Eat and Run (Literally) - The Seattle Marathon

this tank runs unleaded on yogurt and oats

Warm. Wet. And gray. The perfect conditions for the perfect Seattle race. My first Seattle race, I only ran the half race of 13.1 miles (21.1 kilometers), but felt no less honored to be among the 1200 other racers snaking through the Emerald City. For most the race began on 5th and Harrison, though for some of us who clearly misdiagnosed the traffic buildup on I-5 south, the race began by jumping out of a car on the 167 exit ramp. Anything to add a bit of extra dramatics non? As long as you get to the start when the horn is blown, all is bueno.

Once at the start line, the promenade hit straight all the way down 5th avenue, dipping up and down along the shops and early morning spectators for the 7:30 start. Quest Field and Safeco appear in the mist on the right as we trodded over the I-90 Express lanes toward the Mt. Baker tunnel. Lake Washington to the right, through the trees and over the river to grandmother's house we go. The mist is thick and warm, a layer of condensation or a layer of perspiration? None could be the wiser. Water stations are not necessary--all the water needed is inhaled alongside my oxygen. Finally there appears Lake Union, now we are herded over I-5 returning humbly downtown. Two miles to go until the cowbell-ringing lined path ushering us into memorial stadium. A little sun too, why how nice of the heavens for that. Now get me a bag of bloody ice before my decrepit knee decides to completely stop working.

There were no Thanksgiving recipes from the Salty Cod? Sorry my dear friends--my hand partook not one note in the thanksgiving feast(s). But perhaps a pumpkin yogurt for sunday morning road race fuel can makeup for my shortcomings. Mix two parts yogurt with one part pumpkin goo and spices. Not much of a recipe. But simple in running is always the best. The Seattle half was my first race after the French (ok fine just myself) destroyed my knee last December. Perhaps a few more halfs and then he'll be ready for the whole. But I know that you who are my fellow runners understand.

Athletes don't eat dairy before a competition you say. But i do. No carb-overload pasta stuff-athon the night before a big race for me. No, for the wheat free runner that game changes. To what carbohydrate you ask? To rice. Rice the night before, yogurt and oats the hour before. Does it work? Why yes yes it does. Every morning at 5:30 yogurt and oats lead the way for workouts. Today-well races are special. Throw in a power bar, and perhaps in honor of the thanksgiving weekend, a special yogurt is at hand. Pumpkin pie yogurt with a roasted pumkin seeds. Now don't those make the GU glucose gels look appetizing...mmm. But no I jest--those syrupy translucents are thigh savers at mile 10.


One is the loneliest number, they say. Runners are solo jocks, out there alone, in pain alone, in victory alone. And I used to agree. But running is not done alone. The myriad voices in the ear (maybe that's just the ipod. dunno.) the hundreds alongside whose hearts pound rhythmically too, the family at the finish line, the friend who gets you there and extinguishes your anxiety, your friends who will read this (so you better have a story for them), and the irreplaceable weight of the people who fill your thoughts as the bouncing hours and minutes tick by in rhythm as each foot falls, one in front of the other. The runner has that person(s) upon whom is dumped all the woes and fears of ankles and knees, shoes and burns, sore muscles, seeming pointless goals reported daily. Mile counts. Hour counts. Today was this, tomorrow we do that. Does anyone other than the runner care--no. But they will never tell you so. And for that they are irreplaceable. Running is impossible without these members. And so one is not always the loneliest number, one can oftentimes be awfully crowded.

Get up and run! Next race we do side by side.

à bientôt

And do you, Mr. Orange Take Miss Lentil to be your Lawfully Wedded Wife...

the pound-caking objection of mistress anisette

It is starting to get cold. Not chilly, not brrrr, not wow maybe i should put on a jacket because my nose is sniffling, but cold. I won't lie, I do not fancy this cold unless chairlifts and powdered moguls are involved. Morning is dawning at seven. November gives the Spokane sky a picturesque glow--it is bright, but not sunny. A sad bright, if oxymoron may be called upon. It looks cold, if cold is a look. A beautiful coldness. The sun sits hovering behind wispy clouds stretched far too thinly over the Tiffany blue backdrop, the look is quite promising, though the skeleton trees and frost stiffened grass cry silent intimations through the window pane of no! do not let him fool you, your day has dawned sub-zero! How unfortunate that tricky sun gloating above us in all his mockery--you may see me but you can not feel me. To leave one building means only a race to get into another. That is the winter game. Well we will play our own winter game mr. sun, with smarties of your likeness. Orange in America is a winter fruit. It grows in the real sun of the south. The rays are bottled in its sun-tanned rind; thus sun made orange in his own image. The savior is then sent northward to we the vitamin D deprived. Why, little glowing citric orb of heat; you are my sunshine. So on y va.


