Cauliflower is not yet played.

I ignored cauliflower for a long, long time. Raw, it was oddly numbing and tasteless. Steamed was worse. Even with butter, it would be a non-entity on the plate, pushed aside for more tasty veggies that offered even a hint of color or flavor. To describe the taste of cauliflower seemed like a pathetic venture at best.

But then I read a recipe last year for roasted cauliflower. Said that just a dash of salt, some olive oil and some high, prolonged heat made the florets into what they called “cauliflower candy.” Interesting. I like candy. I gave it a shot.

And I’ve been converted. Roasted cauliflower is ridiculous. Crazy tasty. I went further.

I started making cauliflower soup. Added some crispy shallots and shallot oil. A little prociutto. I found chedder cauliflower. Purple cauliflower. Green too. I experimented with romanesco. At one point in August I probably had at least three assorted cauliflowers in my fridge at one time I was cauliflower mad.

But I learned I wasn’t alone. Other people had joined the floret bandwagon and then I read that somehow, somewhere cauliflower had become the hip vegetable of 2007. And that killed me. I didn’t realize I’d been riding the same trend, that I had fallen victim of produce fashion. I crossed off cauliflower from my CSA order.

But something happened. I craved it. I read about something called cauliflower steaks. And if there’s one thing I like more than candy, it’s steaks.

So I put them back on the list. I cut the head cross-wise into 1” steaks, salt and peppered them and cooked ‘em in a pan for 4 minutes a side. Then into the oven to bake at 250° for 10 minutes. The result? Magic. Cauliflower candy gives way to a cauliflower main course. Cauliflower is back on my plate and I’m not looking back, damn it.

Cookin' with Crazy

Cookin’, a vintage cookware store on Divisadero is all kinds of crazy. Honestly, I think they specialize in it. Well, that and an astounding collection of mainly vintage cooking and servingware. It starts when you walk in, winding past stacks upon stacks of china and dishware and you see the staggering array of stuff in front of you. It seems like a total mess, and by and large it is, but soon enough an order comes into focus from the chaos. Like items are grouped around the store in abundant collections, ranging from the quaint to the quasi-absurd. Copper pans and meat grinders. Egg cups and martini shakers. No matter what you might be looking for, they have it. In fact, odds are, they have at least five.

High quality Le Creuset is stacked on a table with an abundance bordering on grotesque.

There are tin molds by the gross and ramekins apparently breeding like bunnies.

There’s something a more than a little packratty about the place, to be certain. And the prices are such that make you think the seller isn’t too eager to let any of the collection head out the door. There’s a vintage French offal sign I’ve been eyeing for months. With an asking price of $160, it hasn’t moved further than the few inches needed to check the tag and, eyes wide, put it back down again. Once you meet the owner, you see where the crazy stems from. Engage her in a chat and it’ll continue long after you’ve left the store, whether there’s anyone there or not.

Still, it’s a place worth a visit, if not a purchase or two. There’s something to be said for an original shopping experience, and I know that the Madeline pans I picked up there have a more interesting patina and character than what I might find at sur le table.



Cookin'
339 Divisadero
SF 94117

wharf-bound

Though it's fashionable to hate tourists in this town, I have a secret love for them. They make me feel better just knowing they're around. They wear incredibly ugly clothes, making me feel fashionable. They're usually really fat, making me feel healthy. And as evident from what I overhear from my office window, they're pretty unhappy. The chorus of regular complaints including, but not limited to: "I'm hungry," "I'm cold," and the timeless "I don't want to walk anymore."

What's even better about San Francisco tourists is that, if you live here, you don't have to interact with them much. They're confined to the Wharf and Union Square and Chinatown. They have all that space to eat up the sidewalk, take pictures in front of chain restaurants and spend $50 on San Francisco sweatshirts. They boost the economy and stay out of the way. We get the rest of the city, which is pretty damn nice, unless you're in the market for a souvenir mug with your name on it or anything that references the existence of Alcatraz.

But after a year of living in San Francisco and a good two months after starting work near Fisherman's Wharf, I finally decided to venture into hostile territory to get a bowl of clam chowder in a sourdough bowl. I did it in the name of craving. In the spirit of kitch. I did it because my office is just 100 ft from Pier 39 and it seems almost ridiculous not to.

