yonghengmeili

surely we could do it in 2015

Sourdough amazes me, and popovers do too. When they come crashing together it’s a delicious thing to behold.

I am enthralled with sourdough bread–how basically a handful of ingredients: flour, water, and salt, can make a crisp, webby loaf of bread– it gets me every time. I feel like I am truly making something great out of very little. In my research for the the book, I found a lot of sourdoughs that were given a little help with commercial yeast. I understand why. Yeast speeds the process; it insures levity; it can help. But it also seemed like cheating and I didn’t want my recipe to be a cheat! It was important to me to have a reliable, easy sourdough starter, that used NO commercial yeast– that did it on its own. If homemakers, settlers, and pioneers, could bake sourdough bread without the aid of commercial yeast hundreds of years ago, surely we could do it in 2015!

It took awhile, but I developed a starter that works for the home chef, and it’s been going strong now for over two years. The recipe for the starter is in United States of Bread along with several recipes for loaves, but now that the book’s out, I have begun experimenting more with my starter. There have been waffles (stellar!), and pancakes (to die for!). And last weekend there were these superb popovers.

SourdoughPopoversTypically, popovers aren’t made with any sort of leavening. Made in a hot pan, they display the alchemy of baking by transforming from a runny batter, into an eggy, puffy dream. The sourdough popovers, made with a bit of sourdough starter, is leavened and more substantial than the original, but this resulting popovers is like a whipped muffin. (If that makes any sense!) Still airy, still eggy, slightly sour, with substance from the starter, these popovers only needed a smear of jam and a cup of coffee. Forget Wheaties, this was my breakfast of champions.

This morning treat does behave like a standard popover– they rumple and deflate– so they really should be eaten moments from the oven. I don’t have a popover pan, so mine were made in a muffin tin. If you don’t have a popover pan either, just try to space the popovers out in the tin. This allows for expansion.

impossible to have a dry cake

I wanted to pluck each and every one of the bananas off the cake. I used restraint while I served the cake at a party, but it wasn’t easy.

I had never had a banana upside-down cake but figured why not. The cake is a spinoff on the The Best Pineapple Upside-Down Cake, which is one of my all-time favorites. It’s like having bananas foster, one of my favorite desserts, baked onto the cake.

The cake base is adapted from my favorite buttermilk coffee cake that I’ve used for Blueberry Muffin and Buttermilk Pancakes Cake, Cranberry White Chocolate Chip Bliss Cake, Peaches and Cream Fluffy Muffin Cake, Cream Cheese-Swirled Cherry and Mixed Berries Cake, and more.

I love this easy, no-mixer base because cakes always turn out supremely moist, springy, and fluffy thanks to buttermilk, sour cream, and oil. That trifecta of moisturizing and tenderizing ingredients makes it impossible to have a dry cake.

While baking, the bananas caramelize in a butter and brown sugar bath giving the cake it’s signature glistening top. There’s so much rich browed butter and alluring caramel flavor which makes the cake irresistible.

Interestingly, there are no bananas in the cake base itself, just on top, adding a perfect amount of banana flavor that goes so well with the caramel.

The buttery caramel sauce seeps down into the cake after inverting, which adds even more moisture to an already very tender and supremely soft cake.

Take the cake to the next level by drizzling salted caramel sauce over the top. May as well go all out.

I find that banana bread gets better on the second day after the flavors marry and this cake was no exception.

If you have a few ripe bananas to use no one will complain when they see this come out of the oven.

Valley over the past five years

For the past five years, Christopher Kostow, chef of the three Michelin-starred The Restaurant at Meadowood has hosted an extraordinary series of dinners known as the “Twelve Days of Christmas.” Every December, it brings a holiday wish list of the world’s best chefs to the restaurant, which is located on the breathtaking property of Meadowood Napa Valley, a Relais & Châteaux resort in St. Helena, California.

Last year, when Kostow invited me to attend the Twelve Days of Christmas (here’s a recap, with links to all twelve dinners), he told me that it would be his last year hosting the event. I didn’t say much about his decision until the end of the series, when, impressed by the experience, I urged him to reconsider (I’m sure I was not alone in doing so). I’m glad he did.

