Jat Juk

Jat Juk

With every graphite-colored day that drags by I find myself grasping for new winter survival strategies.  Currently, I'm leaning on homemade pudding and awkward song parodies. 

This recipe for Korean jat juk, an intensely comforting pinenut-rice-date porridge, comes from Mark Reinfeld and Jennifer Murray's excellent "The 30 Minute Vegan's Taste of the East."  I added only this optional theme song, sung to the tune of Lovin' Spoonful's "Summer in the City":

"Hot pudding!  Winter in the city!  Back of my spoon feelin' really cinnamon-y!"

Jat Juk

1/2c lightly toasted pine nuts 
1 1/2c water 
pinch of salt 
1/4 c brown rice flour 
3T agave or other sweetener 
4 finely chopped dates 
pinch of cinnamon 

Blend the nuts and 1c of water in a blender or processor until smooth; pour into saucepan and place over medium heat.  

Meanwhile, use a frying pan to dry fry the rice flour over medium-high heat for 3 minutes, stirring frequently; slowly add 1/2c of water, whisking for a smooth paste.  

Add the pine nut mix and salt to the rice mix; cook until it thickens, about 5 minutes, whisking well, then stir in the sweetener. 

Pour into serving bowls and top with chopped dates and a sprinkle of cinnamon.

"Hot pudding!"

Egyptian Date Cake

Egyptian Date Cake

Spellchecker may object to my saying so, but many traditional Egyptian sweets are what you might call desert desserts, based in large part on sweet crops like apricots, grapes, and dates that thrive along the damp margins of the Nile in what is otherwise a hot and arid environment.

In their A World of Recipes: Egypt, Sue Townsend and Caroline Young give this recipe for a spongy, spicy Egyptian date cake:

11oz/325g fresh dates, pits removed
5oz/150g blanched almonds
4oz/100g soft brown sugar
1 orange, washed
4 eggs¼ c superfine granulated sugar
½ t ground cardamom
1 ½ oz/40g butter
3T cornstarch
1t confectioners sugar

Butter a a 9” springform pan and line the bottom with parchment paper.

In a food processor, blend the almonds and brown sugar until coarsely chopped; add the dates and blend until finely chopped, but not ground.

Grate the orange rind, then squeeze one half of the orange.

Separate the eggs and whisk the whites into soft peaks.

Beat the yolks with the granulated sugar and cardamom; add the date mixure, orange rind, 1T of the orange juice, and the cornstarch.

Gently fold the egg whites into the date mixture.

Spoon the batter into the pan and bake 35-45 minute at 400/200 degrees until the cake springs back with pressed.

Dust with confectioners sugar before serving.

Anti-Griddle-Sicles

Anti-Griddle-Sicles 

Rent, gas, parking, clothing, takeout meals...When a clear-eyed look at their finances showed high-flying New Yorkers Wendy Jehanara Tremayne and Mikey Sklar their daily expenses meant they were literally working to work, they opted out.  They quit their jobs, moved to New Mexico, and transformed their lives into an ongoing experiment in modern self-reliance.  Tremayne's The Good Life Lab documents their discoveries, offering their fellow 21st century pioneers pointers on everything from brewing biofuel to making a dented shipping container habitable.  

Their joyful, sensible approach to life off the grid is exemplified by the delicious treats Sklar whipped up during a recent reading.  The antigriddle is a faddish kitchen gadget that flash-freezes foods placed on its surface and can cost more than $1000.  Tremayne and Sklar's version is a garage-sale cookie sheet set atop a block of dry ice.  For a frosty treat, just tag a toothpick with a mixture of heavy cream, sugar, vanilla, and balsamic vinegar and give it a minute or two to set up.   

Buttermilk Lemon Sorbet

 










Buttermilk Lemon Sorbet

While I can vividly remember resenting buttermilk for not tasting like melted butter, I've since either matured enough killed off enough taste buds to appreciate this tart, old-fashioned dairy stalwart.  

Buttermilk in pancakes?  Yes!  In bran muffins?  Of course!  In this crazy-easy buttermilk lemon sorbet?  Don't get between me and my spoon!  

The buttermilk contributes an easy-to-digest but velvety richness that comes through even if you skip using an ice cream maker.  Meyer lemon juice adds another layer of tartness, so mix in just enough sugar for balance. 

Don't be put off by the large number of variables in this flexible recipe.  Using regular lemon juice instead of Meyer?  You might want a little more sugar.  Trying to cut back on the sugar?  You might want to go for the cream or milk option instead of full-on buttermilk.  If it comes out too tart, just serve with shortbread or a little chocolate syrup.


