I dunno about you, but it's getting harder and harder for me to drag my guys to all of the things I think they "should do" or "should be exposed to" in New York and other cities. All I have to do is mention the word "museum," utter the word "concert," or raise the specter of a walk past historic monuments and the eye rolling and groaning that ensues is enough to make me pull a Marie Osmond on all of them.
There is one strategy that does seem to work, however. It, of course, involves food. For lack of a better name, I've come to call it "Food Hunting." Here's how it works.
I'll wake up one weekend morning with a bee in my bonnet and declare, "We're going into New York today." Ben will bitch that he has too much homework. Noah will warn me that he has lacrosse at 1 PM. Husband Paul will slink out of the room. At which point I will allay their worst fears and put it right out front that no museums, shows, or concerts are involved and that we can leave for the city whenever they so desire and come home whenever they please.
The Mission: Come up with some food that someone among us is dreaming about--tacos al pastor, doughnuts, pickles, Cuban sandwiches--then pinpoint the spot in New York that dishes up the very best. This usually involves a mass scurry toward laptops, with me and one or two of the boys Googling things like"best taco stands in New York" or plugging search terms into Chowhound or FoodNetwork.com. Eventually we come to the table, argue for our contenders and ultimately agree upon a destination--usually a decision based on a combination of location and overall vibe, in addition to culinary raves.
Then, it's off to the city--no dress up, no big formal itinerary, no clock ticking. If we don't take the train, we'll usually park uptown at my mother-in-law's--the object isn't to park right outside the door of our destination but to wend our way toward it. That might involve a few subway stops. A long walk. Even a ferry ride. We arrive, devour, and then....
Something great happens: The day--the City-- unfolds around us. We find ourselves in a neighborhood we might never have deliberately visited. With their bellies happily full, the guys are game to wander into quirky shops, fiddle around with guitars at a hole-in-the-wall music store, even pop into a gallery or two with me. We might hang out and watch a sidewalk chess game. Or pick up star anise at Little India grocery. In short, an immediate and tasty goal gets them motivated.Yet they end up discovering the spontaneous treasures of New York that no deliberate game plan can deliver.
During our food hunts, we've aimed for enormous sub sandwiches at Faicco's in the West Village. We've scarfed down the fries with Vietnamese pineapple mayo at Pommes Frites in the East. There's been fresh mozzerella on Arthur Avenue. And toasted marshmallow milkshakes near Union Square. We've chased after culinary booty in other cities--from the best ham and cheese croissants ever at Tartine in San Francisco's Mission District to the kick-ass steak tacos at La Super Rica in Santa Barbara. Have all of our food hunts netted the best of the best foods? Who really knows. Have all the neighborhoods been enthralling? Of course not. But one thing is for sure: It's one great way to get your family up off the couch and out into the fray. Give it a try and let me know what you find.
Simple Pleasures.
Irish soda bread on its way up North with Noah.
Wednesday, March 21, 2012
Friday, February 17, 2012
This Caramel May Ruin You
If you make this caramel, you may hate me for life. Not because you have scalded yourself with boiling sugar (which you won't do because I'm telling you now DO NOT TRY TO TASTE THIS STUFF WHILE IT'S COOKING). But because you will not be able to stop eating or making this sweet, slightly salty, buttery, creamy, chewy, ridiculously yummy candy-version-of-crack-cocaine and may very well gain 20 pounds over a single month.
Now, if you can deal with that very real risk, don't let this next slight hurdle hobble you: You're going to need a candy or high-temp instant read thermometer. I know. I know. That's one of those deal breakers that can knock any recipe off the "to cook" list for those of us who don't happen to be wearing a ruffled apron and working in a Fudge Shoppe. But for two years, I was stalked by this recipe for salted caramel that finally broke me and I now feel compelled to break you, too. Said recipe was given to me by a real estate agent down in Nashville by the name of Ms. Tori Stamps, who swore, in her buttery Tennessee-by-way-of-California accent, that this was the most "deeeeelicious, yuuuumy caaahhhhrmel evah and sooo aesy, tooooo." Miss Stamps never did get a sale out of us (that's a whole 'notha story) and finally stopped sending us log cabin listings. But that darned salted caramel kept pestering me every time I flipped open my "to try" recipe file. I'd look at it. I'd remember that monstrous slice of caramel cake I shared with Ms. Tori at a Leiper's Fork gas station My mouth would begin to water. And then I'd flip right past it because.... because....of that stupid thermometer.
