashed over an ice cube. I'm talking satin, fire and ice; Fred Astaire in a glass; surgical cleanliness; insight and comfort; redemption and absolution. I'm talking a martini" --Anonymous

2 1/2 ounces top shelf gin                             

1 1/2 teaspoons dry vermouth

                                                                           1 lemon twist or cocktail olive

In a shaker half-filled with ice cubes, combine the gin and vermouth. Shake well. Strain into a cocktail glass. Garnish with the olive. I like a little olive juice splashed into the shaker and prefer my martini with a blue cheese olive. And, sacrilege, schmacrilege, I prefer substituting the gin with premium vodka as gin makes me mean and I am not a mean person. Belvedere works nicely. Absolut if you're slumming it.

2. The Manhattan

Although many legends exist as to the origin of the Manhattan, many involving Lady Randolph Churchill (Winston's mum), one 

 urban legend suggests that the drink was named "Manhattan" after the city's sewage and water system, which ran brown at the time. Ew!

1 3/4 ounces Crown Royal Reserve (or other premium whiskey)

1/2 ounce Sweet Vermouth

1-3 dashes of Bitters

Combine all ingredients in an ice-filled cocktail shaker, strain into a chilled glass, garnish with a Maraschino cherry, and serve straight up. A Dry Manhattan substitutes Dry Vermouth for Sweet and is garnished with a twist. A Rob Roy uses Scotch Whiskey rather than Canadian or Bourbon.

3. The Old Fashioned

 

The Old Fashioned  first made its appearance in the 1880s at the Pendennis Club, a gentlemen's club in Louisville, Kentucky. Invented by a bartender at the club, it was popularized by Colonel James E Pepper who brought it to the Waldorf-Astoria in New York City.

 
3 dashes bitters 
2 orange slices
1 sugar cube
3 ounces blended whiskey
1 maraschino cherry

 In an old-fashioned glass, muddle the bitters and orange into the sugar cube, using the back of a teaspoon. Almost fill the glass with ice cubes and add the whiskey. Garnish with another orange slice and cherry, Serve with a swizzle stick. Substitute brandy for the appropriately named Brandy Old Fashioned. The Old fashioned is a favorite of the hunky but flawed Don Draper on "Mad Men".

4. The Daiquiri

The term daiquiri comes from a beach near Santiago, Chile. An urban legend suggests it was invented by a group of American mining engineers who ran out of gin. It is nothing like the sicky sweet frozen frippery ubiquitous on chain restaurant menus everywhere.

• 8 parts white Cuban rum
• 2 parts lime juice
• 1 part simple syrup

Shake with lots of finely crushed ice and strain well into a chilled cocktail glass.

5. The Sidecar

 The Ritz Hotel in Paris claims to be the origin of the Sidecar invented around World War I by Sam "Suck It" Treadway.

• 8 parts Cognac or Armagnac
• 2 parts lemon juice
• 1 part Cointreau or Triple Sec

Pour all ingredients in a cocktail shaker over ice. Shake well and strain into a cocktail glass. Garnish with a twist.

So there, make yourself a cocktail, sit by the fire, and discuss the future of plastics together. Cheers!

 

Hey Sweet Potato, I could eat you with a spoon!

When I was a little girl, Helen, or Gramma as I called her, would hug me tight and declare that I was so sweet, she could eat me with a spoon. Which, looking back, was very loving and wonderful in that way that only grandmothers can convey; but, at the time, it frightened me. I had all sorts of mental images of my grandmother, who was a tall, big-boned German woman, wielding a giant grapefruit spoon and plunging it into my short, small-boned American body like a deranged zombie.

I assumed it had to be a grapefruit spoon as it needed sharp edges and a point to really dig into my my flesh. Unfounded fear is all in the details. 

But we're here to talk about pie, aren't we? Thanksgiving is in exactly a week. And I am scheduled to work that day. Which does not please me. So let's pout and make sweet potato pie. With bourbon, some in the pie and a slitch on ice for the baker.

Sweet Potato Pie is similar to pumpkin pie in the fact that is indeed orange and uses similar spices and flavorings in its recipe. But a sweet potato is a tuber while a pumpkin is a squash. As an aside, sweet potatoes are not yams but were mislabeled as such by growers who thought we were too stupid to know a sweet potato was not the same as regular potatoes. Because there is nothing worse than baking what you think are russets and discovering that your chives and bacon bits are useless. Yams are a completely different genus and species, are native to Africa, popular in Latin American dishes, and very sweet. They can also grow over seven feet long which would be damned difficult to manage in my kitchen.