So what of this lentil and orange business? That is a good question. No one really knows why they are together, but there they are all the same, in a cake. Lady Lentil is quite the jewel; small and bubbly, a protein, a staple, versatile and malleable. Could you ever imagine her in a cake? Orange did not, but what could there possibly be to lose. Orange lentil cake, what a perfect idea; healthy and yet sweet, is that not the divine marriage of flavors. But perhaps flavor divinity is in the eye of the beholder, for while the butter whipped and the flour sifted, a little seed spilled onto the counter, shouting in her controversy to be taken along. Orange and anise, they were made for each other. A striking slap of bitter licorice, yet there is some power of sweetness dissolving her bite. Anise, a tricky little spice. You either love her or you hate her, there is nothing in between. Orange and Lentil stared at one another, unknowing of what to do. But Miss Anisette could not be shaken, and tipped head first into the batter. But what could be done? To pick out a million specs is impossible, there's no getting rid of her now. Lentil and orange, though they sound mysteriously unique are not enough on their own. Lentil as flour is too void of flavor and personality to compliment citric orange. Thus we must remember that it is not the surprise ingredient that stands out, but rather what you do to it (who saw that ostrich egg on top chef last week?) Orange lentil cake--no. Orange anise lentil cake--now we're talking.

Now that you have been wrung through a poorly written and seemingly unnecessary pastry soap opera of personified foodstuffs, perhaps there is some splaining to do. Lentil cake! Yes lentil cake, but why? Why--because I am me. And my fridge is empty and I am starving. I see a bag of lentils. There are bean cakes, so why not a lentil cake? A cake without gluten, a cake I could eat. So in Salty Cod fashion, we crossed our eyes, hailed mary, poured a glass of wine, and played baking god. And what do ya know, my Frankenstein, he lives!

Orange Anise Lentil Cakes:

Ingredients: 1 cup pureed lentils ~ 1 cup gluten free flour mix like bob's (or if you could give a damn about gluten, just use a cup of regular old flour, any flour actually) ~ 3 eggs ~ 1.5 cups powdered sugar ~ 0.5 cups butter (1 stick) ~ 1 tsp baking powder ~ 0.5 tsp salt ~ 1 packet vanilla suagar (or extract) ~ 0.5 tsp almond extract ~ 1 tsp anise seeds ~ zest of whole orange

method: 1) combine butter and sugar, add eggs, extracts, zest, and anise 2) in another bowl combine flour, bs, and salt 3) combine wet mixture and flour, add lentil puree 4) divide into sprayed muffin tins or a loaf pan 5) bake at 350 F until done.

You are correct, orange and anise do sound of classic biscotti, but now they are lentil pound cake. deal with it. You wish to know if the cake tastes of vegetable? If you are yet doubting, which i do not blame you for, I will here gloat that none of the cake's consumers were told of the ingredients, none, and yet eyes fluttered back in pastry ecstasy of palatable bliss! And well, because I am so full of myself, I will say these cakes were quite successful. Sorry Lentil, Orange is nothing without Anise. So on a cold sunny day--we found our sunshine.

à bientôt

Québec Fudge...Revisited

the magic of a microwaved mess up

What do we do when we fall off the horse? We get back on it. But what do we do if the horse starts doing the cock-a-doodle dance of mockery as you sit in the dirt rubbing your sore ass? Well, we could remind the horse that in Iceland minced horse meat pies are common occurrences at the family dinner table. Or, look that sorry lump of undercooked caramel straight in the eye and proclaim the battle ad interim. hehe. Who am I kidding, there's no sappy drama here, only dumb luck and a microwave baby. on y va.