Finally, while splurging on a shower liner at Bed Bath and Beyond, I bit the bullet and headed for the gadget aisle. And there it was. A big ol' candy thermometer emblazoned with all that "soft ball," "hard ball" gibberish. For $15, it--and the mysterious world of candy--was mine all mine. I rushed home, pulled out that dang recipe and got to work. Truth: Things were dicey at first. That thermometer thingy told me exactly what temp to cook the caramel to. But I still had to figure out the best time to cut the caramel. The easiest way to unmold it. And of course, there was that time I grabbed the loaf pan, which had become sizzling hot, and dropped the entire batch of caramel all over my kitchen floor and rug. (Miraculously it peeled off in one giant sheet. I came "this close" to wrapping myself in it.) But now, having made this stuff more times than I care to admit, I've got it down to, yes, a science. And I've developed a bonafide substance abuse problem. I never thought I'd reach the point in my life where I always had heavy cream in my fridge. But I'm there now. And with that one surprisingly long-lasting refrigerator item ever present, I am always at the ready to whip up a batch of Ms. Stamps' Tennessee Salted Caramel. Wrapped up in little foil or parchment squares, it's a fab hostess or thank you gift. Chucked it into a bowl, it's an awesome after dinner sweet. Hidden in the back corner of the freezer, it's the best pick-me up-possible without paying a visit to the pharmacist. Here are the deets. See ya at Weight Watchers!
1 1/2 cups sugar
1/4 cup water
1/4 cup light corn syrup
1 cup heavy cream
5 Tbsps. unsalted butter
1 tsp. fleur de sel (or sea or gray or kosher salt), plus a little extra for sprinkling
1/2 tsp. vanilla
Line bottom of a loaf pan with a strip of parchment paper. You'll need to make the piece of parchment long enough so that it goes well up the short sides of the loaf pan. This will give you something to pull on in order to release the caramel from the pan. Parchment being parchment, it will not settle easily into the pan and will kind of pop up when you try to put it in. To combat this little challenge, lay the parchment so that its natural curve from being rolled is working in your favor. I also spray the loaf pan first with Pam and this gives it something to adhere to. It will still pop up a little but should stay somewhat in place. Finally, don't fret too much because the weight of the caramel will push the parchment down when you pour it in. If anyone has a better trick for getting parchment to behave, give me a shout.
In a deep saucepan, stir together water, sugar and corn syrup. Bring to a boil over medium-high heat (you will continue boiling this mixture until it is a warm, golden, very slightly brownish color. Envision good, darkish honey.)
In the meantime, in a smaller pan, bring cream, butter and salt to a simmer over medium heat. Turn off heat. Don't let this boil over!!! Keep a careful eye on it or you will have a mess on your hands.
Once the sugar is golden, slightly brownish, add cream mixture to it. Be careful, it will bubble violently! (Doesn't this all sound so scary? Aren't you on the edge of your seat?) Add vanilla and cook on medium-low heat until your handy candy thermometer reads exactly 250 degrees F. Remove from heat immediately. (The higher the temp, the more solid the caramel will be.) Remember what I said from the get go--don't try to taste this unless you want to remove the lining of your tongue. Burning hot sugar is evil and dangerous.
Pour caramel into pan, let cool on the counter for a few minutes if you want, then carefully place it in the refrigerator. (Remember, too, that the pan may get hot, so you might want to use pot holders.) When cooled but still somewhat soft (like the consistency of those cubes of KRAFT caramel in the clear plastic wrap), turn caramel out of the pan. If you've cooled it too long, don't fret. Just leave it out for a while so it can soften up a little. Peel parchment off of the caramel. Then use a big, sharp, heavy knife to cut into squares. I like to make lots of little squares. Size is up to you, though. Throw these onto a rimmed baking sheet in a single layer, shake a tiny bit of salt over them if you desire (remember there is already salt in the caramel itself), then return to the refrigerator to cool completely. Meanwhile, round up any lazy teen or adult sitting around the house and have them help you cut up squares of parchment paper or aluminum foil. Then sit everyone down and spend about ten minutes wrapping each little caramel. If you use parchment, you can secure each with a rubber band. With foil, you can just pinch the ends so it looks like a fancy bonbon or wrap however you want and be done with it. I like to keep a little stash of these in the freezer for myself--each takes a lot longer to eat when it is rock hard. Fridge is good, too, when the weather is warm, so they don't get oozy and runny. I'm off to make another batch. Laytah.
