Snacking Thy Name is Decadence

Admit it. As good as you might try to be, eating three square meals a day, there are times, usually around four o'clock on a lazy weekend afternoon, when your stomach starts a-churning. (At least if you're anything like me it does.) You get that hollow, hungry feeling, and you know that a bag of carrot sticks, healthy though they may be, will just not answer the rumbling. It's time for a proper snack, one that is salty, crunchy, and more than a bit decadent.

Popcorn is just the thing. And when popped in an air popper (didn't everyone have one of those in college?) it can really be almost healthy...and definitely boring. But this is Nosheteria, not some ascetic kitchen, and I've been out of college for quite some time, so leave it to me to bring popcorn from the healthy to the sublime. And what is the fastest way to do that? By adding bacon of course...everything's better with bacon.

First things's first, crisp that bacon in a large saucepan, or dutch oven. When the bacon is sizzling hot, and crisp to your heart's content, remove the bacon from the pan, and add popcorn kernels to the grease. Cover the pot, you wouldn't want your popcorn to bounce everywhere. Appalling though it might seem, this is really no different than adding oil to pan of popcorn kernels. It's just in this case the oil tastes like bacon! Then listen for the pop. There has always been something so exciting, so transformative, about a kettle of kernels turning into a pot of fresh-from-the-stove popcorn.

When the corn is finished popping, season with pepper and a bit of salt, and the crumbled pieces of bacon. Then the only thing left to do, is snack away. The flavor of the corn with the bacon is salty and splendid, the texture is light and crunchy. I definitely had trouble keeping the snacking to a minimum this weekend. But then, who really cares, a little snacking, with a whole lotta bacon, can't be all bad?

Chicken in Your Pajamas

I'm sure that every family must have them-- those old, tattered recipes for dishes that are so entrenched in family lore it becomes difficult to decipher where the recipe actually came from. A pot of soup, a batch of cookies, or in this case, a one pot supper, that went by the incorrect name of pajama chicken for years.

Pajama chicken sounds quaint to a child's ears. And to my young ears I figured that this dish was to be enjoyed languishing on a Sunday afternoon in your favorite footsie pj's-- hence the name. But pajama, said quickly in passing, also sounds like Bahama. And Bahama chicken, which I found out years later, was actually the name of this Americanized dish of stewed chicken served over tomato rice and accented with black-eyed peas.

While my grandmother made this dish all the time, I actually have Roxie Roker, television actress of the '70's and Lenny Kravitz's mother to thank for this one. My grandma did not usually clip recipes from magazines, in fact I don't remember that she even owned a cookbook, and the only magazines lying around her house were usually TV Guides. She was a great cook however, but the recipes that she made-- sweet butter rolls; homemade, handrolled egg noodles; pounds and pounds of pie dough for countless pies, were as much done by feel and taste, as they were exact measurements. But there was something about that recipe for Bahama chicken, donated to a women's magazine by Ms. Roker that just spoke to her. It was torn out, loved dearly, made on countless occasions, and requested though named incorrectly, by me.

Who knows where the actual recipe has gone to now. I Googled both Roxie Roker, and her famous chicken to no avail. I am not even sure if my grandma was making the recipe as it was listed, but now I make it too-- that bastardized version of Bahama chicken. I dredge chicken pieces in flour, and fry just until brown. Removing the chicken, I brown a bit of green bell pepper and onion until translucent, then add back in the chicken, and a bit of tomato sauce, stewing the entire concoction, until the chicken is done. The rice is soupy and simple. Browning the rest of the onion, as well as the pepper, you add in the rice, and continue to brown until the rice becomes translucent. Add in the rest of the tomato sauce and water, making the ratio 1:2, rice verses liquid. Add in black eyed peas, and cook until done. This takes longer than you would expect because of the thickness of the tomato sauce.

Each time I make this dish it is slightly different. Sometimes I add crushed red pepper flakes for heat, other times I add a bit of thyme to the chicken. My mom likes the chicken to still be crisp, so she does not add tomatoes. My uncle likes a whole soupy mess, with sauce tumbling over the bed of rice. And I guess now, some 30 years after the recipe appeared in who-knows-where, it's really right however you like it. I guess my favorite way to enjoy Bahama chicken is lazing about in my pajamas, on a quiet Sunday afternoon.

Change is Good...Right?

Sometimes it is a good thing to change things up every once in awhile. Walking a different route to the way to subway brings me new windows to peer into. Tying my scarf a new way keeps my neck a bit warmer from the biting cold. And making a favorite dish with a hearty sauce could be revolutionary. Yes, I will give anything a shot once, maybe even twice if I'm feeling daring.

So was the case with this butternut squash lasagna. It had so many of my favorites contained in that shallow casserole pan-- sheets of fresh pasta, satisfying butternut squash puree, bulbs of fresh mozzarella and salty ricotta cheese. Sounds great. Smelled even better as it was baking to a bubbly finish. I loved the layers of lasagna, the pasta hiding a new treat of disclosed, melted cheese. There is something so impressive about pulling out a tray of golden brown, crisp-crusted lasagna from the oven.

This dish had all of those elements. It was belly-warming, homey, and pleasing. But I found it only made my mind wander longingly to the familiar red sauce-- the bite of tomato sauce mingling with the soothing, unctuous taste of the mozzarella, puddles of delicate bechamel sauce, flecks of meat, turning the sauce from marinara to Bolognese. That is what I needed.

Who knows if this lasagna really just got a bad rap because I was in a carnivorous mood? I guess I will have to try it out again to truly see the results. The only thing I do know, is I have a mean craving for the traditional after trying something new. Maybe some things should not be messed with.

