Ad Interim

chapter seven place holder

It's Friday, I've been here for two weeks, why is there nothing posted yet? Well, baking in a kitchen not your own can be a bit difficult; particularly when there always seams to be a meal in the making. Who likes to feel in the way. Likewise, getting my mind wrapped around a suitable Salty Cod topic just doesn't seem to be happening right now. Porque? Too much going on. What? Well, our house is not finished yet, ergo we're not living in it yet, and are instead continually working on it. Every weekend is yet another trip to the Home Depot-esque store or marble cutter's yard, tile work or painting. To continue the whining of which i am quite eloquent at, i'm also having a bit of bureaucratic paperwork woe - that being put very nicely. Foreign marriage and immigration is not easy in any state of any country. So don't ever let the word Brazil fool you; flip flops do not mean that all things are as laid back as we are apt t believe, in fact they are yet more stringent (if possible) than anything i am used to. So another trip to the American consulate in Sao Paulo is inevitable...

Either way, i am positive that next weekend there will be something new posted on our salty white sheets here. Don't give up on us. Until then, I've backup material to splatter. An article i wrote last June about traveling through the Brazilian state of Minas Gerais was(is) recently printed in the (get ready for it) annual issue of the Spokane Sizzle (the magazine i used to work for in Spokane; a city on the border of Washington and Idaho). I was very lucky to be given two full pages for text and photos. Along with the Minas article, they ran a gluten free dining article as well as a few restaurant reviews i wrote. J & J, if you are out there reading this, thank you for your faith in me and the opportunities you presented. Good luck!

Article Published in the 2010 issue of 'The Spokane Sizzle' (sizzlencuisine.com)

Get Outta Town
Destination: Minas Gerais, Brazil

When most Americans think about Brazil, images of white sandy beaches, Amazonian wild life, teeny-tiny bikinis and Carnival costumes most often come to mind. But just as it is impossible to define the United States solely with either the image of the Texas ranch, plastic California glamor or New York City lights; it is impossible to define Brazil with any one word other than, well, Brazilian. It would take a lifetime to discover the many gastronomic, cultural, historical and botanical travel treasures that make up the South American nation that stretches its borders across more continental landmass than the United States. So, if a lifetime is all that is given, then Spokane, we better get started.

Don't bother packing the bikini, that is unless you are planning on jumping into passion-fruit creek—today we are not going to Rio, we're going inland, and under-land. Brazil is comprised of 26 states, with our destination being the state of Minas Gerais; the fourth largest and second most populated state in the country. North of São Paulo, and west of Rio, the Portuguese minas (mines) and gerais (general) refers to the state's natural richness in minerals and gemstones. Today, the gold and silver mines have run dry, but the state is still the No. 1 producer of mined minerals and stone. The capital city, Belo Horizonte (beautiful horizon) is a fast-paced metropolis similar to any of the bigs in the US, with shop-lined avenues, manicured parks and giant white skyscrapers. A short bus or car ride from the airport at Belo Horizonte will get you to one of the many historical cities of Brazil, including Diamantina, Tiradentes, Serro and the UNESCO world heritage site of Ouro Preto—city rich in “black gold.” When gold and gemstones were discovered in the region in 1697, Portuguese colonials living in Rio de Janeiro started the construction of the estrada real, the "royal road" that began the extensive mining production that helped Ouro Preto become the state's first capital.

Today, Ouro Preto is a time capsule of Brazil's colonial past, and as a protected UNESCO site, will forever remain so. Like many European cities, the main gist of tourism in Ouro Preto and the surrounding cities lies in the many Baroque cathedrals and museums. From historical mining museums to showcases of the city's most famous artist, Aleijadinho, one could spend weeks touring the churches and museums trying to uncover the past. But what sets Ouro Preto apart form other 17th century historical towns are the myriad mines open to the public. Many of them are tight squeezes (crawls) through damp narrow passages that were once lined with the poor soles of African slaves chained together as they scraped the rock for gold. In Ouro Preto, the mina do Chico Rei was first opened to the public in the 1940s when it was discovered by a woman who purchased the land to open a restaurant. She now offers entrance to the mine (for a $R10 fee) and her restaurant is still open and thriving. Another mine in the area worth exploring is the mina do passagem, located a short drive outside of the city of Ouro Preto in the neighboring town of Mariana. The mina do passagem is the largest gold mine open to the public in the world.