Now, if you can deal with that very real risk, don't let this next slight hurdle hobble you: You're going to need a candy or high-temp instant read thermometer. I know. I know. That's one of those deal breakers that can knock any recipe off the "to cook" list for those of us who don't happen to be wearing a ruffled apron and working in a Fudge Shoppe. But for two years, I was stalked by this recipe for salted caramel that finally broke me and I now feel compelled to break you, too. Said recipe was given to me by a real estate agent down in Nashville by the name of Ms. Tori Stamps, who swore, in her buttery Tennessee-by-way-of-California accent, that this was the most "deeeeelicious, yuuuumy caaahhhhrmel evah and sooo aesy, tooooo." Miss Stamps never did get a sale out of us (that's a whole 'notha story) and finally stopped sending us log cabin listings. But that darned salted caramel kept pestering me every time I flipped open my "to try" recipe file. I'd look at it. I'd remember that monstrous slice of caramel cake I shared with Ms. Tori at a Leiper's Fork gas station My mouth would begin to water. And then I'd flip right past it because.... because....of that stupid thermometer.
Finally, while splurging on a shower liner at Bed Bath and Beyond, I bit the bullet and headed for the gadget aisle. And there it was. A big ol' candy thermometer emblazoned with all that "soft ball," "hard ball" gibberish. For $15, it--and the mysterious world of candy--was mine all mine. I rushed home, pulled out that dang recipe and got to work. Truth: Things were dicey at first. That thermometer thingy told me exactly what temp to cook the caramel to. But I still had to figure out the best time to cut the caramel. The easiest way to unmold it. And of course, there was that time I grabbed the loaf pan, which had become sizzling hot, and dropped the entire batch of caramel all over my kitchen floor and rug. (Miraculously it peeled off in one giant sheet. I came "this close" to wrapping myself in it.) But now, having made this stuff more times than I care to admit, I've got it down to, yes, a science. And I've developed a bonafide substance abuse problem. I never thought I'd reach the point in my life where I always had heavy cream in my fridge. But I'm there now. And with that one surprisingly long-lasting refrigerator item ever present, I am always at the ready to whip up a batch of Ms. Stamps' Tennessee Salted Caramel. Wrapped up in little foil or parchment squares, it's a fab hostess or thank you gift. Chucked it into a bowl, it's an awesome after dinner sweet. Hidden in the back corner of the freezer, it's the best pick-me up-possible without paying a visit to the pharmacist. Here are the deets. See ya at Weight Watchers!
1 1/2 cups sugar
1/4 cup water
1/4 cup light corn syrup
1 cup heavy cream
5 Tbsps. unsalted butter
1 tsp. fleur de sel (or sea or gray or kosher salt), plus a little extra for sprinkling
1/2 tsp. vanilla
Line bottom of a loaf pan with a strip of parchment paper. You'll need to make the piece of parchment long enough so that it goes well up the short sides of the loaf pan. This will give you something to pull on in order to release the caramel from the pan. Parchment being parchment, it will not settle easily into the pan and will kind of pop up when you try to put it in. To combat this little challenge, lay the parchment so that its natural curve from being rolled is working in your favor. I also spray the loaf pan first with Pam and this gives it something to adhere to. It will still pop up a little but should stay somewhat in place. Finally, don't fret too much because the weight of the caramel will push the parchment down when you pour it in. If anyone has a better trick for getting parchment to behave, give me a shout.
In a deep saucepan, stir together water, sugar and corn syrup. Bring to a boil over medium-high heat (you will continue boiling this mixture until it is a warm, golden, very slightly brownish color. Envision good, darkish honey.)
In the meantime, in a smaller pan, bring cream, butter and salt to a simmer over medium heat. Turn off heat. Don't let this boil over!!! Keep a careful eye on it or you will have a mess on your hands.
Once the sugar is golden, slightly brownish, add cream mixture to it. Be careful, it will bubble violently! (Doesn't this all sound so scary? Aren't you on the edge of your seat?) Add vanilla and cook on medium-low heat until your handy candy thermometer reads exactly 250 degrees F. Remove from heat immediately. (The higher the temp, the more solid the caramel will be.) Remember what I said from the get go--don't try to taste this unless you want to remove the lining of your tongue. Burning hot sugar is evil and dangerous.
