The French Butter Cookies That Almost Weren't

A few days ago I decided that I wanted to bake French butter cookies. This is probably a residual effect of having purchased a box of Pierre Biscuiterie's French Pure Butter Cookies on a previous Saturday afternoon to take to a friend's house. Who am I kidding? I know it's a residual effect because on the Monday afternoon following, while doing my own grocery shopping for the week, I bought a box of 12 Palets au beurre French shortbreads from St. Michel.

Having made up my mind that French butter cookies would be the next French recipe that I tackled, the first thing I did was consult Mastering The Art Of French Cooking. Would you believe there is no butter cookie recipe? I was surprised. Julia Child includes a sugar cookie recipe but no butter cookie. (While we’re on this subject, there’s no macaron recipe either. Weird!) Undeterred, I Googled "french butter cookie recipe." I looked at four different ones, including the one from Martha Stewart, before deciding that the first recipe I’d read was the one for me. I guess it made a good impression.

The website from which I found this recipe informed me that, "These French butter cookies [are] also known as sablés,” (which translates to shortbread and originates in the commune of Sablé-sur-Sarthe in the Pays de la Loire region of France) and that they "are possibly the most widely enjoyed cookie in France." I was also informed that the French appear to hold them as dear to their hearts as we Americans hold chocolate chip cookies. Who knew? I’ve been to Paris three times in the last four years, and I must confess, I've never had a butter cookie. I've had plenty of pains au chocolat and crème brûlées. I've had des éclairs and une glace à la pistache. I've even indulged in beaucoup de chocolat. And don’t even ask me how many macarons que j’ai mangés. How have I missed the butter cookies? Maybe they’re more popular outside of Paris? Or maybe I’m just regrettably uninformed. Goals!

I wondered what gave these cookies the distinction of being French, but I didn't bother to explore it. I just decided to accept the recipe for what it said it was and to embark upon the journey toward the anticipated sweet reward at the end of my francophile dreams. Shortbread here I come!

It seemed simple enough: butter, sugar, egg yolks, vanilla extract, flour. I had never made a shortbread dough before, but I felt that I could do it. How hard could it be? I had step by step instructions and, as long as I added the ingredients in the right measurements at the right time, I should end up with cookies.

So, you may be asking yourself: Is he really going to tell us about making a simple butter cookie? Yes, dear reader, I am. I’m going to tell you because, well, I’m me, and, as per usual, fear reared its ugly head and there was a hefty dash of comedy instead of salt.

Intimidation is a fear tactic. And fear is bullshit. (One day I will learn this.) As much as I wanted to bake these cookies, my excitement to make them couldn’t subdue the bouts of intimidation trembling inside me. This is senseless. I know. It’s a cookie recipe? What’s a cookie recipe? It’s nothing but ingredients and instructions.

I looked at the 13 Tb of butter (!!) clumsily lying in the mixing bowl waiting for me to get the party started by adding sugar. So I did—white granulated sugar dramatically layered over yellow sticks of butter like sand adrift on lemony blond logs. I plunged the beaters into one of the sticks to break it up, then whirled the hand mixer to life. I reminded myself that the instructions were carefully laid out for me and that as much as I wanted to bake perfectly delicious cookies, they might suck and that’s okay too. (Is it? Is it?) Pep Talks By Michael.

I would suggest that the butter be room temperature. Mine had been sitting out on the kitchen counter for close to an hour, but it probably should have been softer. Not that I knew that at the time.

Every few seconds I stopped the mixer in order to splinter the butter into smaller chunks. Once the butter was broken into portions much more easily mixable, I increased the speed so as to cream the two ingredients into a light and fluffy combo. I was relaxing into that sound the beaters make against the sides of the bowl. I was watching as the butter and the sugar melded into a buttery mound of lusciousness.

Screeeeech! What is happening?? I had that immediate burst of energy inside my chest—which then spreads throughout my body—that always happens when something startles me with no warning. The beaters had stopped moving, but the gears inside the mixer were still trying to turn them. I powered the mixer off. The beaters were caked with the butter/sugar mixture. In my relaxed state of cocky pluck, I hadn’t been paying attention to what was happening right in front of my eyes. The beaters looked like twin tornados that had sucked up everything in their path as they cut their swath through town. Sigh. I unplugged the mixer. (I’m not about to put my fingers near those beaters when I might accidentally turn the damn thing back on. Danger! Danger!) I then ejected the beaters.

I beat them against the side of the bowl, and against each other, until they released the foundation of what I hoped would be a crisp yet melt-in-your-mouth confection. I then set about inserting the right beater back into the mixer. It didn’t hold. I tried again. It still didn’t hold. The left beater locked right back into place. Again I tried the right. The spring had sprung. It was as if a rubber band was now blocking the locking mechanism. I had broken the mixer. It had ground itself to a halt and there was nothing sweet about it. (Insert eye roll, laughter, or curse word here. I did!) I told you there would be comedy.

What to do, what to do? The only option was to continue mixing by hand. I added the two egg yokes and the vanilla extract and stirred until my shoulder hurt and then I stirred some more. Now it was time for the hard(er) part…the flour. Flour, as you know, thickens.

I started adding the flour to the mixture slowly. Stirring until it was incorporated, adding more. Stirring, adding, stirring…you get the picture. After about half of the necessary flour was incorporated, the spoon had become a useless tool, sheathed in what was trying to become the most sought-after cookie dough of the season. I had to discard it.