Minas cuisine is the quintessential equivalent to the farm-house country-cooked meal in America. What makes mineira cuisine authentic? The variety. Traditional Minas cuisine is comprised of large pots of rice-and-bean dishes cooked over open fires, as well as a variety of chicken, pork and beef dishes accompanied by vegetables. Beans, feijoão, are a staple throughout the country, but undoubtedly were made nostalgic as the backbone of mineira cuisine. Feijoada, a stew comprised of beans, spices and a variation of meats is a classic dish that has become quintessentially Brazilian and can be found at nearly any authentic restaurant in the city. Tutu à mineira, another Minas specialty made from pureed beans and manioc flour is the taste of simplistic perfection at its finest; eaten alone or scooped over rice is enough to make a meal. When searching for a restaurant, browse the menu first, if you do not see a reference to traditional mineira cuisine, move on.

Aside from the wood-fire traditional cuisine, other savors that have made Minas cuisine famous include the pão de queijo (cheese bread) and queijo (cheese). Driving the highway, one will pass a myriad of casas de quiejo; cheese houses where—you guessed it, one will find a plethora of fresh mineira cheese for sale. Ouro Preto and Mariana are cities with high volume tourism each year, so the chances are that if you request a menu in English, you will get one. When staying, there are many high price hotels in the region, though more common are the poussadas, the Brazilian equivalent to the B&B. These homes are smaller than hotels, more private, quiet and oftentimes more nostalgic in the fairy-tale town setting. They cost much less than a traditional hotel, usually between 50 and 100 US dollars a night, and usually come with breakfast. Hope you like Fresh papaya, freshly baked breads and, of course, cheese. There are many tourism resources in the area, from tourism offices to personal tour guides for-hire.

Ouro Preto is a vacation out of the ordinary that won't put you at the mercy of being lost in translation. For history, for natural beauty, for a gastronomic retreat—Minas Gerais is the other Brazilian getaway, the one that doesn't leave sand in your shoes.

a biento

Back in Brazil

New Home, New Country, Same Life

We've moved again, the roaming cod. But this time we're here to stay, at least for now. One question that i've been asked over and again is why Brazil and not the US. Why choose a third world country over the center of the world. The answer is quite complicated, and for all the reasons we give, i am not even sure if we know completely. We just, do. For me, there is something of majesty in being in a country that had never before crossed my mind. dismissal, i'd say, once upon a time. But then, you never end up where you plan. Why not US. We are here for reasons of practicality, personality, and preference. Practicality covers all manners of finance. The Brazilian Real (currency) fluctuates between 1.8-1.9 to the American dollar. I still earn my living through US dollars, therefore for every one hundred i make, i earn it's double. Also cuddled into this practicality business is the fact that i am a mobile worker; where i go, my work goes with me. Unfortunately this cannot be said for my other half, ergo to work, we both are here. Furthermore, immigration and marriage in the US is more complicated and expensive than in Brasil. so. There.

In the personality field, i'm the type of nut (no offense to the other expatriates out there) that knows without doubt that i can be at home anywhere. I knew it before i moved to Europe, and knew it for certain after i moved back. This, however does not imply complete lack of fear. There is always fear hiding somewhere in everything we do. the only way to swim over it is to keep looking directly at what sits on the shore.

The last is preference. Now, i will never say that i do not love the U.S.. I am American, and obviously i will always be. I have a large family that i cherish very much. However, large is relative. When i say large, i mean about 15 people. In Brazil when you say large, you mean 100. Now, is it easier to put around 15 people on a plane, or 100. You do the math. Another note on preference is that i have actually started to fall in love with Brazil, and not just the Brazilian. About three years ago i was asked in Paris, what do you know about Brasil? my answer - uh, the capital is Brasilia. After that, there has yet passed a day where i have not learned something about Brazil.

What i find difficult about Brazil is a small list so far. But it is there, nowhere is a paradise. The heat is a bit much for my albino skin, blond hair and blue eyes, all the deodorant is liquid, most people don't have doorbells, nobody owns a clothes dryer, everyone (alright most everyone) drives like a psychopath, Kitchenaid mixers cost a fortune, electronics cost a fortune, there is an overall lack of order to everything-as an American i'm used to following right-hand rules, pedestrians don't have right-of way, and oh yeah; i don't speak Portuguese.

What i find enchanting in Brazil certainly surpasses the difficulties. The sky is always blue. Even in the city i can hear the birds. People seem happy, even the ones with little. I'm in the heat with few clothes and i come from the snow. I have my own house (haven't moved in yet, it's almost done). People ride motorcycles with flip flops. Fruit and vegetables are the least expensive items at the store. I can sleep with no cover with the window open The park is always full of runners. Flowers and bright green trees year round. Listening to Portuguese. Clothes lines. Rice and beans, every single day. Food that rarely comes in packages. Pao de queijo (cheese bread from tapioca flour). That though i cannot speak, i can smile and be understood. Tiles on and in everything. A large welcoming family. And obviously above all other things listed, i get to be with the most important person in my life, without having to get on a plane.