To my taste buds, sweet potatoes are richer and slightly more sugary than pumpkins. But canned pumpkin puree is ubiquitous this time of year and one actually has to bake and mash sweet potatoes. How inconvenient. We're making pie with them regardless.

Or irregardless as Helen would say. She loved collecting malapropisms and using them for her own amusement so that someone, meeting her for the first time, would not realize that she knew the correct word or phrase.


Let's bake!


This recipe is courtesy of Paula Deen and FoodNetwork.


 

Old Fashioned Sweet Potato Pie

Prep Time: 20 min

Cook Time: 1 hr 55 min

Level: Easy

Serves: 6 to 8 servings

 INGREDIENTS

• 2 cups peeled, cooked sweet potatoes
• 1 1/4 cups sugar
• 1/2 stick melted butter
• 2 eggs
• 1 teaspoon vanilla extract or 1 to 2 tablespoons bourbon
• 1/4 teaspoon salt
• 1/4 teaspoon ground cinnamon
• 1/4 teaspoon ground ginger
• 1 cup milk
• 9-inch unbaked pie crust
• 3 egg whites

DIRECTIONS

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees F.

For the filling, using an electric hand mixer, combine the potatoes, 1 cup of the sugar, the butter, eggs, vanilla, salt, and spices. Mix thoroughly. Add the milk and continue to mix. Pour the filling into the pie crust and bake for 35 to 45 minutes, or until a knife inserted in the center comes out clean. Place the pie on a rack and cool to room temperature before covering with meringue.

For the meringue, using an electric mixer, beat the egg whites until soft peaks form; beat in the remaining 1/4 cup sugar 1 tablespoon at a time. Continue beating until the sugar dissolves and the mixture is glossy and stiff, but not dry. With a rubber spatula, spoon the meringue onto the pie, forming peaks. Make sure the meringue touches the crust all around. Sprinkle with a pinch of granulated sugar. Bake for 10 to 12 minutes, or until delicately browned. Cool and serve.

What I did right: I added extra vanilla, a dollop of bourbon and a generous pinch of nutmeg. It seemed sacrilege to not use nutmeg. When beating the meringue, I added a 1/4 tsp of cream of tartar, doubled the amount of egg whites, and beat them to soft peaks with a hand mixer in my clean copper bowl. Nice and high, that's how I like my meringue.
What I did wrong: See Butterscotch Cream Pie.
What I thought of it: Yum. More complex than pumpkin pie, different in that it's topped with meringue instead of whipped cream. It's lighter and better for you. After all, nutritionists at the Center for Science and the Public Interest ranked sweet potatoes #1 in nutrition, outscoring the next highest vegetable by over 100 points.
How I'll tweak it next time: I think I'll make two. Teenage boys, you know.

 

The Channeler is Not Baking Today

Why, you may ask? Well, she's damned tired as she is still working in the often menial, typically Sisyphean food and beverage industry and has been on her feet for far too many hours in the last several days. Her dogs are barking and we are not referring to the puggle, the bloodhound, or the little brown mutt. 

Oy, my feet hurt, my legs ache, and I got a little thing ya know, a little scratchiness. And heavens to Mergatroid, I cannot afford to get sick.

So I have an assignment for you. Make some pie crust for this week. It will make the pies go faster. If you have a food processor, which I do because I am a kitchen gadget whore, use it to make your pie crust. If you don't, use two knives or a pastry blender. If you buy a pre-made pie crust, don't tell me. I can't bear to know these things.

For two 9" pie shells, mix or pulse together 2 3/4 cups all-purpose flour and 1/2 tsp of salt. Cut in or pulse 2 sticks (1 cup) of very cold butter cut into pieces. Into a 1-cup Pyrex measuring cup, add an egg yolk, 1 tsp apple cider vinegar, and a little crushed ice. Add water until the mixture reaches the 1/2 cup level. Mix and add to your flour and butter mixture, either with your hands and forks or by adding a slow stream through the feed tube of the food processor while it is running (quick, catch it!). You may not need to add all the liquid as you only need enough until it almost gathers into a ball.