But wouldn't it be great if i could draw out a tale of perseverance mixed with with a message of overcoming the obstacles to laugh senor surrender straight out of town. Create a salty sweet Odysseus out of molasses and sugar. Would you agree that there is nothing in life that cannot be manipulated into allegory for one's need. The notion of resilience; knocked down but still coming back for more. That milk toast of a philosopher Pascal would put it l'homme n'est qu'un roseau, le plus faible de la nature--but a reed unbreakable none the less, Winston held us on repeat, never never never give up, and who first said if at first you don't succeed... Humans love the underdog; the struggle, the failure followed by redemption. There are six Rocky films aren't there? If we mess up we try again, the product a lesson learned from our mistakes. To err is human. So perhaps to come back then is to laugh at humanity for having found the loophole.

When the sun comes out we think it a sign. The wind dries the puddles and pavement so you can finally wear your new shoes. One small pin prick lights the satin sheet of star-less night sky that seemed to have smothered you with unfortunate bruising details only the night before. A whisper, a nod, a note at your heart from afar, perhaps these small seemingly inconsequential happenings are all that it takes really in cliche to turn that frown upside down. Just one small right among what appears unbearably to be so many wrongs to make us feel right again. A weakness? Maybe, but it is better to pretend the rocking horse a Pegasus than to wallow in a horse-less reality.

Did that happen here with this bloody fudge? Was I in a bad mood turned happy by stumbling upon a cure? No, but look it gave me premise for a story now didn't it. About three weeks ago i attempted the creation of Québec fudge, or Sucre à la crème (recipe here) to sit atop an autumnal cheesecake, while i posted it, it was a, well a failure. The fudge did not work out; instead of a crumbly sandy color fudge i was left with a dark gooey caramel. And in my dramatic hot head fashion, after securing squares of the made "caramel" for the cheesecakes, i piled the grinning lump of maple caramel into a box and shoved it in the back of the freezer, mumbling to myself in haughty blackness myriad curses upon all things French Canadian. Out of mind out of sight eh? We don't like to be reminded of our mistakes. Though as my anger ebbed, the lump emerged from the freezer before my trip to Seattle with my clownish smile of ooh perhaps R and G (brother and sister) could use this to make caramel apples! So I'm a failed candy maker, move on. Or so I thought...

G and i heated a little cup of the caramel to drizzle over pink rice crispy treats we made together (i only like pink marshmallows) and as the caramel set into zig zag formations across the sticky rice squares, it began to opaque; huh, that looks like fudge. That looks like fudge! Throw the whole box of caramel in the microwave. One minute later--pour into a greased pan. The next morning: set, opaque, crumbly fudge. Oh yeah. I meant to do that the entire time.

The principle: fudge needs to be cooked to a certain temperature, that is why a candy thermometer is necessary. But if you f* it up, it can be redeemed through a little dumb luck and a trip through the microwave. We triumphed through our peril and overcame the beast of failure through steadfast perseverance! No not really, but it's a nice thought. It is not easy to fix a sticky mess, but it is possible. Allegorize and personify your fudge, because if at first you don't succeed...


à bientôt

Sydney's off to Seattle--with Winey Tear-Stained Cookies

pomegranate Merlot Langues de Chat--the Jefferson peace coins for the trip to my parents

So I have a cat. Well rather, my housemates and I have a cat. And her name is Sydney. But what my housemates and I manged to accomplish, as budding first-time home renters, was the purchase of the monster prior to asking for the landlords approval. Now, after two months, we casually get around to asking. And the verdict: well of course it is no, else there would be no story here for me to yarn before your eyes. So the cat must go. But go where? Ironically it is not even my cat, i'm not a cat person --but my three housemates were denied and refused harborage by their families or significant others, and therefore the burden, like many others i have dumped, falls to my poor parents. She will get along fine there though, for their home is a halfway house for hooligans, drunks, rehab patients, mentally handicapped dogs, my brother, boxes of crap i don't want to throw out yet don't want to keep (love you guys), oh yeah and on occasion--me.

So the pestilent cat must be taken to Seattle. Hooray! A few days away from Spokane! It has been over three months since my last visit, and when the mountain passes are free of snow the distance between Spokane and Seattle dwindle to under five hours by car. So, this weekend--we are away. But right before we go--we bake some cookies of course. When Captains Merriweather Lewis and William Clark "discovered" the western United States they took with them Jefferson peace coins of the nation to offer the native tribes they stumbled upon as mementos of thanks and tidings of we come in peace. At the Salty Cod, short of printing Thomas Jefferson's face on a shortbread biscuit, we try to follow suit.