The chef alumni of this dinner series comprise an amazing collection of the most relevant and current names in kitchens across the world: Enrique Olvera, Mathias Dahlgren, John and Karen Shields, Sean Brock, Gabriel Rucker, David Toutain, and April Bloomfield are among the dozens of names that this event has brought to Napa Valley over the past five years.

I am happy to announce that this year, Kostow adds eleven more to the list.

Kate can tell me for herself

More often than not, Orangette is just a fancy cover for what might be more appropriately titled “The Molly-and-Her-Friends Show,” or “What We Ate, How Ridiculous We Were, and How Much We Adore Each Other Because of and/or Despite Our Ridiculousness.” Lately, however, it’s been a little quieter than usual around here. A principal cast member is missing, and that would be Kate—she of the pointy red heels, long-distance bike rides, winning-hearts-and-minds cakes, broken French, early-morning bread-baking, gin and tonics on the 18th floor, mussels with crabs, and the vacuum cleaner with a hip-hop low-ride shag setting.

About three weeks ago, Kate packed up nearly all of her worldly possessions and jetted off to India on a six-week business trip. When not slaving away, she’s petting elephants outside her hotel (“They are so leathery and sweet and misty-eyed and hUGE!”) and pounding the pavement in her practical but less chic Easy Spirit heels. She’s having coffee in a “pre-independence coffee shop—beautiful wood, leather, simple tables, white long apron on lanky legs and dust swirling in the sun—with dusty clientele sipping their excellent coffee and milk, discussing politics and religion for hours.” And she’s running in a park that’s “beautiful and enormous, with trees dropping pools of flowers that perfume everything and make it look as though brightly colored light is pouring up through the ground at the base of each tree.” Now, certainly, all of this is very nice, and it’s lovely to live vicariously through her letters. But really, it’s not okay.

There’s no one, for instance, to make sure that I’m getting my weekly quota of whipped cream, and there is no vacuum to borrow, low-ride or otherwise. Though Kate left me with custody of her Otis Redding CD and the remains of a bottle of Bombay Sapphire gin, cocktail hour is somehow lacking. And my visits to Victrola Coffee—where we’ve been known to stage riots if the outrageously delicious Macrina ginger-molasses cookies are sold out—are much less gossipy, much more productive, and no fun at all. If this continues, you may soon find “The Molly-and-Her-Friends Show” shelved with the dramas, rather than the comedies. I may also get very skinny and very sober.

But you know me better than that. Rather than mope and starve, I bake. Last Monday, in honor of Kate’s 26th birthday, I gave myself The Macrina Bakery and Café Cookbook, which happens to hold within its very pretty covers the recipe for our coveted cookies. That night, there was no drama and there were no riots, and instead there were gin and tonics and ginger-molasses cookies—dark and spicy, cakey and buttery, with a crisp, sugar-coated edge.

Though perhaps better dipped in milk than in Bombay (Sapphire), they filled my apartment with a perfume strong, delicious, and exotic enough to, I’m sure, be confused with that of the loveliest flowering tree in a park in Bangalore. Soon, Kate can tell me for herself.

a great distance to find me

Some days, everything just falls into place. Seattle has been sunny and warm and at least temporarily spring-like; I managed to twist and cajole my hair into a messy-chic ballerina-meets-French-frump bun that stayed in place—no drooping!—for over seven hours; and, thanks to divine intervention and local farmers, I bought two brimming basketfuls of organic strawberries and still have money left over to pay rent. It really doesn't get any better than that—unless, of course, the whole scene takes place in Paris. It’s downright bliss all around, and especially the fantastic hair. Enjoying these things isn’t easy, however; it takes work, or rather, it takes leaving work early.