Pancakes Again!?!

I know that I have written about the beloved pancake many times here before. There was the banana pancake, a chubby cake with creamy banana slices cooked in the batter. Then there was the corn pancake of June 2005, which was really just an excuse to sprinkle pancetta over something with abandon. And finally, there was the wild rice pancake, nutty and wholesome. This inundation of breakfast food tells you two things: this is a girl who was had this blog for quite some time, and she really likes pancakes.

And I guess you would be correct on both accounts. Pancakes are a standard, go-to food for me. They are warm and filling, and even a bad one is sort of good. I often order them when going out for brunch, and I love to make them, in all of their different variations, at home for a relaxing Sunday morning breakfast (or even for an easy dinner) . And I especially adore my latest darling-- the lemon-poppyseed pancake.

This is my take on that classic grab-it-and-go breakfast, the muffin. Usually they are not great. The muffin may be dry, the crumb is crumbly, and you would be lucky if you even spotted one poppyseed, let alone a handful. But the taste of lemons and poppyseeds, is a super combination when done right. There is a bright and breezy taste from the lemon, combined with a nutty crunch from the poppyseeds-- a winning duo that translates well into a pancake batter.

These pancakes were light and ethereal, made by separating the eggs, and beating the whites until soft peaks formed. Moist and spongy on the inside, with a crisp, light brown shell on the outside, these pancakes were simply crying out for a pool of pure maple syrup to be poured on top of them. I answered that call, and as a reward, these pancakes went straight into my stomach. If you would like to give these lemon-poppyseed pancakes a try, the recipe is on the Daily Specials page.

In a Pickle

It's been cold here. Really cold. It's the kind of bone-chilling, nose-numbing weather that makes me want to hole up inside, wearing my latest gift from the in-laws, and hibernate until the chill wears off. But even I get bored by simply lounging around, and I begin to look for something to occupy my time. But what to do when all of the pilly lint-balls have been shaved off of my favorite sweater, I have bugged my husband sufficiently, and have organized both of our sock drawers? Well, I guess I could make some pickles.

I was really scraping the bottom of the pickle barrel (the cold has affected my sense of humor as well) in terms of groceries. I had a few measly Kirby cucumbers lying in the refrigerator, some rice, and a can of tomatoes. So rather than make an interesting (read: revolting) main-dish stew, I focused just on the cucumbers instead, making refrigerator "dill" pickles.

Really a combination of bread and butter, and dill pickles, these pickles were a breeze to put together. I thinly sliced my Kirby's, and placed them, helter-skelter in a Bell jar, wedging fronds of fresh dill beside the slices. (I might be freezing, but no one said Brian couldn't pick up a bunch of dill on his way home from work.) Onto the stove went some cider vinegar, a bit of sugar, and a dose of salt. I had some mustard seeds, so those got thrown in the pot as well. Bring this vinegary concoction to a simmer, really just to melt the sugar, and pour over the cucumbers.

The pickles bring a crisp, brightness to your palate. The perfect foil for a blustery day. And they were almost too easy to make. Now what to do with the other 23 hours of arctic air? I guess the bathroom could use a good scrubbing.

Buttery Breakfast

All the leaves have tumbled off of the trees. I can see billows of moist, white breath cascading from my mouth and floating into the chilly atmosphere. Yesterday a little boy scampered by me, down the street, so bundled up he could hardly bring his arms to rest at his sides. And it snowed Wednesday night-- my first real snow. It is definitely winter. And along with winter, comes winter produce. But rather than get depressed at the market by the dearth of stone fruit, and lugging home yet another hard, butternut squash for my nightly veg, I instead choose to revel in the winter produce.

There are Meyer lemons-- just tart enough. Or my favorite, the Cara Cara orange with its pinky flesh, and mild citrus flavor. There are tangelos, satsumas, blood oranges, each calling out to be rescued from the cold New York weather and brought home to rest in the fruit basket on my kitchen table. And then there are kumquats, diminutive, and egg-shaped with a their sweet, almost delicate peel, and their puckery, seed-filled flesh. It is the the perfect fruit to make a marmalade with, and this marmalade, ideal to blend into a buttery spread.

Sometimes in the winter I need something sweet and bright, to perk up my breakfast; and this kumquat marmalade butter did just the trick. I was inspired by Suzanne Goin, and her fabulous book Sunday Suppers at Lucques, where she includes this recipe as part of a dessert. The pain d'epice, a sort of sweet bread, looked like a bit much to take on for a Monday night. But the accompanying kumquat marmalade butter, looked like the perfect accompaniment to make for my morning toast.

I simply simmered slowly for 25-30 minutes, a 1/2 pound of kumquats, in a saucepan with one cup of sugar, and two cups of water. The kumquats softened, turning shiny and translucent. I drained and reserved the liquid, which was now a rosy, pale peach color, and set the kumquats to cool. I deseeded, and sliced the cooled fruit into narrow batons, about 1/8 inch thick. I whipped 2 sticks of softened butter, sweetened with 1/4 cup of powdered sugar, until light, and fluffy. Finally I added the marmalade strands, and a bit of the poaching liquid, and mixed completely.

The next morning, as the butter melted, leaving behind chunks of sweet kumquat marmalade on my breakfast toast, I savored this little bit of sunshine on a bleak winter's day. Even with store-bought toast, this butter makes breakfast more special.

p.s. If you're feeling you too could use a little something special along with your morning toast, I'm sure this butter would be great (and much easier to make) with a store-bought marmalade as well.