Pour caramel into pan, let cool on the counter for a few minutes if you want, then carefully place it in the refrigerator. (Remember, too, that the pan may get hot, so you might want to use pot holders.) When cooled but still somewhat soft (like the consistency of those cubes of KRAFT caramel in the clear plastic wrap), turn caramel out of the pan. If you've cooled it too long, don't fret. Just leave it out for a while so it can soften up a little. Peel parchment off of the caramel. Then use a big, sharp, heavy knife to cut into squares. I like to make lots of little squares. Size is up to you, though. Throw these onto a rimmed baking sheet in a single layer, shake a tiny bit of salt over them if you desire (remember there is already salt in the caramel itself), then return to the refrigerator to cool completely. Meanwhile, round up any lazy teen or adult sitting around the house and have them help you cut up squares of parchment paper or aluminum foil. Then sit everyone down and spend about ten minutes wrapping each little caramel. If you use parchment, you can secure each with a rubber band. With foil, you can just pinch the ends so it looks like a fancy bonbon or wrap however you want and be done with it. I like to keep a little stash of these in the freezer for myself--each takes a lot longer to eat when it is rock hard. Fridge is good, too, when the weather is warm, so they don't get oozy and runny. I'm off to make another batch. Laytah.
Tuesday, January 3, 2012
Come and Get It! The 2011 Cookbook is Ready....
Happy New Year Everyone. Hope your holidays were peaceful. Not that you were all waiting on the edge of your seats, but there was no blog in December (as is the story every December), since I was updating my cookbook with this year's recipe additions.
It's ready to go now and I'm happy to share it. Just shoot me an email at pegSrosen@gmail.com and I'll send you the file. You can keep it on your computer or, if you find you like it, you can upload it to Staples or some other copy place and ask them to print it double sided. From there you can have them coil bind it and cover it with a clear plastic cover on front and solid plastic cover on back. Or, like some people do, you can have them three-hole punch it, so you can then slip the pages into a three ring binder. This way, you don't have to print the book every year but can simply print the new recipes (which I send in an additional attachment) and add them to your book.
I'm eager to hear from you and always welcome your recipe ideas, input and suggestions.
Best,
Peg
It's ready to go now and I'm happy to share it. Just shoot me an email at pegSrosen@gmail.com and I'll send you the file. You can keep it on your computer or, if you find you like it, you can upload it to Staples or some other copy place and ask them to print it double sided. From there you can have them coil bind it and cover it with a clear plastic cover on front and solid plastic cover on back. Or, like some people do, you can have them three-hole punch it, so you can then slip the pages into a three ring binder. This way, you don't have to print the book every year but can simply print the new recipes (which I send in an additional attachment) and add them to your book.
I'm eager to hear from you and always welcome your recipe ideas, input and suggestions.
Best,
Peg
Monday, November 7, 2011
Farro: The Official Food of Armageddon
What a crazy ass scene last week was. No power. Barely any school. Trees and downed wires blocking just about every other street. And Halloween not just once, but TWICE, thanks to someone's genius idea to cancel and reschedule it, but failure to get word out to the critical mass of treaters and treatees.
Yee ha! There were definite upsides to the whole thing, of course. It did bring out the best in most of us. So many people shared their homes and hearths, as well as their fridge and freezer space. And I think it's motivated most of us to just finally bite the bullet and buy a darned generator, since it looks like the weather is only going to get freakier from here on in. And lastly, my love affair with a certain farro became even more passionate.
If you're thinking that I've been getting busy with some ancient Egyptian tyrant, you not only need to check my spelling. You also have to get on the bandwagon with the rest of us who have raised farro--an ages-old Italian grain--to near-rock-star status in the U.S. these days. A little bit like barley, with a nice firm bite and slightly nutty taste, farro is actually an ancient variety of low-yield wheat that is high in fiber and--if you give a hoot, which I don't--low in gluten. It's showing up on restaurant menus and in cooking columns everywhere these days, adding chew to soups, body to stews and starring big-time in salads.
I'm even more smitten with my fair farro than I am with quinoa, which is saying a lot. Here's why: First: It's sturdier and starchier, without being too earthy, so my pasta-loving teenage boys not only eat it. They adore it. Second: It's a perfect side dish but is nutritious and satisfying enough to stand in as a main course when snuggled up to a gorgeous salad. And third: My favorite way of preparing farro is tailor-made for Armageddon cooking. All you need do is boil the darned stuff, toss it with some sauteed mushrooms and cheese and you're in business. What you end up with is a sort of dryish risotto, with a dose of fiber for good measure. I brought bags of farro up to Lake George this year and it it became our go-to stove-top meal when the wood was too wet to build a fire. And this week, when the power went out, I didn't have to think for even a second about what I was going to make for dinner. A little old match to light the stove and we'd be in business. Not just surviving but surviving deliciously and oh-so in style.