Now that the explanations are over, let's get on with our stories, cakes, Brazilian food and yadda. Check back soon, what is yet to come will make the Paris shenanigans seem like teacakes.

a bientot amigos

Clumpy Granola

a guest recipe by: my mom

What would you call granola with clumps? my mom asked me as i walked by her desk one morning, uh, i answered, clumpy granola. My family loves granola. A batch lasts about 4-5 day around here, however, my mom as as quick to make it as we are to eat it. It is one of her agenda items; she makes it different every single time striving to reach maximum clumpiness while still using a very scarce amount of oil. After myriad batches of cereal-esque results (12th time?) we settled on massaging a bit of egg white into the mess. The result; clumps. Clumps!

Everyone says their mom is an excellent cook, or baker, or whatever. My mom is uniquely neither. She can cook, she can bake, she can pretty much do everything. But what she is most excellent at is being a mom. I've never had a guest chef on Salty before, who else could possibly be qualified (we are very snobby of ourselves here at Salty), nor have i ever really spoken about my family (who are they?). I'm usually the center of the universe, am i not? But today, this post is for her.


I am moving exactly one week from today; suitcases and boxes are exploding in my room, and my brain is distracted enough to the point of need for medication (or wine). But one of the heaviest things that weighs on my mind is saying goodbye to my family. Now it's not like i've never left before; i went to college, i lived in Paris, i've had houses, apartments, dorms, etc., so i've passed the in-n-out stage with flying colors. I've only been living with my parents since after i graduated last May and got back from Brazil in July, so they are used to me shoving off. But this time it's different. This time there's no Christmas break at the end of the semester or designated time when my student visa runs out. This time i'm actually moving to have a life and for once, to stay put (except for times when we're off adventuring the world). Bluntly stated, the transition is harder on my mom than it is on me. Remember that i am only 23 years old, so i cannot blame her for being melancholy over my departure, especially as it is out of the country. But the reality is that we all leave eventually, and distance is relative. The world is only one place; we're all on it at the same time, there is no falling off. How wonderful would things be if the world (and my mom) viewed the world on the same minute scale that i perceive it on. Seeing is believing.

My mom means the world to me, and i know that without her being who she is, i would have never been able to become who i am; able to make the decisions that i make today. So to my mom: i am not leaving you behind, i am taking you with me. You made me who i am by letting me be who i am. Thank you for being my mom. And if you don't mind, make me some of this granola to take on the plane.

Clumpy Granola

4 cups oats
1/4 cup vegetable oil
1/4 cup honey
1 cup flax seed
2 cups raisins
1 cup chopped almonds
1 cup chopped walnuts
1/2 sunflower kernels
2 egg whites

mix everything together in a bowl. that easy. spread as thinly as possible on two baking trays, and bake at 250 F for 30 minutes, checking (but not stirring) every 10. it should darken to a golden color, and harden as it cools.

If you are living outside of your home country, please scribble a comment on how your family deals with you being away, or how you deal with someone being away. Any help or encouragement would mean so much to me and those around me. If 50 of you say, "lucky mom, vacations to Brazil!" then perhaps we can convince her :)

a bientot

Blue

The color, not the melancholy emotion.

What do i want to make? was the thought that sat on my mind all week. Why can't i think of something nouveau and creative to wow the masses with. damn it. And why is no one having a birthday! We need birthday cake fuel. My mind is frazzled from mindless work (the kind you make money on) and i can't think of an angle to bake up. The only thought that came to mind was blue. Blue. Blue pastry? I've reverted to primary mode. I think in colors. Excellent.

Like many of you i find unnatural colors in baked goods quite frightening. The bubble gum bright blue ice cream flavor at Maggie-Moo's will always be on my no-list. Sorry E. However, for one reason rather than another, i find macarons to not only be acceptable in unnatural colors, but to be more desirable with each quarter tsp of dye. Why? I'm not sure. Perhaps is the the lackluster taupe-ish hue of a nude macaron, or perhaps it is for the fact that the first macarons to invade my eyes were the bright dye-saturated jewels of the Parisian pastry shop windows that i would stare at on a daily basis. The macaron trees in the Laudier windows, how can you not stare at those. Deep purple, the color of the store, the color of a box of glittering macarons, the color of the sexiest looking sweetie on the planet. Now a vivid macaron image comes to mind; an over-priced pastry shop (perfect for tourists) right across the street from the back end of the church of the Madeleine, late January, and a window filled with a thousand stacked blood-red macarons. Ribbons, bows, trees, glitter. Jesus, what the hell is with these things. When i had (went) to class, i would not take the 40 minutes metro ride home during my 2 hour lunch break. Instead, i would walk 5 minutes down the street, and sit on the floor in the cook-book section of the fnac. 20 different books on macarons. excellent. Did i read most of them? yes. Did i figure out how to make them? yes. and it scared the shit out of me.