Buttermilk Lemon Sorbet

2/3 c freshly squeezed Meyer lemon juice

1 1/4 - 1 1/2 c sugar (to taste)

2 c buttermilk + 2 c other dairy (more buttermilk, cream, whole milk, kefir, etc) 

Combine the sugar lemon juice and either whisk in a bowl or shake in a sealed jar until the sugar completely dissolves. Whisk the juice together with the buttermilk and any other dairy products. Pour into a large tupperware container and chill for an hour. Transfer to the freezer and rake with a fork every 45-60 minutes to break up the ice crystals as they form.

I based my recipe on Katie at the Kitchen Door, who based hers on Rozanne Gold's Radically Simple cookbook. 

New Year's Cake

New Year's Cake

This New Year, how about partying like it's 1834?  You'll just need a batch of New Year's cakes.

The practice of making New Year's cake arrived in this country with seventeenth century Dutch immigrants, spread from there to their New York neighbors, and then to Quakers and Congregationalists.  The cakes were a perfect match for the old New York custom of throwing open one's doors on New Year's Day to a parade of visitors.  The occasion called for impressive but achievable refreshments, so hostesses relied heavily on small cookie-like cakes; they might be cut into exacting shapes, dotted with exotic aromatic spices, or embossed with ornate designs. 

The popularity of the illustrated cakes sparked an entire industry centered on the production of carved wooden "prints" of varying size and intricacy for both commercial and home use.  John Conger was one noted print carver; his large mahogany molds are now rare and extremely valuable.

With no Conger in my kitchen, I tried making my own mold--but new to both carving and using this type of mold, I made several rookie mistakes.  Next time I'll carve my designs more deeply, roll the dough and then chill it before doing the embossing, and let the raw cookies sit overnight as instructed.  The finished cookies were great with coffee:  light and just sweet, with the unexpectedly cool, savory flavor of the caraway seeds--and the faint hint of my intended design!

 
New Year's Cake Recipe
-circa 1834, from William Woys Weaver, America Eats

2 sticks salted butter
2 c sugar
1 c sour cream or plain yogurt
2 T caraway seeds
5 c pastry flour
1 t baking powder
1 1/2 t cream of tartar

Cream together the butter and sugar until fluffy.  Beat in the sour cream and caraway seeds.  Sift together the flour, soda, and cream of tartar twice, then sift into the batter and mix well.  Wrap and allow to ripen in the refrigerator for 1-2 days.

Roll part of the dough out to 1/2" thickness and if using a mold, press it into the dough and then cut out the cookie; if not using a mold, use a knife or cookie cutter to create shapes.  Rework all the dough scraps until all of it is used up.

Set the cookies on greased baking sheets with at least 1/2" between them.  Let them sit in a cool place overnight so that the imprints will set.

Preheat the oven to 375 degrees and bake for 10-12 minutes; the bottoms should be golden and the tops pale.  

Peach Pickles

Peach Pickles

Writing in The Flavor Thesaurus, Niki Segnit observes that, "As a society lady at the turn of the twentieth century, you were nobody until you'd had a peach-based dessert named after you."  She cites Sarah Bernhardt's peches aiglon, singer Blanche d'Antigny's coupe d'Antigny, and the peaches-and-kirsch concoction known as "Princess Alexandra".  

Around the same time but a world away, the women who settled the Pacific Northwest were also intent on peaches and posterity, making summer's bounty last a little longer with the help of peach pickles. Jacqueline B. Williams includes one 19th century recipe in The Way We Ate: Pacific Northwest Cooking, 1843-1900; since it called for nine pounds of peaches and some spices that I don't keep in the pantry, I made a few adjustments.


Peach Pickles

-Wash and dry 1 1/2 lbs of ripe but firm peaches; halve them and remove the pits. 
-Combine 1/2 lb sugar, 1/2c white vinegar, 2 sticks cinnamon, 12 cloves, and 1 Tbs cardamom seeds; bring the mixture to a boil, then lower the heat and reduce the liquid to a syrup.  
-Remove the syrup from the heat and gently add the fruit, stirring to coat. 
-Follow your usual canning procedure or pack the cooled fruit and syrup in a jar and store in the fridge.  
-Eat as-is or with vanilla ice cream, and use the delicious syrup as a dessert topping or drink flavoring.  

Cherry Shrub and Shrubet

Shrub

Acetic acid is powerful stuff, capable of clearing your sinuses, cleaning your bathroom, or transforming bland and perishable cucumbers into zingy pickles with a near-infinite shelf life.   