The only possiblly tricky thing about making farro is actually finding farro, and the right farro at that. I know, for example, that Whole Foods carries it, but the type they carry is a little too dark and earthy for my pasta-loving boys. My local Kings also has it, but again I'm not crazy about the brand. Our favorite farro is the semi-pearled variety that goes under the no-frills Roland brand, which Fairway carries, as do numerous web retailers. Because it's semi-pearled, this type doesn't deliver as much fiber as the whole grain farro. But it's got a less oatsy-groatsy texture and taste to it, which is what lures my kids in. You choose whichever kind turns you on. My mother-in-law regularly ferries farro out to us from the Upper West Side. And my girfriend Gail (who turned me on to farro in the first place) is always happy to plop a few bags on my doorstep after one of her sojourns to the Fairway on Rte. 17. Make a few calls and see who carries it in your neighborhood. Then fill up your cupboard and sigh with relief. Armageddon may come. But you'll know what to serve!
Gail's Perfect Farro
1 17-ounce bag semi-pearled farro (preferably Roland brand)
1 basket fresh cremini mushrooms, cleaned and sliced up (white button fine, too)
2 cloves garlic, minced
3 Tbs. olive oil
1 Tbs. or so fresh chopped herbs of your choice (I usually substitute 1/2 tsp. dried herbs de Provence)
1/2 cup or so dry white wine (I just tip in whatever I'm drinking at the moment)
1/2-3/4 cup grated Parmesan or Romano cheese (or even more, to taste)
Bring a big pot of lightly salted water to a boil. While the water is doing its thing, heat large skillet over medium flame. Add olive oil to the skillet. When the oil is warm (but not too hot), add garlic and saute until soft. Add mushrooms and herbs and saute all of this until it cooks down. Add wine, bring to a gentle boil and allow to reduce so there is about a tablespoon or two of liquid left in pan. Off heat.
Now, dump the whole bag of farro into the boiling water. Boil for about 21-23 minutes, testing every so often for doneness. When cooked perfectly, farro is tender but still offers a little bit of resistance when you chew it through. It shouldn't be hard, though. Drain farro and return it to the pot you boiled it in. Do not turn flame back on. Now, dump the mushroom mixture and its liquid into the pot with farro, along with the parmesan cheese. Stir it all up. Add more cheese, as well as salt and pepper, to taste. Serve with roast chicken or all on its own with a big salad of bitter greens, diced bosc pear, crumbled gorgonzola and a dijon mustard vinaigrette. As a main dish, one bag of farro should serve about 4. As a side, you'll have plenty leftover for another night.
Yee ha! There were definite upsides to the whole thing, of course. It did bring out the best in most of us. So many people shared their homes and hearths, as well as their fridge and freezer space. And I think it's motivated most of us to just finally bite the bullet and buy a darned generator, since it looks like the weather is only going to get freakier from here on in. And lastly, my love affair with a certain farro became even more passionate.
If you're thinking that I've been getting busy with some ancient Egyptian tyrant, you not only need to check my spelling. You also have to get on the bandwagon with the rest of us who have raised farro--an ages-old Italian grain--to near-rock-star status in the U.S. these days. A little bit like barley, with a nice firm bite and slightly nutty taste, farro is actually an ancient variety of low-yield wheat that is high in fiber and--if you give a hoot, which I don't--low in gluten. It's showing up on restaurant menus and in cooking columns everywhere these days, adding chew to soups, body to stews and starring big-time in salads.
I'm even more smitten with my fair farro than I am with quinoa, which is saying a lot. Here's why: First: It's sturdier and starchier, without being too earthy, so my pasta-loving teenage boys not only eat it. They adore it. Second: It's a perfect side dish but is nutritious and satisfying enough to stand in as a main course when snuggled up to a gorgeous salad. And third: My favorite way of preparing farro is tailor-made for Armageddon cooking. All you need do is boil the darned stuff, toss it with some sauteed mushrooms and cheese and you're in business. What you end up with is a sort of dryish risotto, with a dose of fiber for good measure. I brought bags of farro up to Lake George this year and it it became our go-to stove-top meal when the wood was too wet to build a fire. And this week, when the power went out, I didn't have to think for even a second about what I was going to make for dinner. A little old match to light the stove and we'd be in business. Not just surviving but surviving deliciously and oh-so in style.