So, the mixer is broken and the spoon is less than helpful. My only other option is…actually mixing by hand. That’s right. My hands were clean so I dove right into the dough and started squeezing it together. It was actually kind of cathartic. (I have anger issues. And in this current mise en scène, I imagined a lot of faces in that dough. But I digress.) I didn’t wait to slowly add the remaining flour. I dumped it in and began compressions. No mixer, no problem. I got you.

Determination. I was determined to bake French butter cookies and was unwilling to accept defeat. Does this determination exist in my daily life? Hmmm. Maybe only in hindsight.

I didn’t know what to expect from this dough once I’d dumped it out of the bowl onto my freshly scrubbed kitchen counter. I could tell from the pieces clinging to my hands that it wasn’t going to ball up like a good snowball. No, this was just slightly more moist than dry snow, which we all know you can’t pack.

It definitely wanted to break off into pieces, but after forming it into a ball, I managed to keep it together as I pressed it down and then began rolling it out into the desired thickness with my rolling pin. Now that I know what to expect, this will be easier going forward.

The one thing I didn’t have in my possession for this recipe was a cookie cutter. Again, determined. Again, undeterred. I had a wine glass whose opening was nearly the exact width suggested for these purported mouthwatering morsels of buttery goodness. And as bougie as it sounds, it made such perfect circles that I don’t know if I will purchase an actual cookie cutter.

The parchment paper was atop the cookie sheet. I had spatula’d the circles from the counter. Twelve little shortbread wannabes patiently waited for me to brush their tops with egg yolk and pop them in the oven.

Like any person baking anything for the first time, I was excited…and nervous. I set the timer for ten minutes instead of starting with the recipe’s baseline of twelve. Obviously, I didn’t want to burn them and more time can always be added. But you can’t unburn a cookie. Curious about their transformation, I checked periodically to watch their beige complexions turn to a gorgeous, sun-kissed golden brown.

As the first batch cooled—on a makeshift cooling rack that I’d made by taking the bottom rack out of the oven, covering a part of it with tinfoil, and setting it atop a large pot—I put the second batch in the oven. Same ten minutes. Less checking. By the third batch I was no longer watching the sun kiss them. I had begun the clean up process. It really does take practice. I wonder when I’m going to accept that?

They are perfectly delicious. They are crisp. They do somehow melt in my mouth. They are mouthwatering morsels of buttery goodness (but not too sweet). They are better when cooled. And they might be even better the next day, if I do say so myself.

Making a cookie dough, then baking the cookies is a simple task. But here’s something I know. I was intimidated but I did it. I figured out how to complete the task when conventional methods failed me. This is success. The more I cook or bake, the easier it’s going to be to face a new recipe head-on and just do it. Intimidation will lessen. Confidence will increase. Maybe it will even carry over to other areas of my life. Who knows, one day I might be running the world. But for now, cookies!

Bon appetit ! 

Sauce Velouté and the Cauliflower Mash

Last night, I once again found myself facing the intimidation of a recipe in Mastering The Art Of French Cooking. Why am I intimidated? Hell if I know. As much as I hate it, I seem to bob up and down in a fear marinade more often than not. (Full disclosure: I’m a glass half empty man and see the possibility of failure before that of success.)

Anyway…I had a hankering for cauliflower. But I didn't want just any old cauliflower. I wanted cauliflower mash. For an easily intimidated, living-in-fear kind of guy, it didn't seem to bother me too much that I'd never prepared a cauliflower mash. Honestly, I don't think I imagined it being too difficult, therefore I don't think I imagined myself failing to successfully produce it. Hmm??

I Googled "Cauliflower Mash" and found a recipe on allrecipes.com that sounded tasty, and was above all else, simple: steamed cauliflower, sautéd garlic, cream cheese, Parmesan cheese, salt, pepper. I had no doubts. I could make this. But me being me, I wasn't satisfied with this simple recipe from allrecipes.com. No. I needed to see what Julia (Ms. Child, if you’re nasty!) had to say about cauliflower.

Turns out, there are several recipes for cauliflower in the index of her magnum opus about French cooking. The one for Chou-Fleur en Verdure (Purée of Cauliflower and Water Cress with Cream) seemed to me to align interestingly with the recipe from allrecipes.com. I felt I could combine what I liked from the dot com recipe, and what I liked from the Mastering recipe, and create something uniquely my own. You may be sensing confidence here, but trust me when I tell you, the intimidation reemerged from its momentary sedation.

If you've ever perused a copy of Mastering The Art Of French Cooking, you know that the recipes are meticulously laid out for you, step by step. (Julia even suggests the utensil to use or the type of pot, depending upon what you're making. It's amazing.) This thoroughness should be comforting. And for the most part it is. Except for those occasions when I simply don't understand a specific direction. Remember, just because a plan is carefully laid out doesn't mean that everyone is going to execute it.

As I read through the recipe for Purée of Cauliflower, I began to merge it with the recipe I had discovered earlier. For instance, I decided to steam the cauliflower instead boiling it in salted water. I also had no desire to add the water cress so I nixed that. I also liked the idea of Parmesan cheese instead the Swiss, which Julia suggests.

Proceeding on, I discovered that Julia's Chou-Fleur recipe called for béchamel sauce. I had heard of béchamel sauce before, but I must admit that I had no idea what it actually was. But Julia being Julia, she provided me the page number for where I could find the recipe for that sauce, which I knew would replace the cream cheese component of the simpler recipe. (What is this…Michael’s Test Kitchen?)

