If you stick around long enough, everything makes a comeback, even cottage cheese. A curd-centric cousin of farmer and pot cheese, the somewhat dowdy offering has circled back into the spotlight. My brand allegiance remains fickle, a reflection of my childhood. Breakstone, Sealtest, Axelrod and Friendship were on steady rotation in our fridge. Light and Lively poked its head into the mix for a brief visit in the 70s, but its low-fat content didn't align with Jessie's favorite cheesecake recipe.
We enjoyed cottage cheese year round but particularly in the summer, teamed with cantaloupe and blueberries. It was also a quick/comfortable lunch regardless of the season, tangled up with egg noodles. My siblings preferred seasoning the creamy noodles with salt and pepper but I opted for a liberal sprinkle of cinnamon sugar. Closing my eyes between forkfuls, Lokshen mid kaese (Yiddish for noodles and cheese), almost tasted like cheesecake. Cottage cheese is rich with history. The USDA sang its praises in the 1918 booklet, Cottage Cheese Dishes: Wholesome, Economical, Delicious. It was promoted as a cost effective alternative to meat during wartime and considered a creative appetizer option in The Sealtest Food Advisor of 1940. In 1950, the American Dairy Association tempted 'homemakers' with the pamphlet Creative Cooking with Cottage Cheese. Lately, cottage cheese has been popping up with some regularity on-line and in print while also holding court as a social media darling. As someone who recalls color images of hollowed out cantaloupe halves, scoops of cottage cheese and canned fruit cocktail splashed across menus, I find this amusing. Once dubbed the "diet plate," you could find this rather isolated offering somewhere between overstuffed corned beef and pastrami sandwiches and just before rice pudding, cheesecake and egg creams. Baking/consuming a full size cheesecake seemed excessive in the summer heat so I slimmed down Jessie's recipe by half. Fitting neatly in a seven-inch springform, there was plenty of room across the top for a finish of melon and berries. Maybe not considered heart healthy by my cardiologist, but certainly a boost to one's state of mind.
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Inspired by Toronto's Farm Boy market, sweet Ontario strawberries and tart rhubarb invited red currants to tag along in an open-faced pie. Rich in pectin and acidity, red currants help thicken a notoriously juicy filling.
And when you're working against the clock, I cannot say enough about Williams Sonoma Gold Touch pie plate which delivers a well baked, crisp bottom crust without the extra step of blind baking. Bright red currants are having their all-too-brief moment in the sun and at select farm markets; if you spot them, pick up a pint. They are particularly good added to stone fruit or berry pies, and highly coveted by jam makers. Most non-bakers associate red currants with jarred jelly served alongside savory dishes. The truth is currants add brightness to fruit desserts, in all seasons, but especially when stone fruits and berries are ripe for the picking. Which they are. Thankfully, I'll be returning to Toronto later this summer and can't wait to take advantage of Ontario's fruit bounty. In these instances, it's good to know folks who welcome you into their kitchens and happen to have rolling pins as part of their baking supply arsenal. Fortunately, there's a Farm Boy Market conveniently located a peach pit's throw from each of those kitchens. If you're venturing out for produce this weekend, don't be surprised to find yourself swimming against the tide of peach seekers. The sweetest peaches won't hit their stride until later, but peach fans are impatient. They tend to jostle and elbow in their quest for the perfect clingstones, squeezing and sniffing with gusto before deciding yay or nay. One market table retaining a semblance of of order will be the table dedicated to the apricot.