I made made them for the first time sometime in October of the following year after i returned to the U.S. And honestly, i found them soothing. Since then i have made hundreds for parties, friends, therapy, and gifts. The last being candy cane and eggnog macarons for a Christmas party which sadly didn't make it onto Salty. The point is, when i need something to make in order to relax, i make macarons. They are nothing special, everyone and their aunt now posts about them ad naseum. But, who cares. I wanted blue. And my babies gave blue.

I don't have much of a blue bias, i love all members of the blue family. Navy, Mediterranean house paint, Tiffany, sky, baby, and of course Portuguese azulejo tile blue. Now, i'm not depressed, no melancholy blues around here today. Just a batch of blue coconut-walnut sweeties, an over-lemony caipirinha, and a surprising soundtrack of norah jones, ray charles, and amy winehouse. endnote.

The stash of blanched almonds sadly found their way into a granola recipe the other day. As such, the costco bag of whole almonds had to be dug into. Skins? Not a problem. We'll mix them with walnuts. No more parchment? poo, only one silpat. What happened to all the pastry bags? I just used them...and i sent my own personal set already on to brazil with measuring cups and teaspoons. Hmm. Plastic baggy it is.

for the shells:
3 egg whites
2/3 cups ground almonds and walnuts
1/4 cup sugar
1 3/4 cup powdered sugar
1-2 tsp food dye

Grind the almonds and walnuts in a food processor with the powdered sugar. Meanwhile, whip the egg whites in a stand mixer or with egg beaters. Slowly add the sugar and food dye, and whip until the whites are stiff. Turn the bowl upside down, if it doesn't fall on your face, you're good. Pour the nut-sugar mixture into the whites and fold using a spatula. Fold 50 times (Tartelette's tip) and scoop into a pastry bag fitted with a wide tip. Pipe small circles onto a silpat or parchment covered tray. Let them rest for 30-60 minutes. Bake for 10 minutes at 275 degrees. Let cool for 2-3 minutes, and carefully remove from the pan.

for the coconut cream
1/2 cup butter
1 1/2 cup confectioner's sugar
2 tbsp coconut milk
1tsp vanilla powder

Beat the butter, add the sugar and whip. Add vanilla, add milk, and whip some more. Transfer to a pastry bag, and pipe a small amount onto half of your shells. Sandwich another shell on top to finish.

The next time i make (try) to make macarons will be in brazil. It may be a while before i find an affordable mixer and an audience to try them. But we will. And they will be better than ever before. A brazilian macaron is different than a french one. I'm not quite sure how it is different, but i will find out. and i will let you know.

a bientot

A Brazilian in Seattle

Where Have I Been?
right here.

I don't know if other "internet writers" take vacations, as not only have i AWOLed the Salty office, but i haven't looked at any other blog in over a month either. Yeah i'm backed up. Did i even turn my computer on? Well you were busy with your families and what-not anyways, so i rest assured that i was not too sorely missed. But holiday vacations are now over, and it's back to work (real work and Salty work). So, happy late Christmas, and happy new years! May your new year bring you 365 great days of thrills, chills, and peppermint pills. 2010 brings quite a few changes here at Salty as well, we're quite an organic column here, and change quite frequently. In this mode I am announcing that the atmosphere here is morphing back toward that of when we lived in France a few years ago, that is stories based on travel, culture AND food stories rather than singular recipe focus. What brings the shift? I (first person, no journalism here, this is personal) am moving to Brazil at the end of January. I am moving into my (very own) house in a small city in São Paulo State with my fiancé H, who is usually referred to as "editor"around here for his non-colloquial perfect English. I am stepping into a different life, but it's what Salty (and a few other staff members) have been needing. We're deathly excited for the new blog (ehem, life) direction, and hope to take you along as we first did when we opened shop in France nearly three years ago. Announcement done. So let's write a story.