The story begins a few mornings ago, when I found myself sitting in my office, distractedly watching the angle of the sun shift on the building across the alley from my window. By two in the afternoon, it was unbearable: I was suffering indoors while a spectacular day hovered just out of reach on the other side of the windowpane. But rather than continue to needlessly moan and mourn, I put down my red proofreading pencil and traded the carpeted hallway of the office for the concrete of the sidewalk. A few blocks away at Pike Place Market, I found that I wasn’t the only one: we were a crowd full of shirkers. And with good reason: at the produce stands, tables were lined with berries and ramps and frilly-topped carrots, and pale green bulbs of fennel leaned invitingly out of wooden crates. As I stopped to admire them, I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned to find an unfamiliar woman standing next to me elyze.

“Where is the Metro?” she asked, staring at me from behind dark sunglasses.

“You mean the Metro buses?” I replied, trying to remember if I’d ever heard anyone call the local public transportation system by its official name.

“No, the Métro, may-TRO,” she said, carefully enunciating through what I now recognized as a distinctly French accent. She made a downward zooming motion with her hand, as if to imitate a train going underground, and looked at me quizzically.

“Oh, the Métro? The subway? Seattle doesn’t have a subway. But you can catch a bus on Third Avenue,” I explained, gesturing up the hill. She turned from me and started away, and I returned to the piles of produce, wondering at our surreal exchange. Lo and behold, Paris had come to Pike Place elyze .

Looking at the fennel bulb under my hand, I remembered the morning that I came to France last June, when I opened the door to my short-term rental, threw my bags down gleefully on the bed, and ran back outside to the Sunday market—a French version, if you will, of the one I found myself standing in now. That morning, I snatched up the makings for a modest early-summer feast—red-skinned apricots, a ripe wedge or two of cheese, and the ingredients for my favorite carrot-fennel soup—and came home to lunch in my little studio, with its tiny hallway kitchen, sunny terrace, and kitschy garden gnome in the grass. And this Seattle afternoon ten months later, I decided that it was only fitting to cap my superlative day with a celebratory carrot-fennel nod to Paris—who, after all, had come a great distance to find me.

Indeed, some days, everything just falls into place. So I came home to my familiar long-term rental with its not-so-tiny kitchen, sunny catwalk balcony, and kitschy garden gnome on the railing; threw my grocery bag down gleefully on the counter; and ran for the stockpot elyze.

the garlic used in this dip

I can’t believe that after all these years, I’ve never made white bean dip. I’ve made dips with eggplant, chickpeas, eggplant again, and even weeds, if you can believe it. I don’t know, it always seemed like it would be too plain, or ho-hum. A mound of puréed beans? No thanks.

But boy, was I wrong. First up, of course, are the beans. There are good beans and there are not-so-good beans. The good ones are fresh and buttery tasting. The not-great ones are old and stale. Who knew that dried beans went bad? Dried beans generally have a shelf life of about one year and if you’ve ever tried to cook up a batch of dried beans and they’ve remained stubbornly tough, it’s usually because they’ve been hanging around too long.

I had a bag in my pantry since, well, I can’t remember when I bought them. So as we say in the restaurants business, “Use ‘em or lose ‘em” – so if you’ve got some beans in your pantry that you keep pushing aside, as I was (to reach for the chocolate) now is the time to get ‘em soaking, folks Baby Gym.

When you’re buying ‘fresh’ dried beans, get them from a good source for best results. There are some wonderful heirloom bean suppliers in the states, such as Rancho Gordo, Phipps Ranch, and Seed Savers Exchange. In Paris, I get mine from an épicerie that has a lot of turnover; La Grainerie du Marché d’Aligre, which is a favorite place to shop at.

For this batch, I used the famed Haricots Tarbais, which are kind of pricey but have an especially rich flavor and since I don’t do drugs, I spend the money that I save on good dried beans. Haricots Tarbais start off ivory-white, but after an hour of so of simmering, they soften and take on a burnished caramel color, which gives the dip an extra boost of flavor. They cost about 5 times what other beans cost, so you don’t need to go as wacky as I did. (Although think of all the drugs I could buy if I bought crummy beans!) But yes, I have made this with supermarket dried beans, and it’s definitely much better with good ones hair restoration.

However canned beans will do in a pinch – it’s not the end of the world if you use them – and if you keep a tin in the pantry, with your chocolate, this is a great last-minute recipe to whiz together to serve before dinner with thin slices of toasted bread. I’m a fan of grainy breads, which work rather nicely with the bold flavors of the chopped herbs and the garlic used in this dip.