You realize that that meant I had to make the sauce, right? As one who is afraid to fail—even in front of himself—I could feel myself fighting against my nature to cower under the weight of this new task. Regardless, to page 57 I turned.

There I found two recipes: Sauce Béchamel and Sauce Velouté. They are both white sauces. And I later learned they are two of the five "mother sauces" of French cuisine. (The other three are: espagnole, tomato and hollandaise, in case you're interested. Personally, I can’t wait to panic while making the hollandaise.)

Mashed cauliflower is supposed to be a healthier alternative to mashed potatoes: less calories, less carbs. And as mashed potatoes call for milk and butter, I presumed the béchamel sauce, which uses milk, would be a fantastic option. But the velouté sauce also seemed interesting to me. This sauce uses stock as its liquid. I had chicken stock in the refrigerator. I didn't have milk. I don't use cow milk much anymore for anything in my life, choosing oat milk instead. And it seemed, well, wrong to use oat milk for this sauce. So, my decision to make the velouté sauce stemmed purely from a place of convenience: use what was already in the fridge versus something that I would have to buy and then might not use again. Pas cher? Peut-être. Raisonnable? Souvent.

For chicken stock that you don't actually prepare yourself from scratch, Julia offers a suggestion, which she calls a treatment. Add onion, carrots, celery, sprigs of parsley, some leaf of bay, a pinch of thyme, and the finishing touch of dry white wine or vermouth to the broth. Her measurements are specific and her "suggestion" is to simmer this for 30 minutes, season it to taste, strain it, then use. 

I hadn't paid close enough attention to these instructions before heading to my local supermarket and therefore did not buy the parsley or the thyme. Also, the vermouth I had in my cabinet had gone hella bad. No worries though. I had a bottle of French Chardonnay chilling in the fridge, and Chardonnay falls into the category of dry white wines. I don't know what the parsley and thyme might have added to this broth, but I can tell you, it smelled wonderful and tasted delicious.

Moving on, it was time to make the roux. I have no idea how my mother and grandmother managed to prepare entire meals so that everything was ready to be placed on the table at the same time. I have not quite figured out timing yet.

The Chou-Fleur recipe called for a thicker béchamel sauce than the master recipe, so the measurements for the amount of butter and flour used to make the roux were increased, while maintaining the 2 cups for the liquid. While the 3½  Tb of salted butter slowly melted in the copper bottom saucepan, its bouquet wafted into the air. Butter, y'all. Yum! 

I added the 5 Tb of flour into the gently foaming butter—probably more quickly than Julia would have liked—and whisked the two ingredients together until I had a thick roux. One thing I will add here: the recipe says to melt the butter over low heat, blending in the flour, cooking slowly while stirring, until the butter and flour froth together. I did all of this, aside from probably adding the flour in to quickly, but it did not froth. There was no frothing. I was concerned, but since I had previously made a roux, I didn't let it stress me. Surprised?

The stock, covered and boiling, was sitting at a hands-grab distance on the burner behind the roux. It was time. I added the 2 cups of boiling stock to the roux, continued to whisk it, and watched as it thickened into a bubbling cream. I did it. I made Sauce Velouté. I was—and am—proud. I tasted it before adding it to the mashed and waiting bowl of cauliflower. It definitely needed salt. But I knew the dish as a whole would need salt so I didn't worry about that. 

I gently folded the sauce, little by little, into the cauliflower. I then added a half cup of whipping cream and continued to fold. The mixture was thick and creamy. I then added a half cup of Parmesan cheese (the dot com recipe called for ¼ cup) and the sliced mushrooms I had sautéd earlier in butter and olive oil. My own addition to this dish. With a dash or two of black pepper and a sprinkling of Himalayan pink salt now incorporated, it was time to taste.

Delicious does not do it justice. It was rich and buttery, creamy yet textured. I can’t imagine this dish without that sauce or the mushrooms. However, I am curious about the milk-based béchamel sauce. So, maybe next time, I compare. 

I should have stopped right there. And I will the next time I prepare this dish. But Mastering The Art called for mixing bread crumbs with grated cheese and sprinkling it on top, pouring two Tb of melted butter over that, then baking at 375º until the cheese and bread crumbs had browned.

I had forgotten the bread crumbs at the supermarket, but thought the cheese would brown anyway, so why not. The cheese melted and the additional butter bubbled, but none of it browned. The consistency also changed. The stiffness it had held in the bowl had weakened to a more liquid state than I would have preferred. Not quite soupy, but lesson learned.

No bother though. I served it in a bowl instead of on a plate. The plate was reserved for the green beans and Brussels sprouts, which I had steamed then dressed in another Tb of butter and a dash or five of garlic salt. 

The wine was the same French Chardonnay that I'd used for the stock. I had seconds on the cauliflower and thirds on the wine.

Bon appetit !

The Mustard Sauce I Didn't Ruin

I searched the index in the back of the book for Liver. I know some of you may wince, even recoil, at the mention of the word liver, but I like liver. I grew up in the South and from time to time my mom would fry up a batch of chicken livers. They were always lightly coated in flour, and we dipped them in ketchup.

While there may be a nostalgic taste bud lying dormant on the back of my tongue, remembering the texture and taste of those ketchup-coated livers, I wanted to try something different.

So there I was on page 405 of Mastering The Art Of French Cooking, reading through the recipe for Foie de Veau Sauté—sautéed calf's liver. Julia Child didn't specify how to prepare chicken livers, but the calf's liver directions are called a Master Recipe so I substituted chicken for cow.