Dubbed praecocum by the Romans, it Is loosely defined as "precocious one." To be fair, apricots are temperamental; fragile, difficult to ship, too often picked before ripe and easily bruised. Apricots often get a bum rap because they don't scream summer the way peaches do. But devoted apricot lovers applaud the tart flavor and hint of almond tucked within the diminutive fruit. True, on more than one occasion apricots have broken my heart with a mealy interior and lackluster flavor. But teamed with sweet cherries, the two stone fruits complement each other, intensifying in flavor as they bake. The end result is not only jammy but bright, assertively tart in the best summer vacation kind of way. A Guinness cake walks into a bar and orders one bowl of popcorn, one of peanuts and one of pretzels. The barkeep also brings a shot of whiskey. There are many ways to celebrate St. Patrick's Day but I can think of few better options than baking a dark chocolate Guinness Cake. You can ice it any which way you choose, bit I prefer salty caramel over cream cheese or ganache. And if you're feeling festive, caramel popcorn spiked with whiskey dresses things up nicely. Add some salted peanuts to the mix of dark brown sugar, maple syrup and your favorite whiskey, and party on until you decide to close down your favorite kitchen for the night.
I will leave the Guinness cake recipe up to you (lots of choices out there), but here is the Whiskey Caramel Corn: POPCORN 2 tbsp vegetable oil 1/2 cup popcorn kernels 1/4 tsp. Diamond Crystal kosher salt or 1/8 tsp. table salt 2/3 cup lightly salted peanuts 1/3 cup miniature salted pretzels WHISKEY CARAMEL 1/2 cup unsalted butter 1 1/4 cups packed light brown sugar 1/3 cup light corn syrup or Lyle's Golden Syrup 1/4 cup whiskey 3 tbsp pure maple syrup 3/4 tsp Diamond Crystal kosher salt, or 3/8 tsp table salt 1/2 tsp baking soda 1. Position oven racks in bottom and top thirds of oven. Preheat to 250°F . Line two baking sheets with parchment paper ; have two heatproof rubber spatulas or wooden spoons handy. 2. To make popcorn, heat oil in a large pot over medium-high heat until very hot; add popcorn kernels and shake the pot to form a single layer on the bottom. Cover, and reduce heat to medium once you hear the first pop. Shake pot a few times; listen for steady popping. Remove from heat once the kernel pops slow down to a few at a time. Transfer to an extra-large bowl or large roasting pan and sprinkle with 1/4 tsp. kosher salt or 1/8 tsp. table salt. Sprinkle with peanuts. You should have 12 to 14 cups. 3. To make caramel, melt butter in a large saucepan over medium heat. Add sugar, corn or Golden syrup, whiskey, maple syrup and 3/4 tsp. kosher salt or 3/8 tsp. table salt, stirring until combined. Raise heat to medium-high. Once mixture begins to boil, cook without stirring until mixture reaches 250°F, 4 to 6 minutes. Remove from heat; immediately add baking soda and stir until mixture foams then settles. 4. Pour over popcorn mixture. Using two heatproof spatulas, quickly stir to coat evenly. Sprinkle with pretzels, if you wish. Divide among prepared pans and bake on top and bottom racks, stirring every 15 minutes, and switching and rotating pans until mixture is evenly coated and crisp, 30 to 45 minutes total. Remove from oven and cool completely. Caramel corn is best within first 3 days, but can be stored in an airtight container at room temperature up to 1 week. Makes about 14 cups In anticipation of Passover which arrives in less than a month, Purim provides both incentive and opportunity to clear out our kitchen cabinets of flour. It also nudges some of us towards the dark recesses of the freezer. Though I tend to align myself with traditional Hamantaschen fillings, this year I'm more than happy to color outside the poppy seed, apricot and prune lines. Inspired by the very last of last year's rhubarb stash and an over abundance of wild blueberries, I'm putting the prunes and poppyseeds on pause; ditto for the dried apricots.