Along with water, acetic acid is the essential ingredient in vinegar--but it need not be the dominant flavor.  Brewing vinegar directly from tasty ingredients such as fruits and grains ("pure vinegars") or adding these ingredients to vinegar prior to a second, shorter fermentation process ("compound vinegars") can result in something more like a liqueur:  smooth, intense, aromatic, and even drinkable, usually as an apertif, digestif, or diluted into a kind of spritzer.  In many places, that mixture of fruit vinegar and water or soda water is known as "shrub". 

Home-brewed compound vinegars have a long history and after a quiet spell have seen a recent bump in prominence.   Making your own is easy (shrub is the jam of lazy DIYers) and relatively cheap if you use the fecund-est local fruit of the moment (in my case, cherries).  


Cherry Shrub

4 lbs cherries, washed, sorted, stemmed, and pitted
4 c vinegar (I used Bragg's apple cider; depending on your fruit you could use white, balsamic...)
1/2 c sugar (to taste)

-Put the fruit in a large non-reactive pot or several glass jars and add enough vinegar to cover.  
-Let the fruit sit, covered, at room temperature temperature for a week, stirring well each day. 
-On Day 7 or 8, stir in the sugar and heat the fruit to a low boil for about an hour.  
-Remove from the heat and when the mix is cool enough to handle, strain the liquid into clean jars.  Reserve the fruit solids (see below). 
-Mix chilled shrub with water or soda water to taste, or sip straight.  

 
















Bonus:  Shrub-et!

Why waste all that yummy fruit mush?  If shrub makes for a refreshing drink, it's off-the-charts invigorating as a frozen treat.  

leftover shrub fruit (of course this is best done with fruits such as pitted cherries that are entirely edible)
sugar to taste
water
spices and flavorings to taste
approx. 2 T vodka (depending on the volume of fruit)

-If your fruit is chunkier that you like in a frozen dessert, whizz it in a food processor.  
-Add just enough water to dissolve about 1/2 c of sugar; stir, shake in a jar, or heat gently until the sugar grains completely melt.  
-Mix the fruit and syrup.  
-Add any desired spices or flavorings (to my cherry mush I added a little cinnamon, ground cardamom, and black pepper, plus about 1 T of almond extract).  
-Stir in a little neutrally-flavored alcohol to keep the mush from freezing rock-solid. 
-Pour into a plastic tub or bowl and place in the freezer.  To create a softer texture, break up the ice crystals by raking the shrubet with a fork every hour or so as it freezes, then give it a final fluff about 15 minutes before serving. 

For more on shrub's history and resurgence in popularity, check out this NYT article. 

Penland Gingerade

Gingerade

I've been attending residential art classes at the Penland School of Crafts in North Carolina off and on since 1996. What with juggling 24-hour studio access and whatever work-study job I've been assigned, I tend to push myself hard while I'm there, often teetering on the edge of what could be a disastrous illness.

Gingerade to the rescue! Over the years, the Penland Coffee Shop has migrated and mutated, but this spicy, invigorating brew has been a blessedly constant presence on the menu. I can't begin to calculate how many gallons I must have bought.

Now I make this versatile tonic at home, bringing a little bit of Penland magic to whatever creative or physical challenge I happen to be facing. Wretched winter cold? Hot with extra honey, and maybe a touch of whiskey. Demoralizing summer cold? Full-strength over ice. Looming exhibition deadline? Fancied up with seltzer and a lime wedge.

Gingerade

(As written the recipe recipe makes 2 quarts, but it's easy math to scale up for bigger batches.)

1 c peeled and thinly sliced ginger

1 t whole cloves
4 cinnamon sticks
2 whole lemons, washed and quartered with peels left on

2 quarts water

Combine the above ingredients and simmer for 2 hours. Strain out the chunks and while the liquid is still hot add 2 cups of orange juice and 1 cup (or to taste) of your favorite sweetener (honey, agave, sugar, brown sugar, or succanat work fine). Stir until the sweetener is dissolved. Serve hot or cold, straight or diluted with still or fizzy water.

Cranachan

Rhubarb Cranachan

Cranachan is an old Scottish dessert designed to insulate against grey days and damp winds: hearty toasted oats are stirred together with cream cheese, whipped cream, honey, whiskey, and fresh raspberries (for the vitamins, presumably). Rhubarb cranachan is a modern reworking from Niki Segnit's inspiring Flavor Thesaurus (a kind of culinary choose-your-own-adventure book).