So I went. I made the unprecedented right turn out of the office building, was soon wading through a sea of pre-teens making their way back to their tour bus, nearly got hip-checked by some gull-gazing German tourists and had my image captured for eternity in the background of a number of vacation photos before I made it to Boudin, the birthplace of the clam chowder bread bowl.

I don't know the history of the bread as bowl phenomenon. I like to imagine that there was some devastating war-time crockery shortage, and the people were at a loss at how to enjoy their soup. Plates were out of the question and there were untold number of palms burned as people attempted to ladle soup directly into their hands. Then there would be the one genius who, spying a round loaf of bread, quietly began carving in, tunneling to create a vessel that seemed almost made for soup. Thus, in my head at least, the bread bowl was born.

Stepping up to the counter, I feel an urge to set myself apart from the tourist population. I remember that there's a discount for people who work in the area, and with the slickness of passing along a secret code, I get my 10% off. Before I have a chance to claim my table with a copy of 7x7 my number is called. My bread bowl is ready.

I was prepared to hate it. I was in a chain restaurant eating tourist fare off a black plastic tray. But I didn't. The bread is good and the chowder, besides being a fun word to say, is comforting and tasty. As someone in the office said before I headed out, "There's a reason it's famous." The bread to soup ratio is way, way off and I feel a bit guilty throwing away almost an entire loaf of perfectly good bread.

Heading out from the cafe into the belly of Pier 39, I considered hitting the taffy shop or picking up an Oyster With a Real Pearl Inside, but I resisted. I made my pilgrimage to the tourist mecca and I could leave in peace, my only souvenir a nice lunch and a moderate stomachache.

coffee tragedy

So in a perfect storm last week of logistics and a very clear lack of attending to priorities, I was without coffee. I didn't have time to make it to Ritual, I still haven't picked up a grinder (nor do I have the counter-space for one) and on, and on and on.

Finally. Sunday I go. I bike down to the Mission, pick out my coffee of the week and even treat myself to a Clover-brewed cup of the El Yalu, the same coffee I've been enjoying by French Press at home. I wanted to see if how I've been doing it even comes close to how the Clover machine can extract a cup. What I make is damn good. But the Clover makes a perfect cup. No tang, no smacks of acidity. Just sweet, clean awesome coffee.

Bean-wise, I opt for the Bella Vista (El Salvador, COE #9). It's a new one for them (and thus, for me). I can't wait to have it the next morning.

Monday. Back from the gym. So excited to start a lazy day off with a leisurely breakfast. I put the water on, the eggs to cook, the toast to, um, toast. My timing is dead on. Just as the water comes to a boil, I remember that I want to write about the coffee and quickly snap a pic of the bag before I even open it (hence the lack of sharpness).


WIth Belle and Sebastian singing sweetly from the speakers I hum along and open the bag to measure out the perfectly ground coffee to find that-fuck- they didn't grind the coffee. I was left staring, frowning, into a half-pound of whole beans I couldn't do a damn thing with.

I made crappy Irish Breakfast stupid tea instead.

I biked down to Ritual again yesterday and garnered a little sympathy while I waited patiently for them to grind my beans for French Press. I had a cup this morning. Two, in fact. It was really, really good. And not just because I'd waited over a week for a cup.

A side of greens

Though it seems a strange thing to say, I've always been compelled by collard greens. I think it's because they were always wrapped up in that Southern BBQ mystique. Big oil-drum grills manned by gigantic men in fields and on the sides of roads in the timeless South. I haven't spent much time there, if at all, and being from California, I know that any opinion I have on BBQ is immediatly dismissed. Rightly so. In CA, we don't BBQ. We grill. But I still like the art behind slow-cooked meats, and the sides that come with it. Creamy mac and cheese, sweet cornbread and smoky beans. But then there are the greens. I've never liked them, though I've really wanted to. I usually find them a sad, dishwater green with a tough consistency and drab taste to match.

Still, I know there's good there. There has to be. I think that with any traditional food gone bad that there's a great recipe back in the day that made it outstanding. And over the years corners are cut and less-than-stellar ingredients make it into the dish until you're left with the sad food in front of you. Like boring collard greens. So when my CSA listed collard greens as an option for the week, I decided to see if I could make them magic.

And magic they became. I went simple. Just bacon, onions and greens. That's it. No cider vinegar, no sugar, no broth. Recently a friend noted to me that starting a dish with bacon is cheating. Well, if using bacon is cheating, then I'm not inclined to play fair.