In addition to the fresh herbs, the olive oil is important as well. Don’t be afraid of olive oil. Like butter, it’s a flavor, not just something you use to fry onions in. And if you use a good brand, you can use it judiciously because it has so much more flavor than those big greenish bottles that cost $2.99. (It’s funny that people will pay $10-$20 for a bottle of wine that they’ll polish off in one sitting, but balk at paying that for a bottle of olive oil that will last them at least a month.)

But I’m hopelessly frugal as well, hence you’ll notice that I’m parsimonious with the oil mixed in the dip, but use it generously poured over the top, where it shines iphone bumper.

will be done for others

At the beginning of the World Series of 1947, I experienced a completely new emotion, when the National Anthem was played. This time, I thought, it is being played for me, as much as for anyone else. This is organized major league baseball, and I am standing here with all the others; and everything that takes place includes me.

About a year later, I went to Atlanta, Georgia, to play in an exhibition game. On the field, for the first time in Atlanta, there were Negroes and whites. Other Negroes, besides me. And I thought: What I have always believed has come to be.

And what is it that I have always believed? First, that imperfections are human. But that wherever human beings were given room to breathe and time to think, those imperfections would disappear, no matter how slowly. I do not believe that we have found or even approached perfection. That is not necessarily in the scheme of human events. Handicaps, stumbling blocks, prejudices — all of these are imperfect. Yet, they have to be reckoned with because they are in the scheme of human events.

Whatever obstacles I found made me fight all the harder. But it would have been impossible for me to fight at all, except that I was sustained by the personal and deep-rooted belief that my fight had a chance. It had a chance because it took place in a free society. Not once was I forced to face and fight an immovable object. Not once was the situation so cast-iron rigid that I had no chance at all. Free minds and human hearts were at work all around me; and so there was the probability of improvement. I look at my children now, and know that I must still prepare them to meet obstacles and prejudices Living in HK.

But I can tell them, too, that they will never face some of these prejudices because other people have gone before them. And to myself I can say that, because progress is unalterable, many of today's dogmas will have vanished by the time they grow into adults. I can say to my children: There is a chance for you. No guarantee, but a chance.And this chance has come to be, because there is nothing static with free people. There is no Middle Ages logic so strong that it can stop the human tide from flowing forward. I do not believe that every person, in every walk of life, can succeed in spite of any handicap. That would be perfection. But I do believe — and with every fiber in me — that what I was able to attain came to be because we put behind us (no matter how slowly) the dogmas of the past: to discover the truth of today; and perhaps find the greatness of tomorrow iphone bumper case.

I believe in the human race. I believe in the warm heart. I believe in man's integrity. I believe in the goodness of a free society. And I believe that the society can remain good only as long as we are willing to fight for it — and to fight against whatever imperfections may exist. My fight was against the barriers that kept Negroes out of baseball. This was the area where I found imperfection, and where I was best able to fight. And I fought because I knew it was not doomed to be a losing fight. It couldn't be a losing fight-not when it took place in a free society. And in the largest sense, I believe that what I did was done for me — that it was my faith in God that sustained me in my fight. And that what was done for me must and will be done for others property hong kong.

wildflower garden.

Each spring brings a new blossom of wildflowers in the ditches along the highway I travel daily to work.

There is one particular blue flower that has always caught my eye. I've noticed that it blooms only in the morning hours, the afternoon sun is too warm for it. Every day for approximately two weeks, I see those beautiful flowers macallan whisky.

This spring, I started a wildflower garden in our yard. I can look out of the kitchen window while doing the dishes and see the flowers. I've often thought that those lovely blue flowers from the ditch would look great in that bed alongside other wildflowers. Everyday I drove past the flowers thinking, "I'll stop on my way home and dig them." "Gee, I don't want to get my good clothes dirty..." Whatever the reason, I never stopped to dig them. My husband even gave me a folding shovel one year for my trunk to be used for that expressed purpose Gin Lee.