All I really needed to know was how Julia Child suggested the liver be prepared and in what fat she said to fry them. It's simple: salt, pepper, flour, butter, oil. This seemed pretty typical. My mom salted and peppered the chicken livers. She coated them with flour. She fried them in oil. I would say it was Wesson Oil, but I could be mistaken. 

What I've discovered from many of the recipes in Mastering is that Julia Child says to fry in a combination of butter and oil. She calls this the fat. What I've encountered from her directions so far is two tablespoons of butter combined with one tablespoon of oil. I use olive. Already you know the flavor is going to be a little richer because of the butter. How often does anyone cook with butter anymore? I love you, Julia, but my arteries are going to protest, I’m sure.

I deviated from the recipe slightly. Not from the butter and oil content. No. I wanted all of that. All of it!! What I didn't want was the flour coating. I just wanted to fry them naked in the fat, which is what I'll be if I keep using butter: naked because I'm too fat for my clothes. But I digress. There was another deviation I had to make at this point. Well, more of an addition. I wanted onions with my chicken livers. So as the butter foam began to subside, indicating that the fat was hot enough, I threw in a few rings of onion. The butter and the sweet onion filled my kitchen with an aroma that made my mouth begin to water. Julia seems to always start with a high heat suggestion and in this reality the fat was so hot that it didn't take long for these rings to turn golden brown. I removed them from the frying pan and rested them on a plate, lonely wilted rings that looked as if they'd spent the summer on a beach coated in Bain de Soleil and started the fall nice and golden. Maybe they weren’t lonely at all. Maybe they were merely in repose.

I had drained, rinsed, and dried the chicken livers prior to starting the cooking process. My mom said that I needed to drain and rinse them to rid them of the blood, which would help in preventing the popping and splattering that often accompanies frying food. I decided to dry them because Julia says to dry the beef before browning when cooking bœuf bourguignon, and she also directed me, before my most recent excursion into sautéing mushrooms, that I should dry the mushrooms. It’s all about the browning. Wet things don’t brown. So it made perfect sense to me to dry the chicken livers.

Into the frying pan of hot buttery goodness they went. (The hot butter and oil is said to help the outside crust and the inside stay juicy.) The sizzle was immediate. The popping still occurred. It wasn't terrible though. 

I stood over them like a new mom standing over the crib of her first child, watching for anything to happen. I wanted to watch the browning happen. I needed to see it. I wish I could tell you precisely how much time this took, but I wasn't paying close enough attention to a clock. I think I turned the six large-sized chicken livers over about four minutes into the process. The Cook-in-Chief always says not to crowd what you're cooking in the pan or it won't cook properly. Hence my sautéing only six livers. 

After about two minutes on the flip side, I removed one liver from the heat and sliced it open to check the color. As I'm not one who cooks often, and we all know undercooked chicken can wreak havoc on the body, checking the progress was a given. I had done a bit of research before beginning this process though. I had discovered that chicken livers can be a little pink on the inside. In fact, that was the preferred way to prepare them. This way they would be tender and not overcooked, which leads to that grainy, mealy texture that I grew up with. (Sorry, mom. Who knew? I loved them though). 

The one that went under the knife as tribute for his other livers was not quite the right shade of pink. There was a little more blood than I was comfortable with. Back into the frying pan he went. I would say two to three more minutes and they were done—browned, with a slight crust, on the outside, slightly rosy on the in.

I removed the chicken livers from the heat, joining them with the onions, still in repose on the plate from which I planned to eat them. I don’t think they realized their fate.

I've told you all of this so that I can tell you what propelled me to cook the chicken livers in the first place. On page 406 of this tome "for the servantless American cook," I saw the recipe for Sauce Crème à la Moutarde--Cream and Mustard Sauce. 

My first encounter with a mustard sauce was at one of my favorite French restaurants here where I live in New York City—Tout Va Bien (Everything is Fine). This was one of my go to places to get my French cuisine fix prior to COVID-19 shutting everything down and ushering in the era of social distancing, outdoor dining, and making masks the new designer bag. I am not always adventurous when it comes to trying new foods. But there is something about French food that makes me lower my guard and prepare for the onslaught of new tastes exploding in my mouth. On my first experience at Tout Va Bien, I decided to order Rognon de Veau—veal kidneys sautéed in mustard sauce. Pas de regrets from the first bite. The veal kidneys reminded me of liver and the mustard sauce, well, let's just say it was amazing. 

Now back to my kitchen where I was attempting make mustard sauce. 

The pan was back on the stove, and the fat was still hot. The recipe called for brown stock, heavy cream, more butter, and of course, mustard. During my prep for this part, I got a little overzealous in readying the ingredients for the sauce. Having never made it, I wasn't sure how long I could step away from the stove as it cooked, so I made like I was on a cooking segment of a talk show and put bowls of pre measured ingredients near my fingertips. But I made a mistake. I read that I was supposed to pour the brown stock (I used chicken to stay in the poultry family) into the fat mixture of butter and oil then cook it down by half. THEN I was supposed to add the heavy cream, reduce the heat, and stir until it began to thicken. In my rush to prepare, I added the stock and cream together. I didn't have enough cream to start over so I said fuck it and chose to make the best of what might leave a bad taste in my mouth. 

