Flippin' It

Most of the time I am a thin pancake girl. Almost crispy around the edges, eggy and delightful in the center, and cooked all the way through, yes, when it comes to pancakes I definitely play favorites. Growing up my mom would make delicious, silver dollar, banana pancakes. All of the ingredients were whirred around in a blender. Then she poured neat, silver dollar circles onto a hot griddle and fried us up a Sunday morning treat.

When I made the move to New York there were some things that got left behind, because my new New York kitchen was substantially smaller than my California kitchen. One of the appliances that got left behind was a standard blender. (Don't worry, I kept the much more convenient handheld, immersion blender.) I haven't missed the standard blender, but last weekend I got a craving for banana pancakes and the loss was surely felt. But ignoring the twinge of loss, I decided to make a new banana pancake. I cast aside my skinny propensity.

I made a light and fluffy pancake batter, by separating the eggs, and whipping the whites. Then I added a bit of flour, some milk, and a spoonful of sugar. Slicing the bananas into 1/4 inch disks, I then readied my handy-dandy, cast-iron skillet. Pouring in the pancake batter, hearing the sizzle of the liquid against the scorching metal, maintaining the silver dollar size, I then laid the banana disks on top, gently pressing them into the batter. Then comes the fry and flip, not only to complete the cooking process, but to brown the bananas up nicely.

And you know what? My chubby cakes were a delight! The bananas had just enough time to toast and caramelize. They were warmed through, with a delectable, soft texture. All of the sugars within the fruit concentrated and I was left with pure banana essence. The batter was ethereal, and pleasantly bland, the perfect vehicle for a bit of caramelized banana. Who knows, I may just have to rethink my thin pancake prejudices after all...

I Can't Get Over O-O-O Ovaltine!

When was the last time that you had some Ovaltine? Well I can tell you, for me, it had been ages, years, perhaps even decades. As I get older, I am just not much of a milk drinker, and yes, I know about calcium, bone density, etc. But... I don't drink much milk, and that means I have rather forgotten about malted milk powders, or other items that you mix into milk. Shame on me. I had forgotten about one of the most delicious aspects of being a child. That is until, while glancing through Donna Hay's Modern Classics 2, I stumbled upon her recipe for Malted Oat and Raisin Biscuits.

I ran out to buy a jar of Ovaltine, and the memories came flooding back. In elementary school, my best friend was a classmate named Julie. We had the sort of pure friendship that only exists between children. No petty jealousies, never a cruel word, and no ulterior motives (kind of makes you long for those days, doesn't it?). Together we would play for hours: veterinary clinic with her stuffed animals, browsing through her mother's closet, or playing Frogger on her ancient Mac Classic (am I dating myself?). One day we found an old silver-plated tea service, in her linen closet. We cleaned and polished it, and Julie not being a big fan of tea, offered hot cocoa, made with Ovaltine, as the contents of the tea pot. This was the last time I remember consuming that chocolatey, rich beverage.

So when I saw this recipe, enriched with malted milk powder, I knew it was for me. By American standards, where a biscuit differs from a cookie in taste and texture, these were aptly named. Crisp, and on the thinner side, these biscuits had a pleasing texture from the addition of oats. And the malted milk powder added a richness and depth of flavor that can't be achieved by plain flour alone.

If you are anything like me, and are a lover of dessert items for breakfast (pie, for example is an early morning dream!), these biscuits are ideal. Not overly sweet, with a little bit of fruit from the raisins, some whole grains from the oats, and an awful lotta' carbohydrates from the biscuit itself, they made for a well-balanced breakfast. If you would like a little treat in the morning, or anytime for that matter, the recipe for these malted biscuits is on the Daily Specials page.

Salad Part II

I can't resist. I have explained my new salad fixation; so yes, Brian and I have been eating quite a lot of them lately. And the latest incarnation, is my favorite type of salad to make: a very green, non-lettuce variety, enriched with imported tuna, packed in olive oil. Fresh, rich, the 3 Bean Salad of my dreams.