The only possiblly tricky thing about making farro is actually finding farro, and the right farro at that. I know, for example, that Whole Foods carries it, but the type they carry is a little too dark and earthy for my pasta-loving boys. My local Kings also has it, but again I'm not crazy about the brand. Our favorite farro is the semi-pearled variety that goes under the no-frills Roland brand, which Fairway carries, as do numerous web retailers. Because it's semi-pearled, this type doesn't deliver as much fiber as the whole grain farro. But it's got a less oatsy-groatsy texture and taste to it, which is what lures my kids in. You choose whichever kind turns you on. My mother-in-law regularly ferries farro out to us from the Upper West Side. And my girfriend Gail (who turned me on to farro in the first place) is always happy to plop a few bags on my doorstep after one of her sojourns to the Fairway on Rte. 17. Make a few calls and see who carries it in your neighborhood. Then fill up your cupboard and sigh with relief. Armageddon may come. But you'll know what to serve!
Gail's Perfect Farro
1 17-ounce bag semi-pearled farro (preferably Roland brand)
1 basket fresh cremini mushrooms, cleaned and sliced up (white button fine, too)
2 cloves garlic, minced
3 Tbs. olive oil
1 Tbs. or so fresh chopped herbs of your choice (I usually substitute 1/2 tsp. dried herbs de Provence)
1/2 cup or so dry white wine (I just tip in whatever I'm drinking at the moment)
1/2-3/4 cup grated Parmesan or Romano cheese (or even more, to taste)
Bring a big pot of lightly salted water to a boil. While the water is doing its thing, heat large skillet over medium flame. Add olive oil to the skillet. When the oil is warm (but not too hot), add garlic and saute until soft. Add mushrooms and herbs and saute all of this until it cooks down. Add wine, bring to a gentle boil and allow to reduce so there is about a tablespoon or two of liquid left in pan. Off heat.
Now, dump the whole bag of farro into the boiling water. Boil for about 21-23 minutes, testing every so often for doneness. When cooked perfectly, farro is tender but still offers a little bit of resistance when you chew it through. It shouldn't be hard, though. Drain farro and return it to the pot you boiled it in. Do not turn flame back on. Now, dump the mushroom mixture and its liquid into the pot with farro, along with the parmesan cheese. Stir it all up. Add more cheese, as well as salt and pepper, to taste. Serve with roast chicken or all on its own with a big salad of bitter greens, diced bosc pear, crumbled gorgonzola and a dijon mustard vinaigrette. As a main dish, one bag of farro should serve about 4. As a side, you'll have plenty leftover for another night.
Tuesday, September 20, 2011
Feeling a Little Jumpy?
If you live in San Francisco, Boston, or a handful of other cities that have caught onto the trampoline park craze, you have a handy new outlet for your frenetic energy. The rest of us, alas, will have to stick with Xanax or primal screams until one of these massive rubber rooms comes to a warehouse or airplane hangar near us.
Personally, when I got wind that there was someplace a person could literally bounce off the walls, I couldn't entertain the idea of waiting. So when the family headed out this summer to San Francisco, a session at House of Air was the second reservation I made. (If you know me, you can probably guess what the first one was.)
I kept my machinations a secret. All Paul and the boys knew was that on Day 2 of our trip, I was frantically pushing them to ride faster on the bikes we'd rented at Fisherman's Wharf because we had to "be somewhere" in the Presidio by 3 PM. Super annoyed does not describe the tude I was getting from them. Add "confused" to the mix when we rolled up to House of Air and they saw people popping in and out of sight beneath the roof of what looked like (and indeed might well have been) an enormous wall-less airplane hangar. When I walked them in and they spotted the near-endless sea of contiguous trampolines underfoot, their heads nearly spun off their bodies.
We plunked down $16 per person for our hour in the air. Signed waivers, the gist of which was, I believe, that if we broke our necks or ankles, it was our problem. Donned cute little rubber shoes. And headed to the open jumping section, where "air traffic controllers" kept potential mayhem at bay. We joined the ranks of about 30 hoppers of all ages and shapes, ranging from a group of 8-year-old girls popping about one inch in the air to a 20-year-old guy doing flips from an elevated launch pad to a jiggle-bellied Zach Galifianakis lookalike who bounced back and forth across the length of the room in a trancelike state for the entire hour.
Paul and the boys quickly abandoned this scene when they learned that a game of trampoline dodgeball was about to get underway in another massive jumping bin across the way. They never bothered to come back, except to laugh at me as I jumped up and down, up and down, up and down, up and down. "It's great for core strength!," a 22-ish air traffic controller bubbled to me as I bopped along. "You burn the same amount of calories during 10 minutes of trampoline jumping that you do running for a half hour! That's 1000 calories an hour!" she raved.