Simple Collard Greens:
2-3 slices thick-cut bacon
1 onion
1 bunch collard greens

In a large saucepan, cook the bacon over medium heat. While the bacon cooks, wash and dry the greens, ripping off the woody stems, rolling the leaves into a cigar and cutting them into 1" strips. Dice the onion.

Remove bacon from the pan, reserving the rendered fat (this would be the cheating part). Add onion to the pan and cook over medium heat until it's translucent. Maybe begins to brown around the edges.

Add greens and 1/3 cup water and cover. Simmer greens over medium-low heat. About 5-7 minutes. So they're nicely wilted but still really green. Cut the bacon into 1/4" strips and stir back in with the greens. Serve.

And that's it. Simple, good greens. All that's missing is some kick-ass BBQ to go with it.

CSA: mid-february

Though it was a bit of a runaround to pick up my produce this week, there was a lot of goodness in that unassuming brown paper bag. Sadly, the farm-fresh eggs were auspiciously missing. Looks like I'll be turning to the Batter Blaster in the fridge for breakfast this week.

The bounty this week includes: Broccoli, German butterball potatoes, fuji apples, heirloom carrots, beets, cilantro, collard greens and purple kohlrabi.

This is my third attempt at kohlrabi. The first time I was short on time and on ideas and let the poor little bulbs wither to nothing in the fridge. The second time I made soup, which, beefed up with some ham and black pepper made a fine lunch. I'm not sure what's going to come of this bunch.

Collard greens are the other challenge. New to me, the only experience I have them has been as uninteresting, cooked-to-death sides at otherwise standout BBQ joints. Something good will come of them, I'm sure.

A little help

Ok, so I’m having a bit of a math problem here. Cancer = bad. Gummy candy = good. But somehow, this just doesn’t seem to add up. Gummy Ribbons of Hope = bad, right?

my funny valentine

pictured: Michael Recchiuti's Ginger Heart, slightly damaged.

sweet somethings

We Love Jam is a very small micro-jammery not far from San Francisco. They make their exceptional product in insanely limited supplies. Their Blenheim Apricot Jam became something of a cult following late summer last year. The only way to get their product is to get on a mailing list, to stay close to your in-box and act fast. It’s how I got in on their Mariposa plum jam a few months ago and their most recent release, Fukushku kumquat marmalade.

It isn’t cheap. $14 runs you an 8 oz jar, with shipping. But it’s totally worth it. The marmalade is run thick with deft pieces of rind and pith off-set by a sweet jelly that just kills on a piece of crusty bread with butter. A little jam goes a long way.

I’m on the list for two jars of their famed Apricot jam, coming out this summer. I have just enough time to perfect the scone recipe for it.

CSA: The Results

So what became of the produce? Read on.

Green Chard: taking a cue from The Art of Simple Food, I did a quick blanch of the leafy bits, then tossed them with melted butter and parmigian. My initial response to the recipe was, “No shit, Alice. Add some butter and parm and my dishtowel will taste good too.” But, she knows what she’s talking about. The simple combination of the fats and the greens did something I didn’t expect. There was a depth of flavor I didn’t see coming.

Chard stems/fennel/leeks: This little accident turned out well. I had grand plans to make fennel gratin for tomorrow’s lunch, but in reading the recipe, it was going to take far too long (40 min total?) for a simple side dish. Instead, I added the blanching fennel bulb segments to another dish already in progress. Chard stalks plus leeks happily simmering in a dash of butter and a splash of chicken broth. I left the trio to their business a little too long and got an unexpectedly nice char on the dish. It worked. A little carmelizing goes a long way. Buttery leeks plus hearty chard and bright fennel. What it lacks in color contrast it makes up for in flavor.

Cauliflower: Sauteed with prociutto and thyme over fettucinne with breadcrumbs. Magic.

Parsnips/carrots/onions: Took a three-hour long soak with some chuck roast in stock and wine to make a perfect pot roast.

Apples: make my afternoon snack.

Lemons: I can’t remember for the life of me why I ordered lemons. Seemed like a smart idea at the time. I don’t know what to do with them. I’m considering making lemon curd.