With the stock and cream now in the pan, I made sure the heat was high so to bring the creamy mixture to a boil, stirring, deglazing the pan, feeling the remnants of the livers joining in the churn and boil. I reduced the heat and watched at this possible disaster began to thicken slightly. I was sure it was supposed to be thicker but was encouraged that it was thickening at all. I turned off the heat and added the two tablespoons of butter that Julia had told me to mix with one tablespoon of mustard. I chose Dijon mustard because it seemed appropriate. Dijon is in France after all, and this sauce was French.

Once the butter and mustard were successfully incorporated into the mixture, I poured it into an old coffee creamer that I've had since I was a teenager. The moment of truth was upon me. I could resist no longer. I dipped my finger into the creamy yellow mustard sauce and found that I had not ruined it. It wasn't perfect. But it was delicious! 

I plated the green beans I had blanched while the sauce was simmering and thickening then added a quarter of an avocado to the plate. It was time. I poured the sauce over the warm livers, watching as it pooled under the onions and green beans. (I imagine it would be a little more clingy if I had followed the recipe properly.)  I was now ready to eat. I looked at this plate of food that I had prepared—sautéed chicken livers, homemade mustard sauce, golden-brown onions, green beans—and felt proud. I poured myself a glass of Pinot Noir and took the first bite.

I devoured it!

P.S. Before pouring it into a container and storing it in the refrigerator, I consumed many more tastes of the mustard sauce on its own. I can't wait to make it again. And who knows, if I actually add the ingredients in the right order the next time, it might not only still taste amazing, it might be the right thickness.

Bon Appetit !

A Therapeutic Evening in the Kitchen

It’s been so long since I’ve cooked for myself in my own kitchen that I forgot how enjoyable it can be; how washing and cutting up vegetables can be relaxing and therapeutic. Don’t even get me started on the smell that fills the house when there’s something baking in the oven. For this piece that something baking was marinated chicken. My senses perked up the minute the Clean Linen smell of my Glade plugin was overtaken by the sweet smell of the marinade fused with a hint of garlic.

First things first. Before I got to the baking of the chicken I had to cook the base ingredient of the dish I had chosen to prepare. I cooked a pot of red quinoa (pronounced keen-wa). Quinoa is a grain, and, as the back of the box tells me, it contains “one of the best sources of protein in the vegetable kingdom.” It’s a complete protein grain. It’s good for you. That makes me feel good about eating it. For you gluten intolerant folks, it’s gluten free. Trying to eat a health conscious diet in a fast-paced stressful world when sometimes all I want to do is eat a box of cookies is difficult. Finding something that is good for me, easy to prepare, and also tastes good is a gift from the gods. Well, actually the ancient Inca civilization in South America, but I’m not telling their story. Back to the cooking. I cooked the pot of red quinoa and then place the pot into the refrigerator to cool down. For the dish I’m preparing the quinoa needs to be cold. So straight from stove to refrigerator. Of course, with a pot that hot one should place it on a pot holder. Just sayin’. 

While the quinoa cooled, I moved on to the chicken. I took two medium sized chicken breasts, and with a chop stick, poked several holes into each breast, piercing them all the way through. (If you had a frustrating day this is a great way to stab something and not get put in jail.) While shopping at the grocery store I’d purposefully neglected buying a marinade in lieu of a salad dressing I had at home: Brianna’s Home Style Blush Wine Vinaigrette. (There’s a sticker on this particular salad dressing that says it’s perfect for strawberries. Hence the sweet smell filling the house.) I took my holey chicken breasts and placed them on a tin foil bed and poured the salad dressing on top. I didn’t cover them in it to sit for hours I merely coated them with it making sure they were sitting in a salad dressing bath. I then sprinkled them with garlic salt and Goya Sazonador Total seasoning. Lots of the Goya. I wanted there to be plenty of it so that when the juices started flowing all the seasoning wouldn’t end up running off the chicken breasts and flavoring the salad dressing. Can’t you see it? The chicken breasts sitting in that salad dressing bath as it heats up and begins to bubble around them like a Blush Wine hot spring? Mmm!

I poured myself a glass of red wine and turned on a little Miles Davis (thanks “Carrie Mathison” on Homeland for turning me on to his music) and set about creating the rest of my meal for the evening. I mean it is creating isn’t it? Mixing and blending, chopping and peeling, adding color and flavor. Food is yet another canvas on which to be creative. I always enjoy the colors of the food and mixing those colors to create a visual that is just as beautiful to see as it is tasty to eat -- a feast for the eyes as well as the palate.

The washing and chopping began with a medium sized orange bell pepper. Can’t you just see the pop of color that orange bell pepper gives the brownish red quinoa? When I’ve made a version of this dish in the past I’ve tended to use yellow bell pepper, but orange seemed the right choice this time. It is fall after all. Next I peeled and seeded a medium sized cucumber followed by a medium sized purple onion. Are you sensing a size theme here -- two medium sized chicken breasts, a medium sized bell pepper, cucumber, and onion? I’m not really a size queen, I swear. After seeding the cucumber I chopped it into quarters and then diced the quarters into smaller chunks. The same with the onion. Diced. Small pieces. So right now I’ve got a brownish red quinoa canvas onto which I’ve spattered orange bell pepper, light green cucumber, and purple onion. What I chose next was an unconventional addition to this dish that I hadn’t thrown in before -- fresh mango. Yes, you read that right. Fresh yellow mango. I love mango and have a mango corer that I love to use. It slides right down the pesky, odd-shaped core and gets it out of my way leaving the meat of the mango housed inside two halves of skin. I cut the mango into strips, peeled away the skin, then, you guessed it, dice it into bite-sized cubes. To the brownish red canvas I’ve added orange, light green, purple, and now a pop of yellow.