When the cranachan recipe is stripped down to its five main themes (sweetness, cream, acidity, booze, and crunch), even more variations start to suggest themselves. Later in the summer I plan to try a Georgian version, with ripe yellow peaches, Southern Comfort and toasted pecans.

Niki Segnit's Rhubarb Cranachan

Chop 6 stalks of rhubarb and toss with 3/4 c sugar; bake in a covered, buttered dish for 30 minutes at 350 degrees, then let cool. In a heavy skillet, toast 1/2 c oats until golden, then let cool. Whip 3/4 c cream into stiff peaks, then fold in the rhubarb, 2 T amaretto, 2 T honey, and three-quarters of the oats. Serve chilled in small glasses topped with the remainder of the oats and toasted, sliced almonds.

Tropical Banana Bread

Tropical Banana Bread

Consider the banana.

If you're living in North America or Western Europe, it's a safe bet that you have a bunch in your fruit basket. They're the most popular fruit in the the US, purchased and eaten more than even our native apple.

But ubiquitous as the banana is, it's an interloper, a triumph of commerce over nature. It's a fragile and highly perishable fruit that (with a few small-scale exceptions) grows in the tropics. Bananas only began to appear in the US and UK a little over a century ago, when refrigerated containers made import feasible; more recent innovations in banana husbandry and distribution read like something out of sci-fi. (For more on these modern miracles, check out this article from Saveur magazine.)

When World War Two severed supply lines between England and the tropics, some banana lovers sculpted simulacra out of boiled parsnips. To many children growing up under food rationing, a banana was as fantastical as a unicorn's horn. As a mid-war morale booster, the British government arranged to distribute a special consignment of bananas to young children around the country. Years later the writer Auberon Waugh, son of novelist Evelyn Waugh, remembered how banana day utterly failed to boost morale at his house:

'They were put on my father's plate, and before the anguished eyes of his children he poured on cream, which was almost unprocurable, and sugar, which was heavily rationed, and ate all three. From that moment, I never treated anything he had to say on faith or morals very seriously."

By the time I was growing up in the '70s, bananas were back. We ate them or didn't, but never paid them much mind until such time as they turned black and gathered around them small storm clouds of fruitflies. Then it was time to render them into banana bread, bricklike in both shape and specific gravity.

Although I've eaten my share of banana bread, I've only recently done so with much enthusiasm. Trolling for recipes on the website of health food manufacturer Navitas Naturals, I found a recipe that honors the banana's essential exoticism by matching it with coconut oil and palm sugar. It smells as if you haven't so much baked it as left it laying on the beach to work on its tan.

Banana Bread
(this recipe is based on the original by Julie Morris; I have adapted it to make up for the fact that I don't have a kitchen full of Navitas products, although I imagine it would be even more delicious with them.)

2T + 1/2c ground flaxseed
1/2c palm sugar or evaporated cane juice
1/2c melted coconut oil
1/3c water
1 1/2c whole wheat flour
1T baking powder
1T cinnamon or ground cardamon (optional)
1t baking soda
1t salt
2T maple syrup
1 1/4c mashed overripe banana
1/2c chopped walnuts

Mix 2T of flaxseed with the water and set aside for 5 minutes to thicken.

Combine the rest of the flaxseed with the flour, baking powder, baking soda, salt, and spice.

In another bowl, combine the melted coconut oil with the sugar, wet flax, and maple syrup, and mix well. (If your palm sugar is very hard, it may be easier to melt it over low heat as you melt the coconut oil). Fold in the mashed bananas and nuts and pour into a greased loaf pan.

Bake for 40-45 minutes at 350 until it passes the toothpick test (although since there are no eggs, you can safely undercook if, like me, you prefer your baked goods a little on the googly side).

Switchel

Switchel

Nutrition-wise, one of the few things I have going for me is the fact that I don't much care for soft drinks. The most popular pops, in particular, leave me cold. Pepsi? Eh. Coke? I probably average one serving every two or three years.

When I do indulge in sweet, fizzy drinks, they tend to have a more old-fashioned bent. I enjoy root beer--with or without ice cream--and birch beer, when I stumble across it. I like ginger ale and love ginger beer, the hotter the better.

And it turns out that I'm a big fan of a drink even less likely that these to appear on grocery shelves or in a gas station cooler: switchel. Flavored with molasses, ginger, and vinegar, it's spicy, stomach-settling, and weirdly refreshing. And luckily, it's really easy to make.

Like so many soft drinks, switchel has historic and utilitarian roots. It first appeared in the 17th century in the Caribbean, where molasses was a plentiful by-product of the sugar refining industry. A couple of centuries later in America, switchel was a kind of proto-energy drink, providing electrolytes and hydration to sweaty laborers doing the hot, heavy work of making hay.