How could I not make a 3 Bean Salad when these beautiful, bright pink, shelling, or cranberry beans were lying in piles at the market? They were calling me to take them home, peel off their racy outer coat, and simmer to my heart's content.

But 3 Bean Salad? How gauche. And salad again? Well, you might say that I am a bit homesick; and you can blame the fixation on heredity. You see the fixations with food are nothing out of the ordinary for my father. I guess you could say he is a creature of habit. Some may call it repetition, but my father just calls it routine. The food fixations have been rather simple. Sliced white sandwich bread, never toasted, yet slathered with butter, or in the summer, fresh, ripe tomatoes sprinkled with salt and a grinding of pepper, and in the winter, soups made almost into stews, by crumbling in soda crackers, and letting them set and soak up the broth, all of these things have at one time or another been a part of his routine.

And yes, he too had a salad fixation, and a 3 Bean Salad fixation at that. But dad's three beans came strictly from the deli. Garbanzo, kidney, and green beans, drowning in a sea of vinegary brine, were de rigueur just a few short years ago. As much as I love my dad, and miss him now that we live 3,000 miles apart, his 3 Bean Salad, kind of turned my stomach. But the bourgie 3 Bean Salad I could do.

Fresh fava beans, cranberry beans, and green beans, cut into bite-sized pieces, were all cooked and prepared individually. Toss in some croutons, fresh from the oven, chunks of the tuna, and a lemony Dijon vinaigrette (heavy on the acids), and there you have my 3 Bean Salad. I guess when it comes to salads, in theory, the apple doesn't fall far from the tree.

Salad in a Panic

What do you do when all of sudden it's September, and you just feel fall coming? It's dark now by 7:30, there are no more cherries in the market, nor apricots, and there is actually a chill in the air when the sun goes down. Yes, fall is a-comin'. And I think I am ready for it. I actually love autumn, the change from the sweltering days of summer, to the frosty days of winter. Those nubby sweaters packed away in my closet are looking more and more tempting.

But every summer I feel a little sorrow. As much as I love those hearty autumn squash, and root veg in all its many incarnations, it is tough to say so long to my beloved berries and stone fruit. It throws me into a bit of a panic. And when I get thrown into this panic I begin to cook. Some people need a stiff drink, I just need a Santoku knife and a saucepan. So here I am trying to cook the foods that exemplify the summer, a little late in the season, and that to me means semi-not cooking-- or making a salad.

There were beautiful little, pimply Kirby cucumbers at the market, a small bunch of shockingly pink radishes, and a crisp red onion. That spells summer salad to me. Now sure, I could simply make a neatly chopped salad from these three ingredients. But I needed substance. I needed lentils-- French lentils to be exact. Substantial, nutty yet mild in flavor, these lentils hold up well during the cooking process, giving the salad the body that I craved.

Simmered for half an hour in some chicken broth and whole garlic, the lentils were buttery and smooth. Mixed in with crispness of radish, the crunch of the cucumber, the punch of the red onion, and the tang of a homemade Dijon mustard-Balsamic vinaigrette, this salad was the perfect antidote to quell my seasonal jitters. If you're feeling a little jittery yourself, I highly recommend getting into the kitchen, and making this substantial salad before summer is gone for good.

The Tree and the Cake

There is a cake in Handler family lore, so delicate and eggy it is only spoken of in delicious memories. Baumkuchen, a peculiar-looking, cylindrical confection, German in origin, labor intensive, requiring not only a special post on which to bake it but a particular oven to bake it in, was a special treat for me while growing up. There was a lone bakery in San Francisco that made this cake of cakes, and we would make the special trip to the city just for this baked good. But alas, all good things must come to an end, the bakery closed down, and Baumkuchen was only a sweet memory.

That is until last week. I spent the afternoon exploring Chinatown. So many amazing shops, fish markets, and nooks and crannies, with labyrinthian streets that only seemed to stretch for miles, I could happily get lost here for hours. And I did. I stumbled into a Japanese shop, and was looking at all of the sweets (as I always do), when there it was. Prepackaged (but still!), in mostly Japanese writing with the lone German phrase of my dreams-- Baumkuchen!