Oven roasting strawberries and rhubarb heightens their flavor while taming the excess liquid that yields a runny filling. Frozen blueberries make a sturdy stove top jam that can be as sweet and lemony as you wish. I've never been smitten with dry, crumbly cookie versions of the tri-corner pastries; probably a latent Hebrew-school-Purim-costume-parade syndrome. Though my preference is delicate cream cheese dough, I'm also a fan of yeast driven Hamantaschen. Both require a little extra time and fiddle, but they are so well worth it. And if you feel up to the challenge of watching melted butter transform from bright yellow to golden brown, the nutty flavor of brown butter pairs beautifully with blueberries. Regardless of the flavor profile you choose, the story of Purim remains an important reminder of Queen Esther's bravery. As we celebrate the holiday today and tomorrow, it's a fine idea to consider the power of a pastry; one that symbolizes hope and resilience. When Mardi Gras "roulez-s" around, I'm reminded to give a nod to Anna Laura Squalls, head baker at the Pontchartrain Hotel from 1960-1985. Squalls' ingenuity is responsible for elevating Baked Alaska to the iconic Seven Mile High Pie. A gravitational wonder composed of vanilla, chocolate, strawberry and peppermint ice creams, it was blanketed in torched meringue then drizzled with chocolate sauce. Mile High Pie stands tall on my list of indelible food memories from the Pontchartrain's Caribbean Room.
For breakfast, the hotel's Silver Whistle Coffee Shop served muffins bursting with blueberries. Most mornings before hopping the street car to the Saenger Theatre, I bought one muffin, still warm, tucked inside a waxy bakery bag. Diligently breaking off small pieces, the challenge was making it last for the duration of the trip from the Garden District to Canal and Carondelet. I was introduced to Squalls on my first day at the hotel and would wave and say good morning whenever I caught a glimpse of her in the kitchen. Very much the driving force behind the hotel's iconic baked goods and desserts, I was a little in awe of her but she was warm and engaging. Revered by the staff and the guests with good reason, she was a female culinary icon who sadly received far less recognition on the national and world culinary stages than she deserved. I think about her with the same sort of affection I felt for Jessie who had such a mastery of kitchen knowledge and innovation, a skilled trouble shooter and creative. I'm pretty sure both women would have advised me to leave the ice cream pie in the freezer (at the very least) overnight before slicing it with a hot knife. (Neither freezer patience nor waiting for chocolate sauce to cool is among my strong suits, as evident in the photo.) Squalls' addition of peppermint ice cream ends this dessert on a jazzy note; refreshing but not overly minty. The calendar flip from January to February triggers a food memory involving neither chocolate nor conversation hearts, but one of pineapple. A former stint turning out desserts in an Italian restaurant coincided with February 14th. Hours spent in tiramisu purgatory were paused to accommodate several cases of baby pineapples. The executive chef rhapsodized over a dessert for two; a baby pineapple, halved, scooped out, filled with oven-roasted pineapple, topped with gelato, garnished with cookies. Good news- mini pineapples lack a tough inner core. Bad news- they still require plenty of painstaking knife skills. Turns out that dunking Savoiardi in espresso is far less fuss.
With the fruit resting comfortably in a large Cambro container, my attention turned to cookies. Biscotti played nicely, but Pizzelle, less so. Requiring a brief spin through an antiquated iron, the anise spiked waffle cookies were needy. The waffle iron was cranky, with a history of shorting out mid-bake. Pizzelle were finicky and fragile and popular amongst the line cooks. During service, the same person responsible for salads was the person plating desserts. (That always troubled me; pesto and pineapple sharing tight quarters.) Pleading with the kitchen crew not to snack on the cookies, I pitched my hours old cappuccino in defiance. Due to its popularity (with both patrons and back of house), the dessert special became a regular menu item, pausing only briefly when the Pizzelle iron drew its final anise scented breath. A recipe suggestion tagged along with each case of baby fruit. One was no different than a recipe from a 1920s cookbook for "stewed pineapple compote." I incorportaed the compote into a classic Italian crostata, sandwiched between a short-crust pastry, aka pasta frolla. What makes this filling particularly appealing now is that it doesn't call for eggs, and if you opt for a cookie crumb crust, there's not much butter involved. I'd be lying if I didn't acknowledge that pineapples trigger some less-than-stellar memories for me. I'm still a little skittish around anise extract, Pizzelle irons and baby pineapples, but that's strictly a personal problem. The Captain seated behind the Trader Joe's Customer Help desk assures me that both Peppermint Jo-Jos and Candy Cane Crunch Chocolate Bars are strictly seasonal items. Any hopes of dunking chocolate cookies sandwiched with peppermint cream into a cold glass of milk have been dashed. Like most shoppers steering their cart between dairy and produce, I am inevitably drawn to an expansive wall unit in the rear of the store, an area that pre-pandemic, was generously outfitted with coffee urns and small cups so you could caffeinate and shop simultaneously. Those were the glory days. Over time, the wall became a haven for seasonal/feature items. Currently, the area is awash in orange. It seems that each time I peruse this display, the oranges are assembled in a slightly new formation, a marketing ploy created as a subliminal pull of my coat sleeve, encouraging me to buy another bag. These purchases have caused some disgruntlement at my house; namely between other members of the citrus family fighting for elbow room in an already congested refrigerator. Clementines, Satsumas, Blood Oranges, Tangelos, Valencias and Cara Caras leave little room for lemons and limes, let alone Ruby Red grapefruits. Sure, I could leave them sprawling all willy-nilly across the countertops, but I have my hands full just wrangling the mesh bags into a semblance of order. Crafty, I'm not, so repurposing them into kitchen scrubbies or gift wrap is highly unlikely.