With the veggies and fruits portion peeled, cut, and added, I moved on to the meat and cheese portion of the dish. The chicken cooked for roughly 30 minutes in its foil packet. The sweet smell making me salivate. I couldn’t resist taking a bite of it as I prepared to cube it. It was the first time I had used the Brianna’s dressing as a marinade. It won’t be the last.  

After adding the cubed chunks of chicken to the other ingredients, I prepared one of my favorite ingredients in this dish: crumbled feta cheese. Normally I buy it already crumbled, but his time the only way I could get regular feta cheese (i.e. not flavored or fat free) was to buy a block of it. I cut the block in half and began to crumble it. It ended up being about a cup. Maybe a little more, but who’s measuring? Besides the mango and the chicken, I decided to add another new addition: two tablespoons of capers. 

I love capers. They give such a salty kick to any dish. If you’re keeping up with these ingredients you’ve noticed that it is a mix of sweet and salty. The bell pepper and the mango are sweet. The feta and the capers are salty. The onion adds a bit of bite. The chicken was marinated in a sweet salad dressing. This dish is not only healthy (fresh ingredients, high in protein), it’s colorful, crisp, and crunchy.  

To finish off I tossed three tablespoons of olive oil and three tablespoons of red wine vinegar over top of the ingredients. I sprinkled on a nice bit of the Goya seasoning, some garlic salt, and plain black pepper. Contemplating whether or not my mixing bowl was big enough, I began to blend its contents, making sure the olive oil, vinegar, and seasonings coated everything. Of course there’s the obligatory taste, add more seasoning, stir, and taste again. It’s what you do. It’s the only way to know if it’s right. 

Essentially what I’ve prepared is a summer salad. I know, summer is over, but with the warm days we’ve been having in October this could easily be an Indian summer salad. The colors make sense now, right: orange, yellow, purple, and dark green (the capers) tossed into the brownish red quinoa? It looks like fall even as it hints to the recent hot days when watermelon might have been on the dessert menu.

Of course I needed a couple of side dishes to go with the quinoa salad. I bought a can of turnip greens because they remind me of home. Glory Foods brand Seasoned Southern Style turnip greens. (Kind of makes you wanna sing “Love that chicken from Popeyes doesn’t it?) I let the turnip greens simmer on low while I was peeling, chopping and dicing. When I serve them the finishing touch is always a small pour of vinegar over the top. I don't know what it is about the acidic tartness of vinegar that works on turnip greens, but turnips greens aren't turnip greens to me without it. I also steamed fresh green beans that I snapped myself. Throw a little sea salt on top of the green beans before you cover and steam them. That’s some tasty goodness right there. Don’t let them steam too long though. You’re gonna want them crisp.

Don’t forget to top off your glass of red wine. It goes great with this meal.

Soft and Chewy Chocolate Chip Cookies

I've always wanted to be that guy who has the ingredients at his house to whip up something on a moment's notice. Saturday night I was.

I've had a copy of Martha Stewart's Soft and Chewy Chocolate Chip Cookies recipe lying in wait on my counter for at least a week. I printed it out one night when I was searching for a good chocolate chip cookie recipe. I was searching for the recipe because I had a partial bag of chocolate chips in the cabinet, left over from the oatmeal chocolate chip cookies, which were calling my name. Seriously, if I was sitting at my desk and all was calm in the apartment I could just hear the whisper of words, "Michael, bake us into something."

I'm not one that generally sits around eating sweet, fattening foods. I have a phobia about getting fat. Those chips have been in my apartment for more than two weeks uneaten. That's a testament to my will power. However, there are times when a man just needs to indulge and I can also be caught indulging...sometimes.

I had enough chocolate chips in the apartment to make half the recipe. That's kind of a win/win situation. 1) I'm getting to make something new and 2) I'm not sitting in my apartment with 3 dozen cookies that whisper an altogether different phrase. Namely, "Eat me!"

Back to the kitchen, I started cutting the recipe in half. This wasn't really a problem as I had the appropriate measuring cups and spoons for half of each ingredient. Except for one: the 1/8 of a cup of flour I needed. I don't have a 1/8 of a cup breakdown on any of my measuring implements. I just eyeballed what I thought was half of a 1/4 cup, threw it in the bowl and quit thinking about it.

It really is getting easier, less intimidating, to follow a recipe. I have an obsessive-compulsive nature to some degree. When I get an idea or find a challenge, I get locked into it until I complete the task. I find myself searching recipes on The New York Times website these days. It's just a "print" click away until it's in my hand and the dish is on my mind. It's exciting for me. I'm not saying I've made a 7 coarse meal or anything like that, but I'm able to make things that will feed me and sometimes another person or two.

I made the cookie dough in advance and put it in the refrigerator until I was ready to bake. In my opinion, the dough was much easier to scoop into balls after it was harder from its 'fridge visit that it would have been in its creamy state of gooeyness right after mixing it. Minds out of the gutter, people!

I preheated the oven to 350°, sprayed the cookie sheet with Pam® with butter, placed ice scream scoop sized balls of cookie dough on the sheet and placed the sheet in the oven. I set the timer for 8 minutes and went back to watching my current obsession, Dark Shadows: The Beginning.