With its layers resembling the rings of a tree, hence the name, this delightful vanilla sponge cake is simple in taste though complex in making. I had to buy a small slice, even if I was unsure of the flavor. Prepackaged baumkuchen? But baumkuchen none the less. I raced home, only stopping to buy a pint of heavy cream to whip for the topping.

And how was it...was it all that I have dreamed of for so many years? You know how certain people say that even bad pizza is good, the acid of the sauce, and the goo of the cheese? Well, I guess I'm sort of like that with baumkuchen. Moist, delicately flavored, with a springy consistency, though slightly stale, mounded with cream I could almost imagine being back in San Francisco in that little bakery. Mmm, round cake... stale or not, I will definitely be back for more.

The Grand Triple-Decker

Call it the indiscretion of youth, but as a child, I could be known as an odd eater. It all started with hot dog skins. I ate just the casing, and left the succulent meat behind. I loved fat, and would routinely collect the bits cut off the pork chops my mother made for dinner. (And no, I was not an obese child!) I would never touch meatloaf, telling my family it was unnatural to eat meat molded to resemble a loaf of bread. The list goes on. But now in my advanced years, my opinions of food have certainly changed, and I for one cannot get enough of meatloaf.

And it makes the best leftovers! Stacked into a triple-decker delight, a club sandwich if you will, sandwiching some rich, scallion laced mashed potatoes, meatloaf makes an almost better meal the next day. Yes, it is true that here I am taking the "meat resembling bread" ideology to a new extreme, but with a meal as comforting and simple as meatloaf and mash-- why not?

I was watching PBS last week, and a cooking show came on, showing Michel Richard making a compacted Napoleon of sashimi grade tuna, and roast loin of veal. It was his take on the classic Vitello Tonnato. The show inspired me, not to make his Vitello Tonnato Napoleon, but rather a slightly less hoity-toity stack of goodies-- a layered club of meatloaf and mash. I wonder what Chef Richard would think of that...

Now some of you may be asking yourselves, wouldn't it just be simpler to spoon the potato onto a plate; doesn't she have to take this sandwich apart before eating? And I guess I would have to say, where is the fun in that? Sometimes it's necessary to keep that bit of fancy in your food. Even if it is only for meatloaf and mash.

Tart, Sweet, Smooth and Spicy

Tart from the lemon, sweet from the fresh figs, smooth from the cream, and spicy from the chiles. This pasta dish can be described using any one of these adjectives, but I guess I would just call it amazing.


I love fresh figs, the gentle crunch from the interior seeds, the sweet nectar of the juice, even the ever so slightly fuzzy nature of the skin. I love it all. So as I was thumbing through Italian Easy: Recipes from the London River Cafe (thank you New York City public library), I knew that this was a recipe to try immediately. And I'm glad that I did. The play between the sweetness of the figs, and the heat of the chiles was perfect.

As a matter of fact, the entire book looks delightful. Simple recipes, straightforward presentations, and unfussed with food seem to be the hallmark of this restaurant's cuisine. Although, I did find one element alarming, the amount of butter used in some of these recipes. As I was glancing through the risotto section, I noticed one of the basic recipes called for 2 sticks of butter to feed four people. Now that's just frightening! Don't get me wrong, I'm a butter lover, you won't catch a tub of margarine around my house. But two sticks? That is just plain gratuitous.

But on to more immediate concerns...this pasta sauce. I'm afraid to even call it that. This is not a goopy cream sauce. With only 1/2 a cup of uncooked cream, the cream is there as lubrication, a conduit if you will, to get the toothsome tagliatelle noodles into ones mouth while still piping hot. And it works out beautifully.

I can't say enough stupendous things about this simple pasta dish. So, if you would like to give this pasta a try for yourself, the recipe is on the Daily Specials page.