But then what of these strange cookies? Well, a recipe reminiscent of a cat (duh) to offer to family accompanied by repetitive arigato head motions. Langues de chat--cat tongues are long dry french butter sugar cookies, but softened to a crybaby version with wine and Persephone tears (pomegranate jewels). Am I crying for losing the cat? Sadly no. The cat is much better off without me. With other animals to play with and an outdoor forest to explore. Perhaps it's just one of those days (weeks) where the bags of bricks fall one just after the other. And maybe the wine...sitting next to my computer (glass-less, bad sign?) is perfect to make a white cookie pink like a cat's tongue, and fate perhaps then arranged the pomegranate in the bowl, tear shaped seeds, jewels from which mythology has given us to correlate to sadness and having fallen in a web. We all feel sorry for ourselves from time to time, but once reality is checked, and perhaps a few days to get...away; and the sun somehow finds its way back into the sky, even if it is still only behind the clouds. Reality is remembering that despite the presence of storm clouds--the sun did in fact rise. Reality doesn't always have to be seeing to beleiving, in fact I prefer it to not be.


Langues de chat: (traditional from Chocolate & Zucchini)
ingredients: .5 cup flour ~ .25 cup sugar ~ 2 egg whites ~ 1 tsp vanilla ~ .25 cup butter
method: mix. refrigerate one hour. using a pastry bag make strips, and bake 400 for 7 minutes.

with wine and pomegranates: add extra sugar, extra flour, 4 tbsps wine, and a quarter cup pomegranates.

Sydney, lonestar Spokey--now a sister to three dogs and two wizened felines. She will be just fine. She has taken kindly to the room that used to be my little sisters, which before hers was mine, and now is a computer office/ guest room with boxes stacked against walls, a telescope here, a guitar case there--physical displacement is given more credit than it deserves. You feel at home where you want to feel at home.

Wine and pomegranates. Well i'll take inspiration from any source, the good and the lonely. But remember that the only things to do with leftover pomegranate tears is to drown them in a bowl of steamy porridge. And next time--we'll use a damn glass.

Perks of a short trip home? Rainy soccer games--both brother and sister. But even better--what can i take from the pantry...tante pufflette si tu es la j'aime beaucoup tes confitures! i am making off with two jellys...shhhh!!

a bientot

A Trick or A Treat? Spicy and Sweet

Spicy Chocolate Black Bean Cakes

Is it a trick? Have I put a rock in Charlie Brown's bucket? Say what!? Perhaps if I said both a trick and a treat you will roll your eyes? Black bean brownie cakes with spicy chocolate. What say you to that! Perhaps it is a little tricky, perhaps it is a little healthy, perhaps I think about cake too much, but i must do something mischievous while sitting on my bum pretending to write a history paper as door-knocking goblins and ghouls solicit me for candy, are you surprised that college bar parties aren't quite my style? Don't worry--I am not offering the them these cakes, perhaps if i did they would throw soap at my windows. So a bucket of sticky sugar pills awaits their arrival by the door. Are you familiar with the American tradition of trick or treating? History links the practice to an evolution of events stretching back to medieval Europe. Yes trick or treating has a history, and while I would love to bestow history lectures upon the monsters at my door in lieu of candy, I think I would prefer to not be kicked in the shins and have a toilet paper and egg-free house in the morning. But you can't kick me from where you are! So on y va.

But first I want to make note on the layout change here at the Salty Cod: we've finally played the Html game and figured out how to import photos as their proper size--all thanks of course to my friend-the fantastically talented photographer/viciously gifted pastry chef Christy down yonder in Aussi-land. Please visit her at 5 Types of Sugar right now. Well after you are done reading my ramblings of course.

So the grand ultimatum: trick or treat. The origins of the American game lie in medieval European pagan traditions for the celebration of All Saint's Day, or All Hallows Day on November 1st, All Souls Day on November 2nd, and All Hallow's Eve on October 31st. On these days, variant traditions of costuming and soliciting food at the doors of strangers in exchange for prayers for the dead arose as, beleive it or not, a Christian practice. Souling, termed in Ireland, was the first trick or treat dating back possibly to the tenth century in which fruits and cakes were asked for in exchange for a prayer. In Ireland the practice of leaving soul cakes out on doorsteps for the departed continues to modern times. Though we must accredit the Scottish tradition as the closest predicate to the American version. In their practice of guising, children went door to door performing poems, dances, or jokes in exchange for a treat--today we get no such vaudeville.

