Have a BOO-rgie Halloween!

Halloween is almost here, and that means jack o' lanterns. And what do all jack o' lanterns, big or small, jolly or frightful, traditional or bourgie, have in common? Pumpkin Seeds. If you're anything like me, you only eat them once a year; they are a flavorful treat that tells me Halloween has begun and kicks off the fall/winter holiday season.

Meet Vincenzo Humunculati and Humunculotte Lenya, the jack o' lanterns that so selflessly gave their insides, their organs and guts, to give me a little nosh in late October. These pumpkins, despite their size, and webbings of pumpkin goo, did not actually have too many seeds, but after rinsing and separating goo from pumpkin seed, I was left with about one cup of seeds to roast and eat with glee.

This year I swayed a bit from the traditional roasted pumpkin seed with plain Kosher salt, and went for something new, something a bit spicy, something to make Vincenzo and Humuculotte proud, Spicy Roasted Pumpkin Seeds. Just as easy as the traditional, with just a handful of ingredients, these pumpkin seeds are warm, a tad piquant, and all together delicious.

Spicy Roasted Pumpkin Seeds

1 cup raw pumpkin seeds
juice of 1 lime
1/2 teaspoon Kosher salt
1 1/2 teaspoons ground cumin

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees. In a large bowl, toss the pumpkin seeds, lime, salt, and cumin well to coat evenly. Place the seeds on a large cookie sheet, and bake, tossing frequently to make sure the seeds don't scorch, for approximately 20 minutes. Seeds should be fragrant, and toasty brown.

Happy Halloween!

Tuna a la Bourgie

I have problems with the ordinary tuna fish sandwich. It is as if all of my food taboos come crashing together in one hand-held mass. Traditional tuna fish can be a globulous, mushy, mayo-filled nightmare, and I just won't have it! It's true, I have a problem with mayonnaise. Maybe it's the Jew in me. So the traditional tuna fish sandwich is out, but that doesn't mean I have a problem with tuna itself. In fact, I kind of like the stuff, especially in a Tuna Fish Sandwich a la Bourgie.

This is a tuna sandwich with a decidedly Mediterranean bent. Fish packed in olive oil make all the difference. Yes, it is a bit more expensive, but for these few dollars more you get a fresher tasting, more palatable product. It takes the fishiness out of a tuna fish sandwich. Chopped olives, Greek or green, give the sandwich some needed color, and add to the briny flavor. And finally, some finely minced, fresh jalapenos, give this lunchtime treat a piquant kick.

The sandwich is meant to have a bit of heat; so the jalapenos are necessary. But most of the heat in a pepper comes from the seeds and ribs, not the actual flesh. I like my sandwich to be moderately spicy, so I use a pepper and a half, minus the seeds. But is you are a heat fanatic, go ahead and chuck in the entire pepper. It is important to taste jalapeno peppers for spiciness before cooking with them. I have had jalapenos that almost taste like an ordinary green pepper, and others that will blow your head off. The only way to know what your cooking with, is to taste a little bit raw.

Finally, the sandwich is topped with slices of hard-boiled egg, and nestled upon a bed of peppery arugula. This sandwich is best served on a fresh baguette, to round out a perfect meal. If you are ready to try something new, the recipe for Tuna a la Bourgie is on the Daily Specials page.

Pudding Please

After my latest delectable baking experience, I was left with a conundrum of vast proportions. What to do with the scraps of cake left behind when cutting the diminutive babycakes from the sheet-cake sized pan? The cake was moist, delightfully sunny in color, toasty brown on the edges, and simply crying out for something to be done with the scraps. It only took a moment, before the bits of cake were piled into a Ziploc bag, and I knew they were destined for something comforting and delicious, Cake Pudding.

I love bread pudding, except when it has raisins in it. Dried fruit should be kept to trail mixes. So why not use scraps of cake (thankfully with no raisins), those wonderfully crisp edges that have settled in the corners of the pan, instead of the bread, for cake pudding. Now I know, this isn't a dessert that can be made often, because really, how often does one have piles of unfrosted cake with which to assemble it? But the next time you find yourself with left-overs from one sweet dessert-- why not make another?

I left my cake scraps to sit for a few days, while I was finishing and digesting the babycakes, I didn't want to overload on decadence. At the market, I caught the last of the late harvest peaches, peeled, sliced and added to the pudding, they were a tasty foil for the richness of the custard. I made a simple, unsweetened custard, figuring there was enough sweetness in the cake alone, popped the pudding in the oven, and in a half hour I was tucking in to the ultimate comfort food. The cake pudding was surprisingly not too sweet, yet warm, and silky smooth in texture. And I felt very industrious (even though truly I am not) to be able to bake two tantalizing desserts from one recipe for a basic yellow cake.