H spent the past month with me in my family's home in Seattle, and remember this was his first time here in the US of A. So what have i learned about Brazilians in America? That not even the most expensive and fancy-pants fish and oyster house restaurant on the Seattle waterfront can keep a Brazilian from dreaming about rice and beans. Good grief. Did i end up making rice and beans at least one night? Absolutely not. When in Rome...eat like you're in Mexico. As far as Washington State tours go, I hit this one on the nail (drum roll); we made it to every corner north, south, east, and west. Well, every corner but Walla-Walla as there is nothing in said town but onions and a state pen anyways. Lucky for us Seattle Christmas was quite warm this year; low to mid 40's nearly every day. So, below freezing for a Brazilian. But for a Swedish Fish out of his wrapper, he adapted quite nicely. Right on Red? Not a problem if i yell GO! And unfortunately yes, we do have to leave a tip for the waiter. Phrases learned: Litter and it Will Hurt, Click it or Ticket, and Can i see your ID? American radios play the same song over and over? Yes. Yes they do. And when i say left, i mean right. For once the tables were turned: i - the mute pantomime not afraid to make animal noises in the thick of public overhear in foreign countries around the world collecting nickles for giggles produced, was all knowing for once. Though, i do enjoy the "huh?"of it all. Being on the unknowing end. I'm meant, i feel, to be a foreigner. Smiling for the same awe as when listening to music in a language you don't understand.

There is a bit more to Seattle than Pike Place Market, though we did make it a (first) stop. Actually, we spent very little time in Seattle. North we went to Ferndale, a town practically on the border with Canada where my aunt and uncle have a farm. For the American tour: oh look a farm. And that's a goat. At the farm my professional cooking aunt was the only one to manage to erase rice and beans from the mind with her eggs Benedict, seafood risotto, and an ever-coming supply of the Northwest specialty, smoked salmon. Then we went south to Vancouver, a city just on the border of Oregon. East to Spokane, Washington's second largest city and the home of my alma mater, and then north-west by boat to the pristine San Juan Islands for a "nature"tour, and overly-cutesy bed & breakfast (which i highly recommend with 10 stars). But even with all the fancy tours that i could squeeze into a month, really what we liked most was lying on the couch, not working, being lazy, and making macarons and tarts in the kitchen. Of course, all of this while wearing the new leopard print snuggie.

Impressions: American food would be better if it had rice and beans tucked in the side. Our cars are a bit big. Ferry boats are cute, but oh how quickly you learn to loath them. Christmas is a big ritualistic deal. Americans and Brazilians really are the same, just a little different. Pineapples cost a lot of money and computers and ipods do not. But most importantly; that we are ready to go back to Brazil and start a new life. The Brazilian has already left the building, but i follow in 25. And i'm taking you with me. Nervous? Me too. So until then, let's bake something, because yes i missed daring bakers.....but it won't happen again.


a bientot

Am I Popular?

Cranberry Bread Guest Post Em Português

This has been a busy month, but i guess you don't need me to tell you that. There have been babies born, business started, trips taken, games played, jobs gained, jobs lost, and everything else in between (when i list that, i am not talking about myself. obviously...). It seems that i have been stumbling around in the dark when it comes to Salty over the past 5 months, and i have been. Details are not really needed other than the fact that i, like you all, have been going through a bit of a pinch, a hurdle in the road, an elephant in the room, a blind man staring at writing in the sky...nobody knows what i am saying. Ergo we are back!

At the beginning of the month, the staff members here at the Salty Cod were asked to perform their first ever guest post. And we did. So it seems only fitting that we end the month with another guest post, my aren't we popular these days. Remember this time of year two years ago (no you don't) when we were posting about cooking a 30 pound turkey for 40 Frenchies at our place in Paris? Life rolls on doesn't it. Well, our dear friend Moira in Portugal invited us to celebrate the second anniversary of her blog, Tertulia de Sabores, by being the foreign guest blogger to round out the month long celebration of guests. Maybe you weren't around for the Portugal days, but we at the Salty Cod love all things Portuguese, and Moira's blog is one of our favorites. So we jumped at the bit to provide an American (uh oh) recipe for her readers. You can see the post over at Tertulia, though it is in Portuguese, so we will post the English version here. But we wish to say happy birthday again to Tertulia de Sabores, e muito obrigada por nos convidar para celebrar com você.

In this region of the world (the big one below Canada and above Mexico) the holiday season begins mid November and carries through the New Year. Mid November begins the Thanksgiving preparation, that is preparing a turkey filled menu for 8, maybe 15, maybe even 30 people. Thanksgiving is our big holiday here in the States, other than the 4^th of July (which really is not so special as most countries celebrate an Independence or national day) Thanksgiving is our “look at us we're special and unique” day. Turkey, bread stuffing, mashed potatoes, and – cranberries. More than any other flavor, cranberries are the taste of the season. It doesn't matter what they are in, on, or around, anything with cranberries in it means dark days of winter, large holiday meals, and in no time at all, Christmas Eve festivities.

When Moira asked if my recipe could be American (as I am the special Portuguese-reading “foreign” guest), I was a little unsure what to make. American? What is American food? I am American and I can't even answer that. I have come to the conclusion that American food is anything that tastes good. Italian, Mexican, and Chinese – these, to me at least, are American foods. But when thanksgiving rolled around, and the bowls of cranberries started piling up, I realized that cranberries were not only a symbol of the holiday season, but more specifically the symbol of the American and Canadian holiday seasons (I'm half Canadian, so represent yo).