Maybe. I had broken a sweat by the time the buzzer rang, but I sure didn't feel like I had run my usual route or taken a spin class. I might have gotten more of a workout if I had had taken one of HOA's organized "air conditioning" classes, but perhaps next time. As for joint and bone health, that's even iffier. Already, law firms and orthopedists are doing business with jumpers who have suffered trampoline park injuries ranging from head trauma to dislocated shoulders to broken arms and ankles. One venue in Illinois had 16 ambulance visits within just the first months of doing business.
Paraplegia was hardly on my boys' minds when our hour at House of Air was up. In fact, they declared their rubbery interlude one of, if not, THE highlight of their trip along the California Coast (really? Not Big Sur? Not those 1000 -year-old redwoods? Not Chez Panisse?). And I'll bet that if Chelsea Piers were to open up one of these places, it would become the toast of New York's exercise and kiddie party circuit. At least until someone sued their asses off. In the meantime, if you happen to visit San Francisco, a pitstop at House of Air during a bike ride up to the Golden Gate Bridge might be a risk worth taking. And a decent way to burn off all those California eats.
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
Now....Some Good News from Greece
Greeks may not know how to manage their economy but they make one hell of a good cucumber and tomato salad. And it's only somewhat recently that I've learned why the "Greek salad" my decidedly nonGreek mom has always made tastes nothing like the ones I've devoured over in the land of Athena.
Thanks goes to my sister Jamie, who married a Greek guy and let me in on the secret a few years ago. Here it is: When her Greek friends and relatives make their horiatiki (as the salad is called), they DON'T use vinegar. Not one little drop. It may sound crazy to U.S. salad eaters, who can barely utter the word "oil" without attaching the words "and vinegar" when they are talking about dressing. But it's the god's honest truth. Instead, they rely on the ripest, juiciest, buxomest summer tomatoes to provide the perfect acid foil to the fruitiest, fullest extra virgin olive oil they can get their hands on. Then they top everything off with REAL feta....not the bland white crumbly stuff that tastes more like a pencil eraser than a piece of cheese. But good, gamey Greek (or French or Romanian) feta that actually tastes like it came from a warm, furry, grass-munching animal.
Mid-January, when tomatoes taste and feel like cotton batting and cucumbers are bitter and limp, is decidedly NOT the ideal time to make this salad, which hinges on peak-of-flavor ingredients. But right this minute absolutely is---you may even have your own bumper crop of cukes and tomatoes that you're wondering what the heck you'll do with. Or a green market in town that's more than happy to shower you with fresh-grown goods. Decent feta cheese is a little harder to come by: Sometimes I can find a fair rendition in the "fancy" cheese case at the local supermarket. Cheese shops are a far better bet. Surprisingly, I've also been able to pick up a tub of pretty good Greek-style feta at my local Costco. Pitted Kalamata olives are also relatively easy to find these days. If my pathetic A&P sells 'em bottled, chances are your supermarket does, too. Greeks also love to sprinkle in roughly chopped caper leaves, which are sold in little brine-filled bottles. I love these little things so much, they and a box of my favorite baklava were the only thing I asked my mom to bring back for me when she visited my sister last May. Be assured, your horiataki will survive very well without these little leaves. But if you are ever at International Foods behind the Port Authority in NYC or some other Greek speciality shop and espy little bottles of caper leaves, by all means grab a bottle. And snag one for me, too!
Here's the recipe. It's very loose--you can adjust the ratio of tomatoes, cukes, and peppers based on your personal preferences. My son Ben isn't a huge green pepper fan so I usually go lighter with them. Fresh oregano is a really nice touch but not a must. When I'm throwing together this salad for my family and I don't have any on hand or in my herb pot, I sprinkle on the dry and it's fine. The amounts I'm giving you here are what I use to serve my family of four. You can just up quantities if you are preparing horiataki for a crowd (which I do scarily often during the summer).