Freshly squeezed orange juice is a small luxury that my grandmother swore by. I don't remember oranges confined to mesh bags, more clearly I recall my mother pausing by a mountain of oranges at the A & P and hand picking each one, placing them in a large brown paper bag What I vividly remember is the daily wake up call of the Sunbeam juicer, a steady whirr-pause-whirr as the machine reliably separated pulp from juice, always wanting a second glass because it was so delicious. It took a little digging but it appears that in the early 1960s, oranges sold for 89 cents/dozen. As a family dedicated to breakfast sweets, our allegiance was to Jessie's cinnamon swirled sugar buns. Crumb cake was something I enjoyed at a friend's house (hugely popular after slumber parties) but made infrequent appearances alongside my father's Chemex coffee maker. Fortunately, my grandmother had a fondness for the occasional slice of Entenmann's crumb cake, and when she moved to Florida, she would pick one up at the Publix, placing the box on top of her refrigerator for safe keeping. I'm a devout believer in a cake-to-crumb ratio hovering near 50%. Spiking the cake batter with zest and a little orange juice (that has been reduced to concentrate the flavor) plays nicely against the sour cream cake. And though some might protest, you can add a thin layer of fruit or jam or curd, (all in the name of flavor and freeing up fridge space). But most critically, what distinguishes crumb cake from ordinary coffee cake is the heft of the brown sugar crumb. Ask any New Yorker and they'll tell you Much in the same way an unwrapped garlic pickle permeates a refrigerator, the delicatessen experience is deeply imbued within my soul. Though Katz's on Manhattan's Lower East side is tethered to my youth, I am inundated with deli memories spanning decades, from the vantage point of both customer and waitress. At a very young age I watched my mother navigate Katz's, entrusting me with the required ticket that served as our check. After ordering frankfurters and sauerkraut for the two of us, she then pointed with precision to the meats behind the glass case. With the skill of a surgeon, the deli man hand sliced pastrami, corned beef, brisket and center cut tongue. Wrapping each securely in starched white paper, he handed the packages across the counter. Returning the tightly clutched (and now wrinkled) ticket back to be tallied, my mother paid while I inhaled one last giant gulp of salty air. I loved how the fragrance of Katz's followed us home from Houston Street to Far Rockaway.