I based my own attempt on a recipe in Ellis Sandor Katz's Wild Fermentation, which was in turn adapted from Stephen Cresswell's Homemade Root Beer, Soda, and Pop. I reduced the amount of sugar and chose not to dilute the syrup to drinking strength right away; the mix stores well in the fridge, so I just make it up as needed, adding a few tablespoons to a glass of cold soda water or a mug of hot water.

Switchel

1/2 c apple cider vinegar
1/2 c sugar
1/2 c molasses
2 inches grated fresh ginger
1/2 c water

Heat all of the ingredients until just boiling, then simmer for 10-15 minutes. Let cool and strain to remove the ginger. Store, refrigerated, in a jar. Dilute to taste with hot water, cold water, or seltzer.

Plum Jam

Plum Jam

On a neighborhood ramble earlier in the summer, I found a huge tree covered in the worst cherries I'd ever tasted. Their glowing garnet-colored skins were thick and crunchy, their pale amber flesh blandly sweet but with an odd tart edge. At home I did some half-hearted google searches ("worst cherry variety") but came up empty.

When I passed the tree again yesterday, it was covered in the biggest cherries I'd ever seen. And they were plums.

Thousands of them lurked under the coppery leaves in tight knots (it's a wonder I didn't mistake them for grapes). In under 10 minutes, I was headed home with more than four pounds in my bag.

Then I had to figure out what to do with them. Those tough skins--a deal-breaker on "cherries"--weren't much more palatable on plums. And the small pits clung so tenaciously to the fruit that any attempt to remove them just ended up pulping the whole thing.

And so I arrived at jam, the simplest way to tame a feral fruit. I washed my plums and set them to simmering in a huge saucepan until they eventually turned to aromatic maroon mush. I let the mush cool, dumped it into a colander and stirred and pressed until I was left with a saucepan full of juice and pulp, and a colander bristling with stems, skins, and pits. I stirred a minimal amount of sugar and a tiny bit of cinnamon into the juice, set it back on to simmer, and went on with my day.

A couple of hours later, jam appeared. Thick as primordial ooze, with all sorts of mysterious spicy-earthy-fruity flavors darting around under its sweet surface and a smell that reaches the far side of the room about .04 seconds after I take the lid off the jar. It would be a great addition to fancy dishes, both savory and sweet, and while I'd like to say I've exploited it fully I've actually been enjoying more straightforward hits: a spoonful on yogurt or in oatmeal, stirred into a glass of seltzer, or spread on buttered toast.

Clafouti

Cherry Clafouti

For me, cooking is almost a never creative act. Instead of imagining as I chop and whip and stir, I remember, straining to recall and recreate a long-ago or faraway treat.

Case in point: about 10 years ago and approximately 7750 miles from where I now live, I had my socks knocked off by a cherry pastry from a nameless provincial bakeshop. I have since made about a half-dozen bad imitations, and--only recently--two good ones.

I was living in Australia when a couple of dear friends from college came to visit and we trekked out to the Blue Mountains to see the epic scenery. Passing through the small town of Katoomba on our way to a famous overlook we popped into a bakery on the main drag for a picnic lunch. For our dessert course we chose rubbery slabs of something the shop assistant called "cherry flan" (said with than long, flat Antipodean "a", not the American's tongue depressor "ah"). Although we ate the flan while looking out over one of the best-loved views in Australia, my memory of the landscape is a vague wisp compared to my 5-sense record of the fruity, chewy treat. Whenever my friends and I reminisce about that trip, we have a lot to talk about, but that flan always comes up, along with koalas, emus, and emu steaks. I think our friendship was strengthened by shared regret over not making it back to Katoomba until after the bakery had closed for the day.

Trying to find a recipe that would staunch my craving, I discovered that "cherry flan" is more commonly known as clafouti (or clafoutis). An antique dessert associated with the Limousin region of France, the classic clafouti includes intact cherries, the pits giving a rich almond flavor to the custard (since I've invested heavily in dental work this year, I opt for pitted cherries and almond extract).

Most of the recipes I've tried over the years were butter-logged duds, as heavy, oily, and appetizing as cherry-studded plasticine. Then I came across a recipe in Liana Krissof's Canning for A New Generation that calls for a minimum of butter and sugar, plus a touch of yogurt. After tinkering a little with the flavorings, I'm as close to Katoomba as I've come in ten years of trying.