Next week: Collard Greens and Purple Kolhrabi. Two challenges in one week!

on cardamom

Somewhere between sweet and savory, a little aromatic and earthy at the same time. It looks like sand and it smells like nothing else. A little lavender, a little lemon. It comes out of nowhere. And I’m starting to see it everywhere.


I picked up this Richard Donnelly dark chocolate bar at Fog City News last week. The packaging was arresting in and of itself and the chocolate wrapped inside is outstanding. Go on. Judge a chocolate bar by its cover.

Rich and dark and made so much more intruiging with a dash of cardamom. Brought the heavy dark chocolate notes even more down to earth. Took that slightly cherry quality you’ll taste in fine, dark chocolate and rounded it out. And if you hadn’t read the package, you’d be stumped by the secret ingredient.

But there’s a light side to cardamom too. I added a teaspoon to a batch of banana bread and the loaves took on an unexpected floral quality. Echoes of Indian chai and the bread became a true tea cake.


I have more ideas for this fun spice. Introduce it to dessert. Maybe a cardamom panna cotta or semifreddo? Or play on the savory side and do a nice lamb marinade. This could be good.

CSA: First of the Year

First CSA box picked up last week. Very, very exciting. It’s been a good two months since I made the drive to the outer Richmond to pick up my green goods. And I dropped by Wednesday night to find everything I asked for.

Leeks
Parsnips
Fennel
Green Chard
Fuji Apples
Carrots
Onions
Red Potatoes
Lemons
Cauliflower


The cooking pressure is back on. With a fridge full of organic produce and a freezer stocked with grass-fed beef, it’s harder and harder to justify a trip to Giorgio’s or a call to the Wok Shop Café (bad name, great Moo Goo Gai Pan).

Pixies, scones and scrambled eggs

I believe in cravings. That is, I believe in giving in to them. There are those few times a year where more than anything else, I want red meat. Or chocolate. Or whisky. Often those cravings are a little dark, a little dirty. There’s something compelling me to that flavor, to that feeling. There’s little satisfying as a craving met and satiated. The first bite scratches the itch. The second scratches a little more. And by the third, you’re can really start to appreciate what you’ve been lusting for.

And on the flip side, there’s little so disappointing as not meeting that craving. Of allowing yourself the indulgence and the bite in question misses the mark. When you get really close, but still miss the mark. The dish becomes a waste of time, a nuisance. With every bite whispering, “I am not what you’re after.”

This morning I was in spinning class. Mondays are the hardest. The class is long, it’s early, and I have to convince myself to stay to the end from minute to minute. There are a few things that get me through. Sheer will, the music or, like today, promise of breakfast. I made meyer lemon-current scones last night. I picked up fresh eggs over the weekend. All I saw in my head was perfectly scrambled eggs with a toasty scone. And coffee. On the walk back from class, all I could think about was scones and eggs. And coffee. And the pixies. I turned the corner to my street with these visions of breakfast and strains of frank black in my head and it was all I could do to contain myself and not run down the block to get started.

But I contained myself. And in a quick ten minutes I sat down to a toasty scone, perfectly cooked scrambled eggs finished with a splash of cream, a steaming mug of San Jose El Yalu (coe #3, for those keeping score) with Trompe Le Monde playing probably a little too loud for 7:15 in the morning.

I didn’t care.

It was good. It was right. It was exactly everything I wanted. Everything I had in my head for those last 6 minutes of class when I was about to throw in the towel. Everything I was craving so intensely realized all at once. Damn good for a Monday.

Can't not want

When I was living in Portland the first time, during college, shopping in the city was often lackluster at best. Shopping for anything, really, it just wasn't fun. No little districts that hadn't been trounced through before, nothing new to discover. It was either smelly hippie head shops on Hawthorne or the prohibitively expensive boutiques of NW 23rd. Those few times a year I found myself flush with an extra $100, I was hard-pressed to find somewhere to spend it. One weekend, my friend Jenny and I made a sojourn to the outlet mall in Troutdale, Oregon. We hit the road with visions of wonderful discounts and fantastic finds. But soon after a driving tour of the parking lot, past Dress Barn and Bass shoes, we were a little let down. Though my kitchen didn't need a thing, I followed Jenny into Mikasa to see if there was anything worth bringing back home.