Undoubtedly these souling traditions made their way to the United States on the coat tails of immigrants. The first public mentioning of the term Trick or Treat was in the Oregon Daily Chronicle newspaper in 1934, reporting on pranksters dressed as ghouls and ghosts who in mob racquet fashion, knocked upon doors demanding candied fruits and food stuffs as a treat, or they would trick the poor sap's house by soaping or rocking the windows. Ultimately: which would you rather? Give me a treat or have a trick on you! This practice spread across the country--the cautious home owners began to prepare the evening of October 31st by having sweets on hand, while the more disagreeable old timers were known at a time for keeping the shot gun close by.

Today, trick or treating is harmless--children know nothing of tricks only of treats as they walk the streets dressed as pumpkins and tooth fairies with glowsticks in hand. But the high school age hooligans....watch out for those. Now the trick perhaps is up to the candy giver...shall i give you your chocolate bar, or perhaps, like poor Chuck, a gift of a rock.

Now to the subject of black bean chocolate cakes; a trick and a treat in one for this All Hallows Eve; for by their appearance none would guess a deceit, though on the inside they are wheat free, flour free, white powder free black bean cakes--a Salty Cod creation. Chouette! We recently stumbled upon the image of a Japanese red bean cake and thought, well why not black then? Black is our favorite. We are quite fond of black beans, for a few years now we have been cooking them regularly in a fashion not unlike our mental reputation: different every time. Sometimes with cumin, sometimes with cinnamon, sometimes with coconut milk, is there an onion? Perhaps some garlic this time. We have never made black beans the same twice, perhaps that is their charm, you can do anything with them. So why not a cake, a chocolate cake with cayane pepper and chilies.

Beans? Gluten free? Is this some vegan-esque mumbo jumbo? Ab-so-lu-te-ment non. We may not eat gluten, but it does not procure a prejudice against powdery white wheatness; we just happen to like beans and baking with vegetables (are you glad you missed the lemon and beet seed bread? many a taster termed it the beet loaf.) And though beans may sound healthy--there is plenty of sugar within. So a trick, but yet still a treat.

Spicy Chocolate Bean Cakes:
Ingredients: 2 cups cooked black beans ~ 4 eggs ~ 1.5 cups sugar ~ 0.25 cups cocoa powder ~ packet vanilla sugar ~ 1 tsp baking powder ~ one chili pepper ~ .5 tsp cayene pepper or chili powder

method: 1) in a food processor (or magic bullet. hehe) cream beans and pepper. 2) mix absolutely everything else with the beans in a bowl. 3) fill muffin cups, cupcake molds, or an 8x8 brownie pan. 4) cook at 375 for about 15 minutes for the small cakes, 25 for the pan.

spicy vanilla butter cream: 1 stick butter ~ powdered sugar (just wing it, sorry i never measure with frostings or icings) ~ cream/milk ~ vanilla extract ~ cayene pepper or chili powder

will make ten small cupcakes. But to be honest--they taste much better without the frosting. plain and au naturel, but for an aesthetically pleasing photo frosting is a must. so Salty Cod suggestion for second-time improvements: nothing on top, but if a top is a must, then perhaps just a chocolate sauce.

Since for many a caramel and chocolate bar are much more appealing, we will give out our gummy bears and peanut butter cups to the kiddies. But this gamble paid off--and I can eat them! Black beans instead of flour, yes it works, and yes it tastes good--even the white bread loving S.F.A (housemates) were surprised and amazingly pleased by the unexpected ingredient--because it does look like your everyday average daisy jane brownie. Haha! I ahk at them, I put a trick in your treat!


a bientot

So a Peanut, an Apple, and some Maple Syrup Walk into a Bar...

Québec fudge cheesecakes with apple syrup



So tell me, have you grown weary of the images and tastes of the autumnal season yet? If you are slapped with yet one more recipe or trifle made with apple, pumpkin, and cinnamon will your shoulders hunch up as you grind your teeth from tedium? How many variant pumpkin breads, apple cakes, cinnamon buns, and trips to the pumpkin patch can there be! How many? Well, at least one more. So suck it up! October draws short breaths as he bleeds toward November, a staging platform for the onset of the holidays, a time when collectively our pumpkins and apples give way to gingerbreads and candy canes. So giddy up a couple more pumpkins and farmhouse visits, let me bask in this humor before the next six months of snow arrive. On y va.