Everything's Better with Butter...Cream

My uncle used to be a chef. He worked for a catering company in the 80's. On his last visit, we were chatting about the work he used to do, hors d'oeuvre de riguer, and monstrous brides. Somewhere in this same conversation we were discussing wedding cakes, and he mentioned that apricot buttercream was all of the rage in the 80's. Apricot buttercream? Why that sounds delicious! How did such a delicious combination of butter, powdered sugar, and apricot preserves ever fall out of favor? Why aren't people making huge vats of apricot buttercream and frosting everything in sight? This delightful concoction was something I had to try.

Now longtime readers know that I claim to not be much of a baker, but I love a little something sweet on an almost daily basis. And while I might not be a baker of grandiose proportions, I do have an active imagination, an imagination that dreams of creating adorable confections that lead me to semi-homemade creations of the week.

In my book, there is nothing wrong with using a cake mix from time to time. In fact, there are people out there (you know who you are, and wave your cheating flag high) who have never made a cake entirely from scratch. While cake from a mix is fine, homemade frosting is truly delicious, easy to make, and will bring the cake from an average, perfectly acceptable dessert to a stupendous, dreamy sweet of immense proportions.

How about some Babycakes with Apricot Buttercream and Chocolate Ganache? Bigger than a petit-fours yet smaller than a slice of cake, these cakes feel all the more special because they are individual, self-contained units. It's like receiving your very own diminutive cake for dessert. With a biscuit cutter, simply cut out individual rounds from a standard sheet cake. Slice the rounds in two, fill with the homemade buttercream of your choice, and spoon luscious, rich chocolate ganache over the top. I adorned each babycake with a single candy violet, for both color, and the crispy, perfume-like flavor.

There is something so delightfully greedy, and self-indulgent about having a babycake versus a slice of actual cake for dessert. Both are charming and decidedly sweet, but only one is well...bourgie. So go ahead, all you cheaters out there (me included), mix up a batch of buttercream, and go to town.

Pop Goes the Citrus

It's October. A wonderful month, when you can actually see the change of seasons as fallen leaves crunch beneath your feet. The scarf that is hanging on the hook by the front door beckons you to grab it, and tie it snuggly around your neck, and the end of the month with all of its "BOO'S," costumes, and enough candy to rot the teeth right out of your head, is just a few short weeks away. Yes, I love Halloween. Alas, I do not dress up anymore, but I remember my costumes fondly: Lucille Ball, with a giant orange wig; the Futuristic Girl, with a silver skirt a la Judy Jetson; and the requisite Black Cat, leotard and all.

With all of the candy lining the grocer's shelves, it got me thinking about my favorites; Candy Corn, sweetly striped; Russell Stover's marshmallow pumpkins; and those hard bricks of bright pink popcorn that my mother and I devoured every year. It wasn't that my mother was junk food junkie, nor was she a health fanatic, she just has a soft spot for brightly colored, Halloween candy. It's becoming harder and harder to find those leaden bricks of sugary confections, and they are not something I should probably eat anyway, with the money I have sunk into proper orthodonture work, but there are times when I get a hankering for the salty-sweet goodness of popcorn and a bit of sugar.

And so I give you Citrus Scented Popcorn. Making your own popcorn is easy, and it can be adorned any which way that you choose. For pennies on the dollar you can eat piles of this demurely sweet snack food, and save the worry about going to the dentist for another day. I jest, this popcorn is perfect-- not too sweet, just a bit salty, and flavored with fresh orange zest, it is decidedly fresh in flavor. Made in October, it's quite festive too. If you have a hankering for crunchy citrus, go to the Daily Specials page.

Boo!

Homemade Nooks and Crannies Please

I never knew how easy it is to make English Muffins for yourself, perhaps even easier (or at least less rising time is called for) than when you are making a loaf of bread. Recently I brought out my sourdough starter, a few hours later, and a after bit of muscle-building kneading, I had a dozen English Muffins. Chewy on the inside, crisp on the outside, tart with sourdough, and with nooks and crannies to put Mr. Thomas to shame, my English Muffins made me feel like a real baker, which we all know I am not.