Eight minutes later the cookies were not fully baked. The recipe says 8-10 minutes so I set the timer for 2 more minutes. That was perfect. They smelled amazing. The aroma of vanilla filled my house. I was afraid before the baking commenced that there was too much vanilla in the dough. I was wrong. As the cookies cooled enough to hold in my hand, I tasted the gorgeous combination of ingredients exploding in my mouth. The cookies had crispy edges, with a firmer yet slightly gooey center.

The amount of cookie dough I used for each cookie made half of the recipe bake up to a dozen cookies. I ate two of them that night then put the lid on the bowl and sealed them away from my sight and smell.

The next day I took them to Family Dinner night where they were much appreciated and enjoyed. I ate two more.

Cheers!

Chocolate Pumpkin Brownie Muffins

I met Heather in the cake mix aisle of Food Emporium last Saturday night. I was listening to a story my friend Brandon was telling me. It was heartfelt and I should be punished for not listening as intently as I should have been. If I had been listening with both ears focused solely on him, I probably wouldn't have heard the woman next to me asking an employee for pumpkin; real pumpkin, not pumpkin pie filling. I couldn't help but stop Brandon and ask her if I had heard her correctly. I mean how many people at the same time are looking for canned pumpkin? She said that she was indeed looking for pumpkin. She wanted to make these brownie muffins she'd seen made on television. I looked at her with a "What'chu talkin' 'bout, Willis?" look on my face and revealed the chocolate cake mix I had in my hand. We discovered we had both seen the same program and wanted to make the same brownie muffins. We laughed and introduced ourselves then went our our merry pumpkin-searching way.

Here's the story: Thursday I happened to be channel surfing and came across a channel that I'd never heard of before. It's called Cooking Channel. Sounds like direct competition with The Food Network to me. Anyway, I watched a couple of shows. One was about putting a french spin on ordinary dishes. I recorded that one so that I could try some of it later. The other was a series called Hungry Girl. On the episode I watched, the host, Lisa, was swapping. Let me explain that a little. She wasn't swapping butter for margarine; she was swapping the fatty food you love with something similar but low fat. She showed the viewer how to get the same type of feeling one gets from eating something they love without eating it and all of its fat. Her example: chips. She loves chips. Chips are loaded with fat. She took fresh kale and cut it up, sprinkled it with sea salt, sprayed it with olive oil spray (briefly) and then placed it in the oven to bake for 10-12 minutes. It came out of the oven crunchy. It's a healthy, fat free alternative to chips. She said it has the consistency of pop corn. Another chip replacement was Lavosh. I had never heard of Lavosh: a round thin Middle Eastern bread that is soft like a tortilla. It was very large. She cut it into pieces, placed it on a cookie sheet and popped it in the oven for 2 minutes. They crisp right up and again replace your crispy chip desire with something that crunches like a chip, but has no fat. Basically, you're tricking your senses with the crunch you desire but not adding the fat to you waist line. Disclaimer: I did not try either of these things.

What I did try was her low fat/low calorie chocolate brownie swap. It was so simple. Two ingredients is all you need plus whatever you might use to dress it up without taking away too much of its healthier-for-you factor.

1 box of chocolate cake mix
1 can of pumpkin

You read right. Those are the two ingredients.

I used a Duncan Hines® Devils Food cake mix and a can of organic pumpkin. It's important to note here that it's pumpkin NOT pumpkin pie filling. Just plain old pumpkin in a can. The pumpkin replaces everything else that the cake mix calls for.

Pour the cake mix into a bowl and then add the pumpkin to the mix. You're gonna need to put some elbow grease into it because it takes a bit of stirring to mix the pumpkin and cake mix to a smooth batter. Don't be afraid. It didn't really take that long. If you choose to taste the batter at this point, you're going to find yourself in brownie heaven. Seriously, that's what it tastes like; a rich, chocolate brownie.

Here's where I made some changes; I am a tweaker afterall. I added two teaspoons of vanilla and a sprinkling of cinnamon. Actually, I started with one teaspoon of vanilla and a sprinkling of cinnamon, but after blending it into the batter and tasting it, I decided to add another teaspoon of vanilla and more cinnamon. None of that is detrimental to the low fat/low calorie plan thus far. Oops (sly grin) here's where I messed up. You see, I wanted caramel baking chips in these brownie muffins. I couldn't find them at either grocery store I went to. I settled for a Milky Way® Caramel candy bar. Hey, I wanted my caramel and I found a way to get it. Who are you to judge me? I chopped the bar into small pieces and dumped them into the batter.

Let's review:
1 box chocolate cake mix
1 can pumpkin
2 teaspoons vanilla
cinnamon 'til your heart's content
1 Milky Way® Caramel bar chopped

Remember Lisa, the host? She suggested tin cupcake liners. I couldn't find any so we went without. I sprayed Pam® all over the muffin pan and then spooned the batter into the muffin holes. The recipe only makes 12 brownie muffins.

They bake for 20-24 minutes.

Get the liners! The brownie muffins didn't exactly stick to the pan, but they were so moist that they fell apart as I tried to get them out of the pan. The cupcake liner would hold it all together.

Okay, I don't want to brag and truthfully, I just added to somebody elses recipe, but they were amazing. Seriously, I recommend trying this at home. We served ours with fat free vanilla frozen yogurt.