Cherry Clafouti

adapted from Liana Krissof's Canning for A New Generation

1/4 c + 2 Tbs sugar
3 generous cups fresh or frozen pitted cherries (Bings work well)
1/2 c flour
pinch salt

1/4 tsp cinnamon
3 eggs
1/4 c plain yogurt
1/2 tsp almond extract
1 c milk
1 Tbs butter, cut into bits

Butter a 10" pie pan and dust it with 1 tablespoon of sugar. Set out the cherries in a single layer in the prepared pan.

Sift together the flour, salt, cinnamon, and 1/4 c sugar. Whisk together the eggs, yogurt, and almond extract until smooth, then whisk in the milk. Combine the flour mixture and the egg mixture and whisk thoroughly. Pour into the pan. Scatter the butter over the top and then sprinkle with the last tablespoon of sugar. Bake 40-45 min at 375, until the top starts to brown.

Kumquats in Syrup

Kumquats in Syrup

Like baby corn, Vienna sausages, and mini donuts, a kumquat's appeal is due, in part, to its infantile charm. But while the fruit might look like a prepubescent orange, it offers a mindbendingly different taste sensation. A fresh kumquat is entirely edible (although some have large seeds), with a sweet rind and contrastingly sour flesh.

You could call kumquats the weird cousins of the citrus family, but the jury's still out; some botanists think kumquats belong to their very own genus, Fortunella. The fruit originated in China and the name translates as "golden orange". The association of kumquats with gold and good fortune is widespread throughout Asia, making the fruit a popular motif during Lunar New Year.

Like good fortune, kumquats can slip away all too easily. In most regions the harvest season is relatively short, and the fresh fruits don't last long. In Asia it's common practice to preserve the wealth of a good kumquat harvest by salt-curing or candying the fruit.

Of the two most common varieties found in the US, the oval-shaped Nagami kumquats I found at Trader Joes are tarter than the rounder, sweeter Marumis, and therefore perfect candidates for candying. I followed the recipe on the Put Up or Shut Up blog, omitting the ginger. I also elected not to remove the seeds, even though they're big; I figured I'd rather spend seconds spitting them out than hours deseeding dozens of tiny fruit (I just have to remember to pass that along to anyone I share the kumquats with...).

Both the fruit and syrup are absolutely delicious--bright and lively and almost overwhelmingly flavorful. I can see kumquats earning a permanent spot in my pantry of grey-day antidotes.

Mango Chile Paletas

Mango Chile Paletas

It was meant to be: the day after I spotted a recipe for Mexican-style mango chile paletas in my public library copy of Saveur magazine, I noticed mangoes on sale at the grocery store. These easy-to-make pops are a perfect match for Seattle's dim and blustery spring, with the mango standing in for sunshine and enough red chili to chase off the chill.

Pan de Coco

Pan de Coco

Whole Foods has published a series of recipe cards featuring foods inspired by clients of their Whole Planet Foundation, a microlending organization (if you've recently allowed a Whole Foods checker to round your total up to the nearest dollar, Whole Planet is probably where your change went). The recipes look amazing, and I love that they allow you to share a tiny taste of someone else's life.

Pan de coco is a light, fluffy, coconut-scented bread roll that's a favorite in Honduras. As flavored breads go, it's easy to make and versatile. The recipe card recommends having it with rice, beans and fried plantains, or as a simple snack with coffee, but I can attest that it also makes fantastic French toast (below).

The pan de coco recipe card also features Euceria Bernandez, a second-generation Honduran baker. She bakes pan de coco in a fire pit in her yard and sells it door-to-door in her neighborhood. A microloan allowed her to stock up on staple ingredients.

More treats from exotic lands are at Wanderfood Wednesday...

Matsukaze

Miso Matsukaze Cake

Matsukaze is a Japanese expression that describes the rustling sound made by wind blowing through pine trees. It is also a tea ceremony term, referring to the whisper of water in an iron kettle reaching the correct temperature for tea.

Matsukaze is also the name of this simple steamed cake. The secret ingredient is miso, a salty, pungent paste of fermented soybeans that is more usually used for soups, sauces, and marinades. Like meat, truffles, and seaweed, miso is intensely umami, the term used by the Japanese for that "fifth flavor," a savory quality that imparts a feeling of satisfaction.

Although matsukaze is relatively light, containing no butter, egg yolks, or oil, the addition of miso gives it a strangely meaty richness. Thanks to the steaming process, matsukaze's texture is also something you can really get your teeth into; think sweet-salty foam rubber.