I believe the last time i visited a pumpkin patch was with my kindergarten class--age six. So perhaps i am due for an encore sixteen years later (yes that's right i'm twenty two, none of this twenty-something business, i am what i am.) Where to pick a pumpkin in Spokane, well not in the city of course, perhaps those billboards shouting come pick apples at Walters' Fruit Ranch at Greenbluff! could be a hint. A mere thirty five minute drive north east of Spokane lies the Greenbluff farmland in the town of Mead; an association of growers that have been banded since 1902. Greenbluff is made up of over thirty small farms that offset each other throughout the season--cherries and strawberries in the early spring, apricots and rolling wheat fields in the high summer, and of course apple orchards and pumpkin patches in the fall.

Thirty farms? you say, how do you choose? Easy--Walters' got pony rides, tractor drives, and a foot-stomping good hay stage guitar player. Only kidding--Walters' is the first driveway on the right. Is that a reason? Why of course it is.

My housemates--the S.F.A. and I decided it would be a great family outing for the weekend, take in some air, get a couple warty gourds, inhale some tractor fumes, maybe dance around a hay bail...once at the farm you jump on one of the tractors that takes you out to the orchard, where one is greeted by an overall-wearing employee who hands you a bag or box and says with a toothy grin, good luck to all yee shorties, the pickins' are slim on the low beams, gotta catch em' up high! Well, it's a good thing i'm slightly above average height. The S.F.A. though do not break 1.4 meters (5'5 foot) among themselves--so perhaps it was I who left with a few more twigs and leaves in my hair as they pointed, and I picked.

Three bags of apples, and at .89 cents per pound what a steal! Honey Crisp, Fuji, Breaburn, Granny Smith, Golden, Red Delicious, Jonagold, Jonathan, and Gala apples all present and accounted for. Salty Cod employees will attest to never having enough fruit, particularly from cause of the boss' five (six?) piece a day addiction. Well enough agricultural business for today, as I later confide my thoughts on farm life to my friend; perhaps i could do it, pick apples, feed the chickens, bake pies until dusk--perhaps yes, but for all my respect of diligent agriculturalists, i know i couldn't last a week until falling away restless. But that is why there are places like Greenbluff, where we can act a farmer for the day, then back off with our little bundles of apples, drive home to the city, and then stand around the kitchen wondering--what the hell am i going to do with all of these apples?

What the hell indeed. I could eat them all in three days easy peasy. But perhaps we should put them to a use for the greater good. id est the culinary column you see here before your eyes. Besides--the University's Fall Family Weekend has brought my housemates' parents to town (hey, where's my family? Oh that's right parents have jobs, and little sister and little brother have school, and then there are the three dogs, and their hotel phobia, and the fact that i am sadly no longer 12 years old, but still, family you don't support me! To make up for this I will accept starbucks cards in the mail. ) either way there is need for me to show off my monumental skill with decadent pastry confections. But what to make...

Cheesecake of course. Find me a phobic of cheesecake and i will send you a box of Zataran's and a packet of koolaid in the mail as a prize. Individual cheesecakes mind you, (my training in Paris left me with a keen preference for individual deserts) not pumpkin though--too many of those on the scene lately, and to my chagrin apples must appear, for we did all of the picking... but an apple cheesecake? So passe--it's fall family weekend, and my family is absent, so how can i bring them in... you say a family recipe? My family doesn't have many of those. So turn then to cultural heritage...so something French Canadian (mon papa vient du Québec, savez-vous ça?) Perfect! Sucre à la crème--Québec fudge to layer the top, followed then with our apples, though in syrup form, and while keeping with the invitation of maple, finish the dearling with a shard of maple peanut caramel.

Sucre à la crème, or Québec fudge, is not the easiest of fudge recipes; quite the contrary--it's complicated and easy to fudge up as it can one burn, and two result in a pile of crumbs. But that's the way with French Canadians... they like to complicate matters. For those familiar with Scotish confectionary delights, Sucre à la crème should sound reminicsent of tablet, an eighteenth century recipe for a dry crumbly candy with, you guessed it--sugar and cream. Tablet's Québecois cousin is nearly identical, though is more often than not made with maple syrup. How Canadian quaint. Many variant regions around the world have similar recipes--in South America (not sure where in South America) it is known as tableta de leche, and the Dutch refer to it as borstplaat. We at the Salty Cod market it as Québec fudge.