Divide the dough in half. Stick each into a gallon ziploc bag, smush into a flat disc, seal and put it into the refrigerator until later. There, you're done. Go watch Glee and The Fashion Show with TLo. Beware Iman.

Oh, if you were one of those extra credit overachievers in school and want to do more to get ahead, you can bake some sweet potatoes, enough for approximately two cups of mashed sweet potato. I used four medium sweet potatoes.

That is all. I will try not to be so punchy tomorrow. Sláinte! 

Pie Week!

Pie Week!

Just like Shark Week but sweeter!

Eons and eons ago, when I was but a mere teenager, I spent a summer working at The Greenbrier Resort in White Sulphur Springs, West Virginia. I was there to play nanny to a young baby, the son of the hotel manager, and to free my parents, who were living in North Carolina, of my presence so they could have sex anytime they damned well pleased.

Beside the perks of being able to use the spa free of charge, to eat anything on the premises I desired, and to spend hours hanging poolside with hunky teenage lifeguards, all while getting paid, I got to play Suzie Homemaker and bake during the baby's naptime. On one such magical afternoon, and after searching for recipes which I had the ingredients to make, I discovered the glory that is Butterscotch Cream Pie.

Although a butterscotch pie is not traditional for Thanksgiving, and, in fact, no pie that I feature this week will be, it is a delectable dessert treat. Not too sweet, the richness of its pudding filling is balanced with the lightness of meringue cradled in a flaky pie crust. It's ready for its closeup, Mr DeMille. Just bake and devour.

Recipe was submitted by Colleen on the allrecipes.com website. The photos are my own. 

And, no, I am not a photographer. If Barry or Julie visit, you'll be able to see some quality food porn.

Butterscotch Cream Pie

Rated: Submitted By: Colleen Prep Time: 5 Minutes Cook Time: 40 Minutes Ready In: 45 Minutes Servings: 8

"This recipe has been a favorite of mine and my family for over 50 years. The meringue topping with the butterscotch filling makes for a very rich dessert, eat it warm."

INGREDIENTS:

2 cups milk 1/3 cup all-purpose flour 1 cup brown sugar 1/4 teaspoon salt 3 egg yolks 3 tablespoons butter, melted 1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract

6 egg whites 1/4 teaspoon cream of tartar 2 tablespoons confectioners' sugar   1 (9 inch) unbaked pie crust

DIRECTIONS:

1.	Preheat oven to 375 degrees F (190 degrees C). Brush pie crust lightly with egg white to seal. Bake in preheated oven for 10 minutes, or until light brown and crisp. Remove from oven and reduce temperature to 350 degrees F (175 degrees C).
2.	In a small bowl, mix together the flour, brown sugar and salt; set aside. In the top of a double boiler over medium heat, scald the milk while stirring with a whisk. Slowly whisk in the flour mixture. Cook, stirring constantly until thickened; remove from heat.
3.	Place the egg yolks in a medium bowl. Stir in 1/3 of the milk mixture to temper the yolks, Then pour the yolk mixture back into the pan. Return to the stove and cook, stirring constantly until thick. Remove from heat and stir in the butter and vanilla. Pour into baked pie crust.
4.	In a large glass or metal mixing bowl, beat egg whites, cream of tartar and confectioners' sugar until stiff peaks form. Spread meringue over pie, covering completely.
5.	Bake at 350 degrees F (175 degrees C) for 10 to 15 minutes, or until meringue is golden brown in spots.

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED © 2010 Allrecipes.com What I did right: As I don't cotton to tempering egg yolks (pathological fear of scrambling), I performed my Time Saving Superhero Pudding and Pie Filling Shortcut. After whisking the dry ingredients together in a heavy bottomed saucepan (I prefer All-Clad Master Chef), I mixed in the egg yolks and then drizzled in the milk before heating the pan. After about ten minutes of stirring with a whisk, the mixture thickened and came to a full boil. I took it off the heat, added the butter and twice the vanilla called for, and, shazam, butterscotch pie filling. Also, I used a clean copper bowl and a handheld mixer to beat the egg whites, giving me picture-perfect meringue. What I did wrong: I could say I did nothing wrong though I did insist on using my favorite Emile Henry 10" pie plate which was a tad large for this recipe. My 8" Pyrex would have made a high and perfect pie but it's boring glass and I like pretty dishes. I am a girl after all. What I thought of it: Delicious! There I was right back at The Greenbrier all over again, poolside with hunky teenage lifeguards. Then, I started to feel pervy because I am 47  and my twin boys are the same age as those lifeguards were so I just ate quietly and minded my own beeswax while my waistline expanded. How I'll tweak it next time: I'll search the internets for a smaller but still pretty pie plate or, sigh, use the Pyrex one. Other than that, I won't change a thing. Unless you all have a special request, tomorrow we'll talk dough and sweet potatoes. And ugly pie plates because the pretty one has a pie in it.  BTW, Helen would definitely enjoy a piece of this pie. She liked having  "a little meat on her bones". In moderation. "Everything in moderation."