I'm not a big fan of yellow. When I wear it I look sickly and though it's the number one color to paint a kitchen, I don't think it has a lot of business being around food. At least that's what I believed for a long time. But then I saw them. The yellow dishes. They were a nice, modern bright set of yellow dishes that just said happy. They looked like the perfect way to start a morning. I could see the bright yolks of an egg over easy picking up the color of the dishes. Cheerios would live up to their namesake in a cheery yellow bowl. For no good reason, I loved them.

But I didn't buy them. I thought what I thought was better of it and didn't take home the set. I had dishes. Fine, functional white ones that did their job with little fanfare. An entire set of yellow dishes wasn't something I needed, they were just something I wanted.

But there's something to be said for want, because even after I left, I was thinking about them. I would look them up online to see if they were available. I might have even visited another Mikasa to admit I made a mistake, that I shouldn't have left them. But I never found them again. Later I picked up a couple of sweet yellow bowls with a French cereal logo on them, and I like them a lot. But I know it's not the same.

But these dishes, they taught me a lesson. There's nothing wrong with wanting. With listening to that little voice inside you that for no good reasons says, "Go on. Get them. If you love them, you should have them." I'm not saying indulge every impulse. That would be ridiculous (and pricey), but there's something to be said for surrounding yourself with little thing that make you happy. Make you smile. For no good reason at all.

So why now? Why the yellow dish story? Simple. I have a lot of blogs I keep up on. Some of them food-based, some design based. And some that bridge the gap between the two. I came across these on notcot today, and I got that feeling. The feeling that having these little guys in the kitchen would make me smile, give me a little joy.

I'm not one for kitch or for cute. Though I have two cats I don't own anything with a cat on it. I look at cuteoverload a few times a day, but I don't go further than that. Still, these geese measuring cups want to be mine. And for the price, they just might have to be.

That is, unless some charitable reader wants to buy them for me first.

They're over at Anthropologie.com. In the home section. A nice place to browse, as it happens.

Lost posts of 2007

Throughout the year last year, I took pictures that were intended to develop into posts. For all kinds of reasons, they didn't make it. Here are the pics, plus a summary of the posts that never were. Enjoy.

Dinner with Drew, April
Back to back in an afterthought of a kitchen, we crafted the perfect comfort food at a time we both needed some comforting. Risotto with prociutto and peas, torn crusty bread and cypress grove chevre, caprese. Chinon.



The First Dinner, July
When I start seeing someone, I want the first meal I cook for them to be really awesome, but simple too. This one fit the bill: salt-and-pepper pork loin with shallot reduction, roasted cauliflower bites. A watermelon salad with ricotta salata and fresh basil bridged the divide between salad and dessert.




30 minutes or less, October
When I got my pizza stone, I had grand visions of perfect pies. The first one realized those dreams. The second one, though it tasted fantastic, left toppings and burnt bits all over the stone. Now it takes up space in my oven.




The Best Bread, November
Late to the bandwagon, Mark Bittman's no-knead bread became a staple this year. Janet and Brian shared the first loaf, and now it's a mainstay at every family dinner. Make some fresh butter to pair. Knock everyone's socks off.


It's been a huge year of cooking. I've realized my inner baker more than I knew, picked up a hand-me-down KitchenAid and some intensely beautiful carbon-steel knives and copper pots. My challenge for next year? More risks, more original recipes, more dinner parties. And, of course, more writing.

Comfort in the Familiar, Part 1 and 2

Last week I’ve been spending some time with an old friend, and the conversations consistently led to life-defining metaphors. The smallest observation seemed suddenly revelatory. It came to a head over two bowls of udon, atomically hot and served in an iron pot that only kept the soup from ever cooling down. It was an awkward production, coaxing noodles from the hot pot to a smaller dish to cool, each of us getting smacked in the eye at least once by some wayward broth. We cleared the bowls of their contents bite by bite. A morsel of chicken, a mushroom or two, and a whole lot of noodles, until finally, just the cloudy broth remained in the bowl. I was nearing exhaustion, but then he said simply, “broth is good.” And it was. And he went on to observe that broth is never the same from one bowl of soup to the next. Ingredients, how long it takes to cook, how well the ingredients meld or conflict. The broth is always different. And this one, this was a good broth.

And it was one of those simple things that lent itself to metaphor. The broth of the day. The elements coming together in just the right way to make for the perfect soup, something to savor and taste and take in. To notice and enjoy. And you’re not sure what makes it good that day, or what you could possibly do to have that same effect the next day and it doesn’t matter. It’s out of your control. Just enjoy.