Miso Matsukaze Cake

from Masako Yamoko's First Book of Japanese Cooking

2 Tbs low to medium sodium miso

1 c sugar

2 egg whites

1 1/4 c flour

1 tsp baking powder

-prepare a small cake pan by lining it with parchment or coating with butter and flour.

-preheat oven to 400F.

-mash the miso into the sugar, then add a scant cup of water and whisk until there are no lumps.

-beat eggs into stiff peaks. fold into the miso.

-sift flour and baking powder together. sift again into the egg/miso mix. blend well.

-pour batter into the prepared pan. cover with foil and pierce with several holes.

-place the cake pan inside a larger pan with an inch or so of hot water.

-bake around 50 minutes, or until it passes the toothpick test.

-for a brown top, remove the foil for the final 15 minutes, or grill the cake, top down, in an oiled skillet.

-serve hot or at room temperature.

Fig Jam

Fig Jam

Thinking about the holidays in England tends to make me swoon with false nostalgia for things I either never experienced at all or only saw on TV: cheerful churchyards and stately homes, snow-dusted cobbles and fires in cast-iron grates, pub sing-alongs and Scrooge smothering the Crachits in a group hug. When my imaginings snowball into something so ridiculously perfect that I'm tempted to run for the airport and the first flight to Heathrow, all it takes to bring me back down to earth are two little words: Christmas pudding.

And just like that, a sodden Seattle Christmas starts looking pretty good.

As a picky eater and pretty-much-vegetarian, I've never gotten too excited by the main thrust of holiday meals--but at least on American holidays, dessert saves the day. July 4th means blackberry cobbler, Thanksgiving is classic pumpkin pie, and Christmas, my mom's Frangelico-topped custard. And since I haven't eaten much else, I get usually get more than my share of dessert!

My first Christmas in England, I discovered that the traditional holiday meal is a succession of foods that I have no interest in eating, capped off by a dessert that I don't even like to look at. "Christmas pudding" is a venerable concoction of dried fruits, spices, treacle, alcohol, and suet (that solidfied fat that keeps birds from starving over the winter), steamed or boiled, and served either on fire or dribbled with runny white sauce. I want to like it--it's archaic and labor-intensive and oddly chewy--but I just don't.

Yet there's something about the short dark days of mid-winter that makes me hunger for the combination of booze, spices, and dried fruit, so I went on the hunt for Christmas pudding's more palatable cousin. On Heidi Swanson's blog, 101recipes.com, I found a recipe for "fig butter" borrowed from Kim Boyce's cookbook, Good to the Grain. The original calls for cloves, star anise, cinnamon, and port, but I made the following substitutions, then stuck to the recipe:

scant 1/2 c sugar
12 black peppercorns
3 cardamom pods, bruised
1 c red wine
1/2 cup marsala wine
12 oz dried Black Mission figs, destemmed
4 oz unsalted butter, softened
pinch of salt

The result is like the Christmas pudding of my dreams: rich, earthy fruit given a festive warmth by spices and wine. Straight out of the fridge it's dense and stiff and best eaten by the spoonful; at room temperature it's a toast spread, crepe filling, or a partner for cheese and crackers.

Yuzu Marmalade

Yuzu
Uwajimaya, $14.99/6

Yuzu is a delicious and distinctive Japanese citrus fruit that I will consume in almost any available form. Early last winter I heard rumors that fresh yuzu had been seen in the produce department at the Uwajimaya Grocery. I rushed right down but was too late. The produce guy explained that only a few growers in California sell yuzu commercially; most of their small output goes to local restaurants, with a few extras occasionally making their way north to Seattle. His advice: "Try again next year." I marked my calendar.

Come early fall I started calling Uwajimaya every week. One week it was too early for yuzu; the next week they'd just sold out and weren't sure if more were coming. Finally, the guy on the phone said he was expecting a shipment the next day, probably the last of the season. When I called around lunchtime there was only one pack left.

Knowing how much work I'd put into tracking these things down, the produce guy tried hard to give me an out: "They're expensive, you know, and to be honest, this pack is kind of small...you sure you want 'em?"

I did.

When I stopped by the produce counter and gave my name, the guy handed me a styrofoam deli tray swaddled in plastic wrap. Inside there were six small balls,
rock hard and dark green. I resisted the urge to ask the produce guy if he was joking.

At "12 items or less" the teenaged checker did an indignant double take at my purchase; "What kind of limes are these?"

She rolled her eyes as I tried to make my case for why yuzu are so special; she'd clearly seen her share of crazies.

I was still rambling when she barked out my total: "Fourteen dollars and ninety-nine cents for six...yuzu. You need a bag for those?"