 

The Rediscovery of Sweet Corn Cake

With many thanks to Julie Delio.

This post originates on my new blog: Channeling Helen.

Many moons ago, when we had fewer children and animals to husband, Hubby and I treated ourselves to the occasional brunch at Kiva Grill. This upscale New Mexico-style restaurant across from the no-longer-new Marriott in the La Jolla/UTC area of California featured amazing cuisine unfamiliar to me at the time. Amongst the delicious blue corn tamales, the red or green chiles, the posole, and the pork adovada, lay a hidden yet simple gem, Mexican Sweet Corn Cake. Not quite a pudding but not a bread either, it's sweetness provided the perfect foil to the spiciness of its accompaniments.

Note from Helen: "I don't like spice. All that pepper makes me choke." Coughs for emphasis.

We loved the sweet corn cake. We emptied multiple chafing dishes of sweet corn cake. Because of that love, The Kiva Grill went belly up as their corn cake costs became too high to stay in business. I may be slightly exaggerating but they did, in fact, close down and I, in fact, had babies and sat on the bed for a year with a pillow on my lap practicing the football hold while nursing twins and never went to brunch again. But I digress.

Years of fun and chaos passed with nary a thought to the aforementioned corn cake until a recent sojourn to Texas, state of great cuisine in which each and every Anglicized/mispronounced city demands in its charter that a Tex-Mex and a barbecue restaurant must exist for every 10,000 people at a minimum. The lovely and gracious Julie Delio served as hostess and, on my last day there and after an interesting tour of downtown Fort Worth, the cattleyards, and the barrio, we ended up at an upscale New Mexican restaurant serving Sunday brunch. And there, there amongst 10,000 salsas and meats aplenty, a beacon from my past shone. Right in front of me, Sweet Mexican Corn Cake. I did my Meg Ryan in Harry Met Sally impression right then and there but I was not, repeat, I was not faking it.

Home, I searched the internets and tubes and discovered the following recipe. Today, I tried it. What follows are my thoughts and critiques.

Recipe was submitted by Lee Ann Clarke to the allrecipes.com website.

Sweet Corn Cake  

Prep Time: 15 Minutes Cook Time: 1 Hour Ready In: 1 Hour 15 Minutes

Servings: 6

"Corn flour, or masa harina, is available at many larger grocers. Here it blends with corn meal, sugar, butter and cream in this luscious pudding-cake."

INGREDIENTS:

1/2 cup butter, softened

1/3 cup masa harina

1/4 cup water

1 1/2 cups frozen whole-kernel corn, thawed

1/4 cup cornmeal

1/3 cup white sugar

2 tablespoons heavy whipping cream

1/4 teaspoon salt

1/2 teaspoon baking powder

DIRECTIONS: 1. In a medium bowl beat butter until it is creamy. Add the Mexican corn flour and water and beat until well mixed. 2. Using a food processor, process thawed corn, but leave chunky. Stir into the butter mixture. 3. In a separate bowl, mix cornmeal, sugar, cream, salt, and baking powder. Add to corn flour mixture and stir to combine. Pour batter into an ungreased 8x8 inch baking pan. Smooth batter and cover with aluminum foil. Place pan into a 9x13 inch baking dish that is filled a third of the way with water. 4. Bake in a preheated 350 degree oven F (175 degrees C) oven for 50 to 60 minutes. Allow to cool for 10 minutes. Use an ice cream scoop for easy removal from pan.