English muffins are not baked like a loaf of bread, rather they are made on the stovetop, and take a matter of minutes to cook. After the initial, size-doubling rise, the dough is flattened into a square, about one half of an inch high. This dough is then cut, with a circular cookie cutter, or even a large drinking glass, the rings are set on corn meal, and allowed to rise for 15 minutes. After these minutes have passed, preheat a cast iron, or other heavy bottomed skillet for 5 minutes over medium-low heat. Then coat the skillet in a few tablespoons of corn meal, place the still doughy muffins into the pan, and cook away.

The English Muffins should take about 7 minutes per side; they will develop a chewy, bubbly crust, and will no longer be tacky to the touch. What is so amazing about the baking of English Muffins, is that you actually see the baking process, unlike in an oven. You see the muffin puffing up, the webbings of dough forming, the crust actually browning, and unlike baking bread, you can taste the fruits of your labor almost immediately.

And really, what could be bourgier than an English Muffin? They are a like a blank canvas, calling out for which ever decadent toppings you choose. You have the basics, butter, honey, or jam, but what about a poached egg, gorgonzola cheese and slices of fresh, grainy pear, for a late night snack? The possibilities are endless. English Muffins can be made with virtually any kind of bread of dough, sourdough, basic white, or a heartier whole grain. Simply follow the instructions listed above, and you too will be reveling in nooks and crannies in no time.

Liquor Me Up!

I'm having a sweet, delicious, and greasy doughnut makin' party this weekend, and I have been racking my brain about the beverage situation. What is the ideal beverage to serve along aside doughnuts? The answer of course is coffee. But how do you make coffee alcoholic, thus making it appropriate for a soiree? Kahlua of course. And what about making your own coffee liquer? Well, it can be done in a matter of moments, will make your house smell scrumptious, and get your tastebuds appropriately percolating.

When making flavored alcohol at home, the cheaper the better. No Grey Goose, or even Smirnoff vodka here, just VODKA, the kind that comes in a plastic jug and is hidden at the bottom of the shelf at the liquor store. You want the liquor to be absolutely flavorless; that way it will take on the flavors with which you are infusing it.

Mixed with cream and served over ice, or splashed in coffee, this coffee flavored liquer will add another homespun dimension to the festivities. Made with instant coffee and a handful of other ingredients, this liquer is hardly rocket science, but it is tasty. Think of it as alcoholic diner coffee.

Coffee Flavored Liquer

3 cups water
3 cups sugar
2/3 cup instant coffee
2 cups vodka
2 teaspoons vanilla extract

In a large saucepan, combine water, sugar, and instant coffee. Bring mixture to a boil, and simmer for 5 minutes. Remove from heat, and cool to room temperature. Stir in the vodka and the vanilla extract, pour into bottles, and store at room temperature.

Figs, Figs, and More Figs

I have always loved figs. I have just loved them in varying degrees. When I was young I used to stand at the kitchen sink with my mother, turning each fresh fig inside out, gazing at the hundreds of greasy eyeballs that were the flesh staring back at me, then scraping this flesh clean with my front teeth, and discarding the peel. Time-consuming, and labor-intensive yes, but I didn't like the skins. To me, fig skin was like peach skin-- you could eat it, but why would you want to? Leathery, and almost fuzzy, I left the skin, and precious bits of flesh alone. But I have grown, seen the error of my ways, and one day I just began gobbling up the entire fig, skin and all, and since that time I have never looked back.

And with that introduction, I give you Broiled Figs. Now in order to enjoy this dish, it is necessary to eat up the entire fig-- so finicky eaters beware. What could be better than ripe, warm fruit? Broiling fruit used to be somewhat in fashion. I remember my mother serving a broiled half grapefruit, with sugar and butter, as a starter at dinner parties. Well, broiled figs are the same concept. Simply slice the fruit in half, place in pan, flesh side up, top with lumps of brown sugar, and a sprinkling of cinnamon, and broil for 4-6 minutes. The figs will begin to fall apart, the sugar will carmelize, and pools of delectable cinnamony fig juice will settle in the pan.

Now I know that adding sugar to a fresh, ripe fig, may seem to be gilding the lily, but in this case I say-- gild away. Revel in the decadence of this dish while you still can. Enjoy the charred crispness of the fig skin, and the pillow soft texture of the flesh. In fact, this dish is even ideal for less than perfectly ripe figs. When the fig has too much resistance to be eaten raw and unadorned, it can still be the ideal fruit to package in crisp sugar, and broil to perfection. Broiling only intensifies an already perfect fruit. Give these charred wonders a try as an accompaniment to your next weekend brunch. With a soft-boiled egg, and a piece of tart sourdough toast, what could be finer?