But again, it was one of those days where the broth was good. The day was good. Dynamics that you didn’t expect to come together in just the right way at just the right time to the point you end up with something, well, bigger than the sum of its parts.

Part 2.
It’s not surprising to me to find metaphor in food. It’s there all the time. It’s what brings me back, makes me consider again, to taste again, to be aware of the things I love and to savor them even more. And it’s been awhile since I gave a lot of thought to my food. I’ve been relying on the defaults a lot. Hawaiian pizza from Giorgio’s, chicken chow mein from Andy’s, satay and salad rolls from the thai place that left a menu on my door a few months ago. The holidays left me uninspired by food. It felt like work.

It started with cookies. I initiated a cookie exchange with some friends. I threw down Phefferneusse and Double Ginger Snaps. And then I suggested cookie decorating as part of a party. Ginger and Vanilla roll-out cookies. Then more Pheffernuesse plus ginger lemon cookies for the family. And then there was the Stollen production.

For Christmas dinner I made cauliflower soup with crispy shallots, fresh bread and butter and creamed spinach. And that morning I kicked off the day with Gougeres. The Gougeres made another appearance at New Year’s Brunch alongside Buttermilk Current Scones and Lavender Shortbread.

I’ve spent the last three weeks in a fine dusting of flour.

But it’s done. And I can’t think beyond the next meal. And I feel oddly guilty that I don’t want to cook. I truly believe that it’s so important to eat locally and seasonally. Well, for me, it seems that pizza is in season. Burritos too.

I’m not a New Year’s resolution kind of person. I’ll be at the gym long enough this year to see then January rush die down. I’m loathe to take my cues from a calendar. But this January is a bit different. With a relationship ended and a new job starting Monday, my habits are about to change. And that’s fine. I can swing myself out of this food rut and pick up some inspiration somewhere. The new job lands me a flat mile away from the Ferry Building, which has sent me stuttering about food many times before. I can’t wait to dig in.

a piece of cake

I didn’t bake a thing yesterday. But I made a cake just the same. I took the raw materials of sheet cake and stark white frosting. Mixed tentative drops of food coloring and declared the end result just the hue I was thinking of. I sketched with intent and sliced deliberately, carefully. I stacked cake and considered pastry bag tips and how I could pipe and get what I was looking for. What I was thinking of. A thin slice or two for a cover, a column for a spine, thin piping to show the creases and a careful, slow serrated tip to trace the lines of pages along the side. And a bookmark for good measure. I walked the line between art and craft and ended up further along than I thought I would.

And walking down Guerrero with a small cake shaped like a book, I had no idea what to do. Even if it did taste good, I had fussed over it too much for it to be appealing. What I constructed, what I put together wasn’t for taste at all. Flavor had nothing to do with it. I tried to give it away on Valencia to a tattered man carrying a garbage bag. “Do you want this cake?” “No, but thank you.” I couldn’t leave it there, on top of a trash can. No one would know what the hell it is. Sculpture? Play-Doh? It has to be introduced. This is cake. It’s in my fridge, waiting for enough time to pass until I can throw it away with lessened guilt.

It’s a start. I might make a cake again. Maybe craft a mustache cake for my dad’s 75th birthday next February. Or make a bacon cake for my brother. Maybe.

kitchen evolution

I haven’t been cooking a lot lately. I have a fridge full of thrilling produce: chedder cauliflower, romanesco, rainbow chard, Japanese sweet potatoes. And I want little to do with it. Last week, after a particularly grueling commute home, I could only find the energy to make a call to Giorgio’s for a mini Hawaiian pizza and then hurriedly steam some broccoli and pour a glass of wine before I sat down. When I finally settled in front of the tv, I made it through most of the broccoli only to realize that in my rush I hadn’t seen the extra protein that I’d steamed along with the broccoli. Maybe it’s the bugs that have turned me off to cooking for the minute.

And it’s probably the fact that I did a lot over Thanksgiving. Brussel Sprouts, mashed potatoes, homemade bread and butter. All this while dancing around a crowded, overburdened antique oven and counter space taken over by excessive collections of kitchen tools.