My sincere hope is that a high school student somewhere in this world happens upon this recipe through google while searching for a Québecois recipe for a fun though meaningless high school French class project of bring in a recipe from a French speaking region of the world! Four years of high school French classes and I am an expert at witnessing frozen cream puffs thawed, covered in chocolate sauce, and then presented to the class with the words these took me forever to make! Such headaches have left me with a project idea for a cookbook: high school language class recipes for your skill level that even the quarterback can't fudge up! Should be available for purchase via Random House early July of 2012. If this be the case--welcome student, yes there are in fact French Canadian recipes. How bout' that.

Sucre à la crème (Quebec Fudge):
ingredients: 1 can sweetened condensed milk ~ 1 cup milk ~ 4 cups sugar ~ 1/4 cup butter ~ 1 cup maple syrup ~ vanilla

method: you need a candy thermometer unless you are pro at candy mind-reading. 1) boil all ingredients for 20 minutes (reach 240), remove from heat, add vanilla, pour into a buttered pan. most recipes use walnuts, i did not, and i did not cook it long enough, and mine looks and tastes like caramel. so make sure you reach 240 degrees. lesson learned.

Plain old Cheesecakes:
ingredients: 12 oz (1.5 boxes) cream cheese ~ 8 oz sour cream (half a container) ~ 3 eggs ~ 3/4 cup sugar ~ vanilla ~ almond extract ~ juice of half a lemon ~ i package of graham crackers ~ 1/4 cup of butter ~ 1/4 cup maple syrup

method: you may have noticed the strange measurements, halfs and quarters--yes it's a halved recipe because i made way too bloody much for 8 ramekins. anyways. 1) cream cheese and sugar 2) add eggs one at a time 3) add all of the other stuff and mix very well. set aside. 4) crunch graham crackers to a powder, mix with butter and syrup, and press into bottoms of 7 ramekins (leave one without a crust, for a surprise gluten free guest) 5) pour cheese cake mixture in ramekins 6) place ramekins in a casserole dish or roasting pan, boil a pot of water, and fill pan half way up the sides of the ramekins for a water bath 7) place in 350 F oven for 45 minutes, cool for an hour, then refrigerate for four.

Apple Syrup:
ingredients: two diced apples ~ 3/4 cup apple juice ~ 1/2 cup maple syrup or honey ~ 2 tsp cornstarch
method: boil juice, syrup, and apples--reduce heat to low, cover and simmer 10 minutes. add cornstarch--just remember to dissolve cornstarch in something before you add it. lesson learned.

Maple caramel with peanuts: make caramel, and add some peanuts. and remember--don't mistake wax paper for parchment. lesson learned.

So Jimmy Carter, Johny Appleseed, and Aunt Jemima walk into a bar, the peanut says can I buy you a drink? The apple says will you buy me a drink? And the syrup says, baby I am the drink. The solution: four rounds of tequila with a karaoke round of Ireland's rugby fight song. The result: mini cheesecakes, Salty Cod style.

this post is dedicated to French Canada, yes the country, and all of the French Canadians of the world. Yes I can dedicate a post to a million people. And as a bonus dedication, i'll throw in all those who have just finished writing a 15 page economic essay on Canada. That brings the dedication up to a million and one. chouette!


à bientôt

The Nut Report

The Virgin Macaron and the Gun

Wouldn't we all love to go to the nut shop where it's always fun. well I suppose first we would all love to actually have a nut shop to go to. I know I would. A nut shop would be a thing of wonder to behold, nuts nuts nuts as far as the eye could see; pistachios, and almonds, walnuts and pecans...Harlan Pepper? To have a nut shop to retreat to would mean to always have those little necessities close at hand. Yes a nut is a necessity. And with this necessity, we can make macarons.

The Salty Cod has never before attempted a macaron. They loomed in our radar as much too far out of our league, why? Perhaps it was their awesome majesty of divine grace exuded in the patisserie windows of Paris. The fancy pedestals, the glittering boxes-- row upon perfect row of every color in the rainbow. I was a common window smudge at Lenotre, gawking at the magnificent macaron trees; each tier a different color. Those are French. Those are French, i would tell myself, someday i will make one. Just not yet. I'm not good enough yet.