As I blushed and tucked the package into the pocket of my windbreaker I heard the guy in line behind me mutter, "Those better be some good limes."

At home with my booty, I began to feel twinges of buyer's remorse. Out of the wrapper, my yuzu were even smaller, harder, and greener. Worst of all, they smelled like nothing. A scratch-n-sniff sticker would have been more enticing. Discouraged, I stuck my yuzu in a corner and forgot about them.

As the weeks went by, the fruit began to come to life. As they softened and turned yellow, I cheered up enough to start looking at recipes. My original plan had been to candy the peels and drink the juice, but I just didn't think the yield would justify the fuss involved in candying. Remembering a homemade yuzu marmalade I'd had in Japan, I started to lean in that direction, but all the recipes I found called for a particular number of yuzu, as if "one yuzu" were a uniform unit of measurement. Fond as I was becoming of my little yuzu, I suspected that they were well below average.

Eventually, my fruit grew fragrant and I found a simple and sensible marmalade recipe based on the volume of raw fruit. The recipe can take up to three days to complete, but with the exception of one tedious chore (deseeding) the work is easy. I just did a step first thing each day, leaving the fruit to simmer while I did all my usual morning stuff, stirring whenever I happened to walk through the kitchen. It terms of its demands on your attention, marmalade is the outdoor cat of cooking projects.

Yuzu Marmalade

ingredients: yuzu, sugar, water

De-stem, halve and de-seed the fruit (seriously, this the most arduous part of the process; get through it and you're golden). Slice thinly or grind in a food processor. Add 1 1/2 c water for every cup of fruit and let the mixture stand 8-24 hours. Simmer in a heavy saucepan until the peel is tender (1-2 hours). Let the cooked mixture stand at least 8-24 hours. Add a scant cup of sugar (I used light brown evaporated cane juice; that hint of molasses mellows the citrusy sharpness just a little, without making it oversweet) for every cup of fruit, and cook just until the fruit jells. Cool and seal in sterilized jars.

Yuzu marmalade is amazing on buttered toast, and divine in full-fat plain yogurt with toasted walnuts. You can also make a restorative drink by stirring a spoonful into hot water, and I'm toying with the idea of making a small sachertorte and substituting yuzu marmalade for the layer of apricot jam.

If you share my out-of-season craving for yuzu, check out the products at Yuzu Passion.

Custard Pumpkin

Custard Pumpkin

My first-ever Thai meal was at Sawatdee in St. Paul, MN, and I capped off a good dinner with a great dessert: a slice of rich, spongy custard embedded with diced pumpkin. Since that day I've rarely passed up a chance to eat Thai custard, preferably cooked inside a hollowed-out pumpkin, and served by the slice with a side of coconut black sticky rice.

Since I don't always have a retail source, I resort to making my own about once a year, usually around Thanksgiving when the prevalence of pumpkins acts as a mouth-watering reminder. My results have been mixed. True Thai custard calls for duck eggs and palm sugar, so my chicken egg and cane sugar version is bound to be a bit off. For such a short recipe, it also contains a daunting number of variables, from the size and moisture content of the pumpkin, to the volume and freshness of the eggs, to the eccentricities of whatever ersatz steaming contraption I've rigged up. Added to that, I tend to try a different recipe every time, which I realize is not the best approach in terms of trouble-shooting. Accordingly, over the years my "custard pumpkins" have overflowed, fallen, or failed to set--and on one dramatic occasion, the pumpkin sprang a leak and bled out all over the steamer.

But still, this stuff is so good and--theoretically--so simple, that by the time pumpkin season rolls around I'm always ready to try again. Here's what I tried this year:

Slice the top off one smallish kabocha or sugarpie pumpkin (for reference, that's a salad-sized plate in the photo above) and scoop out the guts. Pop the pumpkin into whatever steamer you prefer (I set it on a steel steamer basket inside a crockpot), add water and get the steam going. If you have room you can put the pumpkin lid as well. Mix 1c coconut milk, 1c brown sugar, 1/2 tsp vanilla extract, and 1/2 tsp cinnamon. In another bowl, whisk 4 eggs until foamy. Gently combine the eggs and coconut milk mixture and pour into the pumpkin; ideally the liquid should be pretty close to the top of the opening (the contents will rise and then fall) but I'm never sure what to do if it isn't. Steam until the custard is completely set and the pumpkin is soft but not mushy. Cool, slice into wedges, and serve.

Custard pumpkin 2010 might have been a little short and oddly lumpy, but it was quite delicious. I already have my eye on this recipe for custard pumpkin 2011.