Now don't throw out small statistics about Chile and Eastern Europe producing a few barrel fulls of cranberries every year, cranberries are without a doubt indigenous to North America, and have yet to really draw a huge international following. Why? Probably because lingonberries taste (nearly) the exact same, and there are plenty harvested in the Baltic. Over 90% of the world's cranberries are produced in America and Canada, from the Pacific state of Washington, to the Atlantic powerhouse producer of Massachusetts. So, what could be more American to post about than the tart and tiny cranberry. Maybe you have been able to find cranberries in Europe, but I remember full well how difficult it was to find them when I lived in France, and where did I find them? An American import store of course, and at 10 euros a can!

If you have never had a cranberry before, know that they are impossible to eat fresh from the bog. They grow in water bogs, floating on the surface like sparkling rubies. They are inedible when raw, and are found primarily in sauces, juices, baked goods, or sweetened and dried. Cranberry sauce is the traditional dressing for a holiday turkey, but cranberry juice is usually enjoyed year round. For bakers, cranberries mean one thing – cranberry bread. Every American has had cranberry bread at one time or another during this season, it is quite standard. Laced with citrus such as orange or lemon, covered in chocolate, or sprinkled with spices, like any type of quick bread you can doctor it any way you like, as long as it has cranberries in it.

It is very easy for one to say that they love every season; I love the heat of summer, oh but I love the beauty of spring, but the colors of fall are so vibrant, and then there is winter – you can't love every season now can you. Maybe I don't love any single one, but rather like them all equally. This year I am a bit more sentimental in maintaining the images of my holidays, habits, and traditions. I am moving out of the country in a few months to start a different life, and I am not sure when I will have my American Northwest holiday again. But smells, sounds, and tastes make the best memories. Even a million miles away, I know I will still be able to taste the cranberries.

Cranberry Bread with White Chocolate and Ginger

2 1/2 cup flour
1 orange, zested
½ cup orange juice
2 tsp baking powder
½ tsp baking soda
½ tsp salt
2 eggs
1 cup sugar
4 tbsp melted butter
200 gr chopped cranberries
1 tbsp freshly grated ginger
2 tsp cinnamon
1 cup chopped white chocolate

Method: Sift together the flour, baking soda, baking powder, salt, and cinnamon. Set aside. In a separate bowl, whisk together the eggs, sugar, butter, juice, zest, and ginger. Add to the flour mixture and combine. Stir in the cranberries and chocolate chips. Divide the batter into greased loaf pans, and bake at 375 for 50 – 60 minutes. Use a wooden skewer to check if the inside is still liquid. Let cool, and drizzle with any remaining white chocolate.

Enjoy the end of November Codet(te)s (pretty clever no? That is how i will now refer to you the reader). So December is finally here. We will begin our regular weekly posts again here at the Salty Cod finally after a few months of strings. Why only now as the hectic season picks up? Well, let's just say we're about to get our inspiration back.

as always,
a bientot

Kaka...

not a poo, not a soccer player, just a cannoli.

Mallory, that looks like poo. Are we supposed to eat it? This month's Daring Bakers Challenge was unfortunately not gummi bears like i had predicted, but something much better, something i have always dreamed about baking. Oh wait, no baking involved. Have i told you that i hate deep frying? Well, i will tell you now. Save doughnuts and chiros, anything coming out of a fryer looks like a piece of crap. More honesty box? Cannolis have got to be the ugliest confection in the book. They are unattractive, look like a cross between a cigar and a poo that is starting to get furry on the ends. And they are a pill to make. Appetizing non? You want to make them now? Go for it, millions of people love them, and for those who don't eat with their eyes first, well they are perfect for you. Have i ever wanted to make a cannoli? No. I am 100% about appearances, if it doesn't look good, the photo won't look good. So how do you make a turd look good? Damn near impossible if you ask me. But you didn't ask me, so we'll try. We don't accept defeat with grace here at the Salty Cod, no we will curse and throw the dough mass in the trash and start over before accepting defeat, even with the chuckles burning down out neck. Oh cannoli you have spleaned me, at least now though we have met. Will you ever be on our bakery menu? Absolutely not. But you know, as with all thing in life, it is never pointless to have performed a task you disliked, you can't know that you don't like something until you try it. So here is the story of a white chocolate cannoli named kaka.