They were dense and gooey and chocolatey just like a brownie should be. It was like a chocolate explosion in my mouth; sometimes sticking to the roof like too much Wonderbread® or peanut butter. Don't be deterred by that. It was amazing. The caramel melted, and in some instances bubble right out the top. I could smell the cinnamon while they baked. Everyone agreed that they were a good choice for satisfying our sweet tooth and our chocolate craving. That's killing two birds with one low fat/low calorie stone.

Cheers!

Red Velvet Soufflé

Memorial Day 2010 I spent the day in Newport, RI. The last thing my traveling companions and I did before leaving was to have an amazing dinner at The Spiced Pear at the Chandler at Cliff Walk.

The final part of our meal was cinnamon soufflé with amaretto and apple compote. It was amazing. From that moment on I've wanted to make a soufflé. There was a day that we were going to make them for one of our Sunday Family Dinner nights. Not enough time was devoted to learning how to make a soufflé by any of us.

All these months later I finally decided it was time. I wasn't going to wait any longer. I have a tendency to do that - wait until someone will do something with me. I guess it's for support or maybe camaraderie. The waiting for me was over. I was nervous that I would mess up the mixture, but I really wanted to try.

The first thing I needed was ramekins. I had seen them at Crate & Barrel for $2.95 each. That was a great price. I wanted four. I went on a Friday night to purchase them in preparation for making the soufflé the following Monday. I left Astoria at 7pm and arrived just before 7:30pm at the door of a closed Crate & Barrel. I was shocked. The revolving door wouldn't turn. The lights were on, but I couldn't get in. Finally I noticed the posted hours. How could a Crate & Barrel in Manhattan be closed on a Friday night at 7pm? I looked around to make sure I wasn't in some Twilight Zone Manhattan. No such luck.

The next day I was scheduled off work before the ridiculously early closing time so I was prepared to bust a move across town before those revolving doors were locked on me two days in a row. I made it and purchased the 4 ramekins that I wanted.

I had most of the ingredients I needed in my kitchen already. What I didn't have was eggs, red food coloring, whipping cream and sour cream.

The day of baking had finally arrived. I had spent the day basking in and running away from the art at MoMA. I had indulged in lively discussions about art, family and religion. I was nourished with 16 bean soup; my thirst quenched with Sauvignon Blanc and Pinot Noir. The pièce de résistance was to be my first soufflé.

I chose red velvet soufflé. I had already made a red velvet cake on my own twice; it seemed the right choice for me. My close friends know that I love red velvet cake. I want it to be something I'm known for making. A red velvet soufflé seems like a city cousin to the Southern cake.

It was midnight by the time I started making the soufflé's. I was determined though and nobody was leaving until they were done and we had eaten them or thrown them away because they failed to rise.

I started by greasing the bottom and sides of my ramekins with butter - real butter - and then sprinkling them with sugar, lightly coating the butter. The next logical step was separating the eggs. Of the 5 eggs needed per the recipe, 4 yokes needed to be ready to mix into the chocolate as soon as it was melted. I chose Ghirardelli bittersweet baking chocolate per a recipe that I'd seen in a copy of Southern Living magazine. The recipe I had chosen and the one in the magazine were identical excepting the Ghirardelli suggestion.

When the chocolate was melted I stirred in the egg yokes, the sugar, the milk, the red food coloring and the vanilla necessary to flavor and color the soufflé. I actually used my whisk for the first time. I set the chocolate mixture to the side while I beat the egg whites, pinch of salt and more sugar into stiff peaks. As I said, the chocolate needs 4 yokes, but the whites of all 5 eggs are necessary. I couldn't help but be reminded of The Golden Girls episode where Blanche, delirious from staying up all night attempting to be the next great Southern writer, confuses Roses bag of egg yokes for little balls of sunshine. I laughed to myself as I threw a little ball of sunshine in the trash.

With the egg whites stiffly beaten to peaks it was time to fold them into the chocolate. I think the folding was what made me the most nervous. I mean does it have to be folded into the chocolate instead of just stirred in? What if I don't fold it correctly? Is there a right and wrong way to fold? I just had to get over the fear and start folding. As I did so the chocolate became lighter in color and airier in texture. That's what I'm assuming makes the soufflé rise - all the air created by folding in the light egg white mixture.

When all the mixing, blending and folding was done, it was time to spoon. I spooned the mixture into the waiting ramekins. The ramekins were on a cookie sheet for even baking. The oven was preheated to 350°. I placed the ramekins in the oven and set the timer for 20 minutes.

Time to make the topping. First nervous moment: folding; second nervous moment; too much noise during baking making the soufflé's fall. I had to use the beaters. I had to mix whipping cream, sour cream and sugar to a pourable consistency. It didn't take long and through the window in the oven door I could see that the noise had not disturbed the soufflé's. On the contrary, the soufflé’s had risen higher than expected. Thank goodness for the cookie sheet. It caught the entire overflow and prevented soufflé from burning on the bottom of my oven.

Twenty minutes of bake time and the stick came out of the center of one soufflé with a few moist crumbs. Done.

The three of us were standing in the kitchen. The anxious excitement of the rise had turned into anticipation of eating. I didn't even remove the ramekins from the cookie sheet. I poured the whipped sour cream on top of each of them and gave my guinea pigs each a spoon and we dove in.

It was light, fluffy, moist, rich and delicious. I was so proud. The whipped sour cream was such an interesting compliment to the chocolate.

Next time I will fill the ramekins with less mixture to prevent the unsightly overflow. I will also remember to serve it with a nip of Jameson Irish Whiskey.

Cheers!