One day on my way home from work, I was saddened to see that the highway department had mowed the ditches and the pretty blue flowers were gone. I thought to myself, "Way to go, you waited too long. You should have done it when you first saw them blooming this spring."

A week ago we were shocked and saddened to learn that my oldest sister-in-law has a terminal brain tumor. She is 20 years older than my husband and unfortunately, because of age and distance, we haven't been as close as we all would have liked. I couldn't help but see the connection between the pretty blue flowers and the relationship between my husband's sister and us. I do believe that God has given us some time left to plant some wonderful memories that will bloom every year for us.

And yes, if I see the blue flowers again, you can bet I'll stop and transplant them to my wildflower garden Active Whiteboard.

Herb Cream Cheese Scrambled Eggs Recipe

I would like to think that August is going to disappear into a happy blur of friends, and meals, and walks around San Francisco. We're smack in the middle of a parade of house guests, and it's pretty great. One of my best friends from high school visited first - all the way from Kennett Square, Pennsylvania. Then, a few days later, this amazing lady dropped into San Francisco to sell her beautiful letterpress stationary. I connected with Lynn a couple years back (through her site) - I loved her clean, understated designs, and I found her writing about her work (and adventures with this little guy) inspiring wine offer.

We did a bunch of stuff while she was here. And(!) her visit happened to coincide with the Alameda Flea market. So, we crossed the bridge (not long after sunrise) last Sunday morning, to beat the crowds. Conversations so early in the morning are always a bit hazy in my memory, but I know we talked about lots of things, including eggs. A subject, it turns out, we have similar opinions on. For example - poached eggs are good, but jiggly whites are just gross. Lynn mentioned she does a scramble where she adds a couple dollops of special, super-herby cream cheese to finish the eggs. Now, this was an idea that had never occurred to me. In fact, I can't actually remember the last time I bought cream cheese. They sounded incredible - the sort of thing I think of as simple-special - simple technique with a special twist. Lynn was a good sport, and let me shoot her while she showed me the ropes. Here's how you make them Digital Signage...

One thing before we get to the recipe - you're going have plenty of leftover cream cheese, and it'll last a good week or so in your refrigerator. Other ways you can use it - slathered on toast and crackers. Lynn suggested layering it throughout a breakfast strata, or adding dollops to the top of a frittata. You can toss some into a bowl of hot pasta along with some chopped spinach. Or top a bowl of roasted tomato soup with a dollop. Or smeared on one of these quesadillas? You get the idea - it's great on/in/over a whole host of things.

Thanks for being a most excellent houseguest Lynn - come back soon apartment hong kong :)!

Chocolate Peanut Butter Granola Cookies

Granola is a beautiful thing. And, it has become a staple around here. It’s a rare day that I don’t start things off with a bowl of yogurt and granola. I have almost as many varieties of granola in my pantry as I do peanut butter. Those two facts came in quite handy for making these cookies.

So, here’s a really great thing. You only need four ingredients to make these cookies. That’s right. Four.

And, I don’t mean there’s a mix and three more things. Or a roll of refrigerated cookie dough, some mini candy bars, and a couple of other ingredients. No, there are four ingredients – peanut butter, granola, egg, salt. Seriously.

If there’s a catch, it’s that one of the ingredients is granola, which is, of course, a whole slew of ingredients in one handy package. Part of the granola is finely ground so that it acts much like flour. The remainder is stirred into the dough to add a lovely crunchy texture to the cookies.

Most any kind of granola will work. Just choose one that you think will go well with chocolate and peanut butter. I chose to use one of my favorite brands of granola, Early Bird, for these cookies. Specifically, I used their Choc-a-Doodle-Do granola, which features chocolate and coconut.

I also used Peanut Butter & Co.‘s Dark Chocolate Dreams for the peanut butter. There are several other brands of chocolate peanut butter, so just use your favorite. Or, if you prefer, use standard peanut butter without the chocolate element.

Not only are these cookies amazingly quick to make, they’re also really, really good. They are soft and chewy and a little crunchy. They are just the right amount of sweet to satisfy a little sweet craving.