In the last couple months, I’ve been cooking in my mom’s kitchen a lot. Many of the pictures I’ve shuffled from my camera to my computer are flush with the terra cotta hues of my mom’s cabinets in the background. A lot of the pics have my brother in them as well. Our cooking styles are so different, but end up with damn good results. When I’m in my own kitchen I work quick, with precision and a touch of grace. I try and move as efficiently as possible. Even making a breakfast sandwich this morning involved something of a dance, with each movement up, down or side to side serving a purpose.

I didn’t cook in the kitchen much growing up. But if I ever wanted to, I knew everything would be in working order, stocked with anything and everything I needed. It was a kitchen that worked. Ample counter space. Kick-ass stove. An appliance for every need. The knives you pulled out of the block were carbon-still and awesome. An indoor grill. And there was a perfect time when my culinary adventures synced up with the state of the kitchen nicely. I think it was when I would visit after college. It was a great place to cook.

And now, it’s different. The house isn’t how I remember. Things don’t work like they used to. Utensil collections fight one another for counter space. Groupings of jars or pitchers or fruit bowls crowd the space so it takes a lot of shuffling and set-up and rearranging before you can even get started. The oven is as tricky as an old car you should have dumped long ago, but just can’t bear to see it go. One oven doesn’t work. The other requires a flashlight and a steady hand to gauge the temperature. Burns are common. Baking is a crapshoot.

But I still like it. It’s a good kitchen, if not for the functionality than for the memories. The meals we’ve cooked, the guests that drift there unconsciously like the last cheerios in a bowl. No matter the party, everyone ends up in the kitchen. I won’t say it’s not challenging, it is. It’s sad to see the kitchen in a slow decline. Disorganized, cluttered. It doesn’t work like it once did. But I still see it for the goodness it offers. It’s still a place where we come together, work together, cook together.

I have faith it’ll be what it once was. To get cleaned up and flying right again. It’s all there, in the drawers and the cabinets. By the food processor and the industrial stand mixer and the carbon steel knives. It’ll be the kitchen I remember. In time, it’ll come back.

I have my work cut out for me

To: Ken Forkish, Ken's Artisan Bakery
11.12.07

Hi Ken,

A little less than year ago I moved from Portland to San Francisco,
and I've been in a state of gastronomical longing ever since. From
Stumptown to Le Pigeon, I can't help but wax poetic about the places I
miss. And one of those places is your bakery. I lived on 21st and Hoyt
for two years and probably came in nearly every day. And
most of those days, I got a walnut roll with butter and jam. I'm not
one for eating the same thing over and over again, but there was
something so simply satisfying, indulgent and reassuring about that
combination of flavors and textures. It didn't seem right unless I had
that breakfast.

But I moved and I moved on. It's been eggs and sourdough toast for a
while. Until last weekend, when faced with a glut of walnuts, I
decided to make some bread. It wasn't until after I'd tasted the brown
soda bread I made that I realized I'd made the wrong thing. It wasn't
sweet I wanted, it was savory. It was simple. It was a walnut roll
from Ken's. That's what I'm craving and what I can't get out of my
mind.

So, I'm wondering if you can help me out. I wonder if you'd be so kind
as to pass on your recipe to me for your walnut bread. I know my
replication won't be perfect, but I'd really appreciate some pointers
to head down the right path.

Thanks!
Margo

11.13. To Me, from Ken.

HI Margo. Let's see if we can satisfy that longing of yours. You will
need to buy a scale that measures metric weights. You can get a
decent one for $50 or so at a kitchenware shop. I found this online
for $68
http://www.affordablescales.com/scales_specs.asp?specs=2649&Ohaus_CS2000

Other items you will need on hand:

plastic tub to hold the dough in the fridge over night and to allow
expansion 2 to 3 times the original volume of the mixed dough.
matt cloth or wicker baskets for proofing the loaves.

Here's a formula for you to try:

1 kilo flour (700 grams white flour, 300 grams whole wheat flour)
775 grams water, 85 - 90 degrees F
6 grams dry yeast
22 grams fine sea salt

125 grams walnut pieces

mix flour and water by hand and let rest for 30 minutes.
mix yeast in a very small amount of water, just enough to dissolve,
then add with the saltt to the flour mixture.
Mix in a stand mixer, like a KitchenAide with hook attachment for 5
minutes on low speed. Rest for 10 minutes and mix again for another 5
minutes on low speed. Alternatively, if you don't have a mixer, mix
by hand (First to incorporate the ingredients, and then the turn the
dough into a homogenized mass - figure about 10 or 15 minutes). You
can mix the dough on your kitchen countertop. THen fold in the
walnuts until they are more or less fully integrated into the dough.

lightly oil your dough tub, place the dough into the tub, and put the
tub in the fridge for 12 - 18 hours. Optionally, punch and fold the
dough one or two times during this fermentation.