Well am i good enough yet? No, but i have had a change of mind--why wait until something is better to go for it, all of the could haves in the interim will be lost if we wait until we are good enough. Perhaps there won't be another chance for it. The idea came while rolling on the acorns in the park, i am going to make macarons, i decide as I skid to a bench to hop over, who cares if they don't look as good as the others out there. It was but a few hours later that I get a call from my boss with a last minute assignment (have I mentioned I am a newspaper photographer?) there's a big army ROTC event over in Mica, Idaho tomorrow morning, it's a training and a memorial, I need you to go shoot it. me: But I had planned on making macarons tomorrow...get someone else. Alright so i didn't say that, yes when and where? As per usual, the correct response. Macarons, afterward.

Winding down highway to farmland nowhere's-ville, I arrive (after a few turn arounds) down a road that (no was not on the map) at the shooting range where the university ROTC were having a rifle training session as well as a memorial to a former student recently lost in Afghanistan. After a lot of army jargon, stiff hand shakes, macho jumping jacks, yadda yadda yeah we all love Sarah Palin, god bless yep yep, I am accosted by an old friend with the words, so are you going to shoot a few rounds? I look at him, Excuse me? He responds, don't be scared, here's a bag of goodies, and i am handed a large bag of ammunition.

The immediate thought was repulsion; I hate guns, I hate the NRA, I do not believe in a right to bear arms, i'm a bleeding liberal voting for mis-ter Obama, I have a shirt that says Make bread not war, and you want me to shoot an army rifle? Have you gone mad? Needless to say when in the middle of nowhere with thirty army guys trying to put an assault rifle in your poor-little feminine fingers, you don't have much of a choice other than to just smile and take it. Or did I? The thoughts quickly ran to when would I ever be in this position of chance again? Is that guilt I feel from the little pebble inside that actually wants to hold that black monster? As a photographer one ends up at many a strange event, treasure chests full of chance encounters, free food, unexpected places, and well high tech military artillery in your hands. Lock and load.


I have shot a gun now. It was not as terrible as I had imagined. Though I did begin to tear behind my sunglasses while overhearing conversations of damn you got him right in the head, you got that bastard! I know that it is people who turn machines into monsters, and though the world would be a better place without them, it is the person holding the gun who is making the choice to pull the trigger. Yes these guys are training for the army. Training to go off and shoot people. Callousness to death is a necessity for a soldier. Me, I will pull the trigger at the cardboard target, blink as the cases ping back off of my glasses and forehead, I will remove the cartridge, set it down, and be content to never hold one again. I am applauded by my army men, but really, guns are no game. Almonds caught in egg beaters shooting astray from their bowl is a much more tempting bullet for me. Let's make macarons.

An initial attempt at a macaron would be ridiculous without consulting the wise teachings of Helen pastry chef at the world renound Tartelette. We cannot do everything on our own, so take help where you can get it. My eyes were glued to the step by step instructions i had studied the previous night repetitively as if for a midterm exam. The Torah of Macarons, the New Testament and the word of Allah all in one. Yes i let sit the egg whites overnight for twenty four hours. Yes I went out and finally bought a pastry bag. Well, a few compromises. No stand mixer. No egg beaters. Meringue by hand hooray! Grind almonds...well the margarita magic bullet, i am finding to be not so magical. Parchment paper? Crap I hate grams...but we will persevere. System D as we say.

Macarons are like blank coloring books, the shapes are there, you however fill in the lines. A macaron shell is a combination of meringue and ground almonds, while the center is n'importe de quoi. Therefore it's up to you. Nuts of course. Inspiration from Helens recent post on pecan pie macarons, i decided to make a thanksgiving macaron. Pecan in the shell as is her recipe, but with a cranberry cream cheese butter cream for the inside. Where we worried? Were we scared? Did it work out? Oui.


Cranberry Pecan Cheesecake Macarons:
Ingredients shell: 1/2 cup ground almods ~ 1/2 cup ground pecans ~ 3 egg whites ~ 1/4 cup sugar ~ 1.5 cups powdered sugar
Ingredients filling: 4 oz cream cheese ~ some cranberry jelly ~ 1 cup powdered sugar ~ 1/4 cup butter

method: just go here.

Our first macaron, our first gun. Two daunting images in one day. Life at the Salty Cod, sometimes isn't so boring after all. I will do the macaron again, the gun, well i can quit you. There is too much pain caused by that one three little word to give it anything more. The ROTC men were all thrills and chills and peppermint pills, for some perhaps they must. Dollface, Betty Crocker--call me what they will, at the end of the day I am more proud of my little macaron than getting up there in front of all their eyes and pulling the trigger.


à bientôt