2-3 cucumbers, peeled, seeded, and cut into chunks
3-4 ripe, juicy, beautiful tomatoes, cut into chunks
1 or 2 green peppers, cut into chunks
1/2 cup pitted Kalamata olives (or to taste)
1 Tbs. (or more) capers
2 Tbs. fresh, chopped oregano or 1 scant tsp. dried (or to taste)
3-4 Tbs. (or to taste), fruity, yummy extra virgin olive oil (Greek olive oil is fantastic)
4 ounces excellent feta (or to taste)
salt and pepper to taste
Gently toss together the cukes, tomatoes, green pepper, and olives in a big, pretty bowl. Sprinkle on capers, then crumble feta over the top, and then sprinkle on the oregano and some generous grinds of pepper. If you are prepping in advance, you can stow the salad in the fridge at this point, but be sure to let it warm up to room temp before you serve it. If you aren't prepping too far in advance, keep your tomatoes, cukes, and peppers on the counter at room temp until you are ready to make the salad and serve the salad at room temp. The flavors sing so much more beautifully when the veggies aren't ice-box cold. Just before serving, drizzle salad with enough olive oil to moisten well, then salt to taste. Kali Orexi!
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
Heat Wave Lemon Chiffon Cake
I know that citrus is a winter thing and that we're all supposed to be fawning over strawberries right now, but there is just something about lemon that says "summer" to me. It's bracing, refreshing--sort of like a culinary air-conditioner. And nothing screams louder to me on a balmy evening than a slice of this luscious-yet-light lemon chiffon cake. I baked three of them this holiday weekend and still am not tired of it.
I tore the recipe for this beauty out of some magazine while I was languishing in the waiting room at my gyno's office years ago. I kept it in my recipe folder for probably a year and never got around to making the cake, however, because I couldn't get past the fact that the recipe used oil instead of butter. And you know how I feel about butter and baking. One afternoon, when I had absolutely nothing in the house and I needed to bring a cake for some occasion, I whipped this cake up. It was so extraordinary I was stunned. I think four people asked me for the recipe that very night. I've made it countless times since and it never fails to turn out fabulously--moist, moist, moist, delicate, and positively regal looking. I can't recommend it enough.
If you've never baked a chiffon cake, be not afraid. It really isn't tough at all to pull off. You will, however, need a few key tools: An angel food cake pan or a tube pan with removable bottom, something to whip up those egg whites, cream of tartar (which you can and will buy at your local supermarket even if you have always been mystified and just a little intimidated by it because you don't know what the heck it does), and the courage to turn your pretty cake upside down in order to let it cool properly. Oh, and one more thing: You'll need to stay just a little bit humble when everyone swoons all over you and tells you what an amazing cake you've baked. Here's the 411:
Cake:
2 cups flour
1 1/2 cups sugar
1 Tbsp. Baking powder
1 tsp. Salt
3/4 cups water
7 egg yolks
1/2 cup vegetable oil
Grated zest of 2 lemons
2 tsp. Vanilla
8 egg whites
1/2 tsp. Cream of tartar
Icing:
1 1/2 cups confectioners' sugar
2 Tbsp. Plus 1 tsp. Fresh lemon juice
2 Tbsp. Melted butter, cooled to tepid
1 tsp. Grated lemon zest
1/2-3/4 cup sweetened, shredded coconut (utterly optional)
To make the cake: Preheat the oven to 325. In a large bowl, combine the flour, sugar, baking powder, and salt. Make a well in the center; add the water, egg yolks, oil, lemon zest, and vanilla. Whisk the dry ingredients into the yolk mixture until the batter is blended and smooth. Set aside.
In a large mixer bowl, beat the egg whites and the cream of tartar at medium-low speed until foamy. Gradually increase the speed to high and beat the whites until stiff (but not dry) peaks form. Gently fold 1/3 of the beaten egg whites into the batter with a rubber spatula just until blended. Fold in the remaining whites just until combined. Pour the batter into an UNGREASED 10-inch tube pan (I use a tube pan with a removable bottom.)
Bake 1 hour, or until the top springs back when lightly touched with a fingertip and a cake tester inserted into the center comes out clean. Immediately invert the cake, still in the pan, onto the neck of a wine bottle or a large funnel. I personally set my cake to cool on three, stout overturned juice glasses. Cool completely.
To make the icing: In a medium bowl, whisk together the ingredients until smooth.
Remove the cake pan from the bottle or lift from inverted juice glasses and turn right side up. Run a long, thin knife around both edges of the cake pan. Transfer cake to a serving plate and remove the pan. (If you are using a tube pan with a removable bottom, lift cake out by the cone of the pan, invert over a serving plate, run knife around the bottom of the cake to release.) Spread the icing gently on top of the cake, allowing some of the glaze to drip down the sides. If you are a coconut fan (which I am) press generous amounts of coconut onto the top of the icing and sprinkle a little around the serving dish. Expect compliments.
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