Remove the dough from the fridge, and cut in to 3 pieces. Form each
into a ball, stretching and folding the dough into itself several
times to build up strength. Let rest for 20 - 30 minutes.

Shape the dough balls into a shape that will fit whatever basket you
choose, or roll into a cylindrical log shape if you want walnut
rolls. Flour the baskets, or cloth, whatever you are going to place
the loaves into to proof.

Figure 3 hours proofing time, until the loaves are gassy without
collapsing on themselves.

Bake in oven btwn 400 and 425 degrees until done. Don't worry about
the steam. It's hard to do steam in a home oven.

I can't teach you how to bake in an email. Hopefully this outline
will mate with some past bread baking experience on your part to meet
with some success.

Good luck!

Ken

Keep it in the family

Lately, I’ve been giving a lot of thought to family. About how we stay connected to where we come from. You might hear a story once and forget it the next day, but you tell that same story over and over, over the same meals through the years and the stories and the meals become legend. The way the stories are told over a table, the phrases of words and tone until the next generation is finishing the sentences of the first. Stories associated with pictures pressed into albums or hung on a wall. It’s the same things again and again.

But once in awhile, new details surface as attics are cleaned out and artifacts are passed on. Two years ago a rediscovered LP showed that my great-grandmother, Mae, sang in the local Jewish choir. I always felt connected to her. I wasn’t sure why. Because I visited her in an old age home that bore my name. Because I played piano there. Because she always had Almond Roca. The fact that she sang and I sing comforts me. I like the old standards which, for her, were probably the popular songs on the radio. I wonder if she liked Cole Porter like I do. A few years ago my mother gave me Mae’s engagement ring, which I’ve worn every day since.

Her son, my grandfather, I barely knew. He moved the family from Chicago to Alaska (where my mother was born) to Canoga Park where he and Louise built their own house with their own hands where my grandmother still lives. Myron taught shop and drew mice on my hands and couldn’t have looked more like his son.

His son. David Ronne. It’s been a year to the day since he got sick. A year since the stitches of a loose-knit family began to pull tighter than they ever had before. Last Thanksgiving I had grand foodie plans to do a 200-mile meal in Portland. It was going to be my first holiday I had willingly not gone home. But my mom called, and it was serious, and of all the Thanksgivings to miss, this wasn’t the one.

I don’t remember if he carved the turkey last year. I don’t think he did. I don’t remember if we had our annual heated discussion about just how much (or how little) sugar to put in the whipped cream. I always forced the addition of one more tablespoon than he wanted. Thanksgiving was the one time I could eat with abandon, and I wasn’t going to miss an opportunity to have an extra serving of anything. But I do remember that everything tasted the same as it always had, with that perfect mix of savory on savory and rich on rich.

Since the day after the funeral, new artifacts have surfaced. And with them, new stories. I now have my great-grandfather’s bowling medals and his mason’s ring.

And last week I inherited knives. Knives I didn’t know existed. Knives that belonged to my great (great?) grandfather, who, as it happened, was a butcher in Germany. I didn’t know we had a butcher in the family. These knives are beautiful, rugged. Gunmetal carbon steel with soft wood handles. These knives aren’t for show, they’re for use. They look like real knives should look. Henckels, nearly all of them, except for one exotic cleaver with Chinese characters wearing from the metal.
I love these knives. Love where they came from, their authenticity and bad-assedness. I love that they came from family, that they reveal a story I only want to know more about. I’m glad to know there are new stories waiting in the cupboards and attics of our family’s homes. And I’m willing to take my time, let them be revealed to me one at a time. Dole them out over a lifetime, when I’m ready, when it’s interesting.

I’m going to bring them in to get sharpened soon. I’m going to do my research on how to take care of them. And best, I’m going to use them. A lot. I have a knife drawer I’m already proud of, and it’s about to get a lot more crowded.

Pictures to come.