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED © 2010 Allrecipes.com

What I did right: I didn't try to "healthy-up" the recipe. Helen always said "Butter makes it better and, pounds schmounds, she was dead right. I used polenta instead of regular cornmeal which I think gave it more bite and I used half and half because that's all I had and I was too lazy and unshowered to drive 16 miles to the grocery store.

What I did wrong: I prepared it in the Kitchenaid stand mixer which was overkill, not enough batter for such a large bowl without the handy dandy scraping beater blade that I don't own. Next time, I will use one medium and one small bowl, my right hand, a fork, and a spatula. I suppose one could use a hand mixer if creaming butter with bare hands makes one squeamish. Personally, I need the extra moisture. Also, I did not use hot water in the water bath which prolonged the cooking time.

What I thought of it: After I clean the corn kernels from behind my ears and in between my toes because I felt compelled to bathe in it, I'll let you know. In other words, Meg Ryan in Harry Met Sally all over again. And again without the faking it. How I'll tweak it next time: I don't need to do a damned thing to it but I might add chopped hatch chiles or bacon bits to add a little salt and spice but, as Helen was wont to say, that would be gilding the lily.

BTW, another wonderful discovery in Texas? Shiner Bock. Which I could also bathe in but, for now, I think I'll drink some and watch football. It is Sunday, after all.

Hunna, you should see his chest!

I have begun a new blog via Blogger, ChannelingHelen.com, dealing with all things epicurean and intoxicating. I will import here and continue to enjoy and reply to comments received. I hope you enjoy it. Thanks for reading! The year was 1985 and my then boyfriend/now husband and I traveled a route familiar to me since youth, the four and a half hour drive from North Carolina to Maryland. Through fields of cotton and soybeans, past disintegrating tobacco shacks, abandoned gas stations, and rusting farm equipment to the smoke-stacked freeway maze that was Richmond, across the Potomac in view of the Capital, until we reached the beltway, Dulaney Valley Road, and the turnoff on Southerly to get to Gramma’s apartment. Even though it was November in Towson, David arrived sans shirt, wearing a slight pair of white shorts and sneakers. And he was in shape, the physical condition that arrives with jumping from air planes, running triathlons, and dating someone like me. After greetings were exchanged, suitcases stowed, and no less than five minutes had elapsed, we had cocktails in hand, de riguer for visits with Gramma. Honestly, I think we all stayed slightly buzzed during each visit. In between CC & water one and two, we discussed visiting Hunna, Gramma’s best friend since early youth. I was eager to see her again as she was an honorary great aunt to me and, of course, I wanted David to meet her as well. Gramma disappeared into the bedroom to call Hunna whereupon I immediately overheard her loudly and excitedly declare, “Hunna, you should see his chest!” Plans made, we got ready to walk the half block to Hunna’s apartment. Gramma turned to me and demanded, “He IS going to put a shirt on, isn’t he?” And he did, though I half-thought she’d have him remove it again once we got to Hunna’s to preen and show off for her. Hours later, we were all “in the sauce”, having a wonderful time, laughing and carrying on, getting drunk and disorderly. Though the Jolly Girls could have kept going and, admittedly, were drinking us more than one for one and could easily have left us under a table while they continued their rabble-rousing, David and I decided to walk to a local bar and bid the ladies good night. The evening ended up with me chucking a tennis ball hard to David’s testicles but that’s another story for another day. The main point of the evening and a revelation to David, “I didn’t know old people could be so much fun!” My grandmother Helen was indeed fun. And hard-working and disciplined. And a wonderful cook and exceptional housekeeper. Yet, her one characteristic that everyone remarked on was her outspokenness, sometimes to a fault and oftentimes to its recipients’ embarrassment. In fact, the morning after David’s realization that the elderly could, in fact, be entertaining, she asked me, her granddaughter that she had played hours of Uncle Wiggly and gin rummy with, whom she had made untold pints of homemade applesauce for, for whom she had knitted countless sweaters, “Are you and he lovers? Because it sure seems like it.” But that was Gramma and I loved her for it. To this day, when I let my own innate outspokenness show itself more than I should, I am accused of “letting Helen out”. With this new blog, I will do my best to do just that, concentrating on matters culinary and hedonistic but diverging to rambling paths as I choose. It is my blog after all. I hope you will enjoy its future as I do my best to entertain and to Channel Helen. BTW, to answer her question, yes we were and it was damned good. And we will be married 24 years come next May. I think Gramma would be pleased.