Purple and black are really hot right now. Said the grasshopper. I decided that if i had to make cannolis, i might as well make them when i had to cook, so i waited for Thanksgiving like every other American Daring Baker did. Who wants a Cannoli on Thanksgiving? Well, maybe the Italian American families do; mine is not far from an that though. A gaggle of French Canadian immigrants and a few Norwegians who think they are Vikings and you have a loud yelling stereotypical Italian family dinner table. Brilliant! Back to the story. Cannolis, hmm. The idea in the mind was dough dyed black filled white; piano key cannolis. As i made up the dough and began to fry, my uncle bellows from behind me, that looks like a dog turd!! A fried kaka! Joy. And i still have half the dough left. The rest of the family looks at them nervously, then finishes in a bout of laughter. My aunt adds, oh like krumkaka (Norwegian cookie cone) certainly is kaka! In my defense, i cry, hey! i didn't want to make these! and besides, they'll look better when they are filled. As the rest of my family were to arrive the next day i thought, damn, i better start a batch over. Black cannolis sound better in theory. So next morning, new batch. This time, purple.

The purple didn't solicit much praise either. Oh well, now it's all about the photo. Who cares if they taste like kaka, they'll at least match their appearance. I made up the cream. Shit, didn't drain the ricotta. Try number two, i'm not doing too well with this recipe apparently. 0 for 2. I frost their beards as i wait for it to chill, melted white rolled in crumbled white. Chocolate, that is. Will this damn recipe ever end. Piped. Time for some photos. Will we manage? Will we make the kaka look like a jewel? Is it possible? A Thanksgiving miracle perhaps? At this time i think of Martha Stewart, they say Martha could wrap a poo in tin foil and make a pretty ornament. Martha eh...i can turn this kaka into something that glitters like gold. Really? No. But a girl can dream can't she.

To be fair to the cannoli, appearances aren't everything. They were consumed lickety-split. Beauty is on the inside? Indeed. Said the cannoli to the biscotti: will you still love me when i lose my looks? The reply: honey, i didn't marry you for your looks. Love is blind. Cannolis are a delightful treat (those who ate them reported to me) despite their appearance. Daring Bakers i wanted to yell that this challenge was a fail, but i suppose failing would only be giving up. May we please do something with a cake, a cookie, a bread next time? Anna i'm talking to you.

The cannolis came, the cannolis went. If anything they gave us all a laugh, i always want a kitchen filled with laughter. Thanksgiving at my aunt's house has always been my favorite. And i have no doubt that i will miss it for many years to come, but will be able to look back on it with a wry smile in remembrance of the sweet, crispy fried kaka.

This month's Daring Bakers Challenge was chosen and hosted by Lisa Michele of Parsley, Sage, Desserts and Line Drives. The cannoli recipe is from the book Lidia’s Italian-American Kitchen by Lidia Matticchio Bastianich and from The Sopranos Family Cookbook by Allen Rucker; recipes by Michelle Scicolone, as ingredient/direction guides. Unfortunately the recipe was not completely the same as from the book....so neither was mine true to the adapted recipe posted. I found the dough much too difficult to work with the first time around (sorry Lisa) and therefore went with an alternative recipe. So who's did i go with? A non-adapted cannoli shell recipe from At Home with Michael Chiarello, and i filled it with a ricotta mousse rather than cream to give it a little more structure.

Ingredients: 2 cups flour, 2 tsp sugar, 1/4 tsp salt, 3 tbsp white vinegar, 3 eggs (BIG difference from the recipe used for the challenge), 2 tbsp melted butter, 3 tbsp water (i used wine for the purple color) and oil for frying. The method will follow the same as the recipe used for the challenge.

The kakas were not so bad, i suppose. Will i make these again? I think you'd have to hold a gun to my head. Though if the cannoli are here already, you must have left the gun. Couldn't resist, i'm sure every Daring Baker this month quoted the Godfather at least once. In the end, i believe this was exactly what i needed. A humbling reminder that there are many thousands of things i am no good at making, and that even when you are fumbling in the kitchen, when you are fumbling with your family around, it is all worth it. This is a Thanksgiving i will remember with a smile, and who knows, maybe next year when i feel a nostalgia for Thanksgiving, maybe i'll make a batch of cannolis to remember and laugh. Only joking, not even for sappiness would i make these again. Cannolis, i quit you!

Death of (one) of My Idols

Goodbye Gourmet

It's been over a month since Condé Nast announced that it will be pulling the plug on its nearly 70 year old publication, Gourmet Magazine, and even though there has already been many heart felt cries of anger and misery shouted from blog to blog in concerns to this matter, we at the Salty Cod feel Gourmet, above all the other print publications we dream(ed) of shooting for deserves at least our good bye, and praise for a great run. And to pay a proper Salty tribute to the dying friend, we began this post with an 80 word sentence. Huzzah!