When my paternal grandmother relocated from Queens to Florida, she introduced me to Wolfie's and the Rascal House, two stand out delicatessens. It was on those late afternoon jaunts that the intricacies of the 'early bird special' and the proper way of concealing the contents of a bread basket in one's purse were revealed. Many years later, I landed a summer job as a waitress at Larry's Deli in suburban New Jersey. Learning the vastly complex menu and the proper way to place an order (without inciting the wrath of the line cooks), acquainted me with crying in the walk-in. The ever-changing menu specials required a knack for memorization and improvisation. The hazards of serving behemoth bowls of matzoh ball soup to diners wildly gesticulating with their hands were too frequent (and painful) to count. It didn't take long to realize that both 'hangry' and well fed diners were often lousy tippers, and that for many, Dr. Brown's Cel-Ray soda was considered essential to the Jewish deli experience. For those not smitten with the herbaceous soda, both Cream and Black Cherry ranked high on the preferred beverage list. The glitzier egg cream, a blend of milk, chocolate syrup and seltzer, was in my opinion, less of a thirst quencher and more of a dessert. Regardless, it was always the egg cream that inevitably overflowed in my attempt to transfer the generously filled glass from tray to table, sending me racing to the wait station for a stack of kitchen towels. Mopping up a toppled egg cream was an exercise in futility; as the river of chocolate bubbles ran rampant beyond the confines of the table top I could feel my cheeks turning crimson. Ultimately, the runaway beverage would land on the white linen trousers of a woman debating cantaloupe with cottage cheese as opposed to the hollowed out bagel with light cream cheese. For a homesick freshman in upstate New York, it was Hal's Deli that played a major role in my college experience. Dodging the dining hall meal plan, a trip to Hal's provided comfort between two slices of seeded rye bread layered with rare roast beef, turkey, Swiss cheese and neon Russian dressing. Post college, I worked for a high profile individual in the entertainment industry who religiously ordered lunch from the Stage Delicatessen. His selection, plucked from a dizzying menu of options, never deviated from one day to the next; a mammoth turkey leg which he consumed with audible enjoyment from his perch at a table overlooking Central Park. Having long since retired my rubber-soled waitress shoes, over-stuffed sandwich emporiums still draw me in with equal parts love and trepidation. The pull of a carbohydrate busting blintz smothered in sour cream is strong. So is the hypnotic fragrance of salty meat wafting over a counter, mingling with the jarring flavor of a sour pickle. Despite recollections of replenishing the pickle station with stacks of hot-from-the-dishwasher, flat-bottomed 'monkey dishes,' my hankering for health salad remains unwavering. The non-specific mash-up of raw vegetables notably driven by cabbage, dressed with sugary vinegar and void of mayonnaise (hence the suggestion of health), was my sustenance between double shifts. What I will never miss are the parties of ten, slow to order, loudly pontificating the virtues of kreplach and the density of matzoh balls. Ditto the customers insistent on extra rye bread with their pastrami sandwich followed by one slice of cheesecake, multiple forks and separate checks. Nightmares are indelibly etched from mistakenly decanted Dr. Brown's sodas and toppled egg creams. Far better to be the one seated on the naugahyde chair eyeing the menu, than the one balancing the unsteady tray. The New York Historical Society's "I'll Have What She's Having" is a traveling exhibition composed of hunger inducing artifacts. A thoughtful curation of neon signage, menus, uniforms, film and photography richly illustrates the delicatessen's rightful place in popular culture. Most critically, the exhibit pays homage to the Ashkenazi immigrants, primarily from Central and Eastern Europe, who influenced and created the delicatessen as a uniquely American institution. Certainly more than one delicatessen influenced my life, as indelibly as borsht on a white paper napkin. On this Friday the 13th, borrowing some humor from The New Yorker and some gospel from The Silver Palate. Quiche is the ideal breakfast/lunch/dinner/snack to guide you through a season of winter-y produce. Lean into the leeks and onions, scallions and herbs. Most any greens will appreciate a quick sauté, even those formerly destined for salad. Add some fresh herbs to your favorite pate brisee and take the time to blind bake the crust. Pouring custard into a quasi-baked pastry shell rarely leaves you with a well-baked crust. Taking the time to line the shell and blind baking it until raw dough no longer poses a threat is well worth the effort. The custard filling (3 eggs plus 1 & 1/2 cups of dairy), needs little more than salt, pepper, a grating of nutmeg and maybe a hit of @kozliks mustard. Don't skimp on the cheese and even though you might be dodging the wine, fill a festive glass with bitters and some sparkling water. Now pretend it's April (or October) in Paris.
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