In early October CN announced that it would be discontinuing the print of Gourmet, Cookie (what the hell is that?) and two bride magazines due to both a loss in advertising interest and sales, I suppose. For me, and more likely than not for you and for any other food enthusiast, writer, or photographer, the idea of having a shot or story appear inside Gourmet's margins (or bleeding across two full pages in an aerial table shot) has crossed your mind. Along with Bon Apetit and Food & Wine, Gourmet was undoubtedly one of the forerunners in print food art and writing. Granted i've only been part of the food writing and photography world for about three years now (but i'm also only 23) but i've collected these issues over the years, as thousands of other food photogs have, for inspiration, insight, and well in the words of Tony – Gourmet is one beautiful centerfold of food porn. Even though the chances of ever appearing in the photo credits of a Gourmet issue are slim to none, they've never let slip from my mind, even after decisions to slip the country. Though now, sadly, a photo in Gourmet is one of those little cabbage patch dreams that must be laid to rest.

I can't help but feel a bit guilty for aiding (not being, I am not THAT full of myself. yet.) in the demise of the print industry, an industry that I yet dream to get into. Lovely irony. Blogs, websites and the myriad online recipe indexes are strangling any chance of renewed success in the print industry. All print publications for that matter. I mean look at the kindle, we don't even have to buy books anymore. All in all, are magazines done for? Is Gourmet just the first of many to yet fall? (well technically Condé Nast already folded a couple of other publications, including Men's Vogue. Surprisingly there wasn't much outcry). I've worked for a food magazine, albeit a small North Idaho publication, but the business of publishing is brutal, and the demands for it are waning. Hopefully this isn't the end. There is something about print photographs that have a certain spark and light that computer screen photos lack. Tell you what, if someday they all fold - we'll come out with our own, Salty Cod Magazine, to live on the food mag legend.

In the end we are paying a mourn and tribute to Gourmet, for many years (first issue was January 1941) of stunning photography and inspiring stories about cuisine from every corner of the world. As a food writer, food photographer and travel writer, we will miss you Gourmet, but rest assured we will continue your work for you. Sadly though we now have one less thing to read in the tub.

Thank you to my 11 year old sister G for for braving my big ol' camera to take the photo up top.

a bientot

I'm a Guest

Chocolate Hazelnut Souffles

I've never done a "guest" post before for a fellow blog writer, but now i can say that i have. Mel of Bouchon for Two is traveling through Paris, and asked if i could do a French recipe to share with her readers, as i used to live in France and can provide a sappy yet hopefully entertaining commentary on Parisian nut vendors....so, i made souffles. Hazelnut souffles. Tu sais that it's my first time making souffles too? Yes. So i've learned that they have tricks, and i've learned a lesson in speed photography. Why speed? You have solely two minutes to capture the souffle before he moves on; you have to be quick, no think, just shooting.

I will not post the whole story here - if you click Bouchon for Two (right here) you will be directed toward my story and recipe. Mmm yes, whether you care for souffle or not, it is a story about Paris, nuts, and love. What the hell more could you want? My souffles are tall, dark and handsome- exactly how i like them.

Petite Version:

Souffles, Paris, Love. I remember a while back Aran (pastry chef, author and photographer of Canelle et Vanille) wrote an ode to the souffle as a symbol of romance, and I have yet to drop the connection. A souffle for two is a romantic whisper, a fleeting “spur of the moment” as you have mere minutes to catch its climax before deflation. Similarly, love is a product of chance moments. That is, one fleeting moment stuck among three hundred million other chanced possibilities, the window of opportunity being infinitely minute. A souffle is a mirror image. You are given a chance with every souffle to marvel it before falls, if you miss it you miss it, love is the same way – your chance is as short as a peaked souffle, if you don't take it when it rises, you will miss it, and if you miss it , it is gone perhaps forever. The word souffle comes from the French verb souffler: the breath (gently), to whisper or to blow (ehem, as in a candle). A gentle whisper, perhaps a soft sigh, oh how romantic, how so very souffle.

A souffle for two...what is more romantic than sharing a whisper. Paris is clichéd as the city of love – but is it clichéd? Could it not be true? Perhaps for some, Paris can catch you that one in a million. And then? And then win him over with chocolate and nuts and he is yours forever. Does food always have a metaphor for life? Yes, yes it does. Photographing a souffle relies very little on a photographer's skill, instead it sits on their impulse. Shut up and click, you have two minutes, no time to think, just feel it, press it, capture it. It is now or never. Therefore life and love are your souffle. Take for your own the exact moment you want.

Ah, tu aimes et vouloir plus? Allez vers le blog de Bouchon For Two pour la recette.



a bientot