I can't complain

Good day, Dear Reader –

I trust January is being nice and gentle with you. And while I’m at it, I’d like to ask: What do you generally think of January? I personally find the year’s first month a reclusive egg. I own it is no fun to arrive on the spot intent to raise a few toasts to a new year and throw in a few tipsy jokes here and there only to find out that everybody has sobered up after the visit of the festive and jocund December and promised to go teetotal for the whole month. Thus far having found nobody around the bar, January makes a beeline for the kitchen…and, dash it, what is there to be seen? Lettuce and broccoli have taken up the diner’s plate. It’s quiet. Void of major festivities of its own, January does only so much as to grow cold and pass by in the wake of the past holidays.

My point is: January for me is just that month that comes when Christmas holidays are over. A rather daunting attitude, I hear you say. And I agree. I’m having a hard time letting go of good times. It is why our Christmas tree is still here, still sparkling, still perfuming our home. I’ve been like this since the daunt of me, begging my mother to hold on to the tree just one more day until my father would have to intervene with a shirty speech about how much the dry needles litter the living room’s floor, and how it is on his way to his chest of books, and how silly it is, holy spruce, to have not yet got rid of the Christmas tree by the end of January and that we’d better do it immediately. Upset, I’d strip the dear tree of the ornaments, taking down tinsel after tinsel, one shimmering string after another, knowing perfectly well that of course it was the time to throw it out, of course it was silly to keep it for so long. But in my view, for long as there was the Christmas tree, there was no emptiness. I am my own governor now, and so far the tree (this time mostly decorated with peppermint candy canes) is staying. Anthony says he doesn’t mind. And I’m glad. I’m filling the void.

Where am I going with this? Ah yes, I’ve been free from work the week that’s just worn off. I was going to make a few day trips around Holland, to get engaged in a shopping spree, to visit a few museums I haven’t yet been to. In one broad brush stroke, my plan was to be out and about, filling my January with excitement – and I couldn’t wait! Needless to say, I quite surprised myself that when my free week finally arrived, all I did, and wanted to do, was stay in. My initial standing was to plunge in the dark underwater of self-loathing: What a downer! What a pooper scooper! Humbug! Most likely I would. But I got distracted. Anthony got swept off by a beastly case of poisoning, the type that blows one flat out, and makes one think, That’s it. He was in bad, bad pain. We were both scared. My main tasks at the time were to make sure there is enough Gatorade in the fridge, it being the sole thing he could keep down, and to call an ambulance if the situation would spiral out of control, which, luckily, it didn’t.

I’m happy to say Anthony is OK now. The circumstances so transpired that we both stayed in. And actually, except his sickness, it was nice. We played Monopoly day in, day out; watched a lot of Pat & Mat and In Living Color (such a great show!). I did a lot of reading. And when Anthony finally felt hungry again, we ate chickpeas. I can’t complain about my week off. I don’t think so. And as long as our Christmas tree is still around, I will not complain about January.

Hot Chickpea Salad
Source: Simple French Food by Richard Olney

Composed of chickpeas, olive oil, vinegar and fresh herbs, this is one of the unfussiest salads I’ve ever made. All you’ve got to do is to plan slightly ahead – at least two hours for soaking the chickpeas and as much for cooking them -- and water and heat will take care of the rest.

I have a soft spot for chickpeas, but that, however, didn’t equip me with the knowledge that they are very sensitive to hard waters. To neutralize the effect, Richard Olney would soak his chickpeas in sifted wood ashes and rain water, to which a good pinch of bicarbonate of soda would be a fine substitute, he writes.

Rain waters and wood ashes or not, this is what you do. Rinse the chickpeas well after soaking, chuck in a pot, cover amply with water and throw in a carrot and/or celery stalk along with one onion studded with a few cloves and a sprig of thyme. Bring slowly to a boil, cover partially and cook into submission over a lazy simmer, salting the lot generously only towards the end of cooking time. Drain. Serve hot, accompanied by a fragrant olive oil – “The immediate explosion of perfume when good olive oil is added to any hot vegetable is always exciting” -- vinegar, salt and pepper and some finely-chopped fresh parsley. No measurements are required for this type of dish, your own taste being the essential pointer.

What astonishes

I like remembering people through things they taught me. Take my good Italian friend Paola for example. Before moving to London, Paola worked at the bakery for a few years. I learnt a lot from her. First and foremost, she passed me the knowledge of macaron craftsmanship. Every Wednesday I make macarons at work now I think of Paola. The eye for a good meringue, the careful wrist movement, the assertive hold of a pastry bag, she was there with me as I was making wonky baby steps towards the skillfully made macaron. I’m thankful to her for this, thankful with capital T. What I’m also grateful to her for is that she showed me some special cookies one distant day in past.

Chocolate and sea salt, bound into union by brown sugar, butter and flour, all packed into the medallion of a cookie, sea salt chocolate sables (French-style shortbreads), man, they stole my heart. I made over one hundred and fifty of them for the personal use over the course of the last one and a half weeks, which screams out loud that these cookies are seriously good. Or that I’m losing my mind. A voice in my head tells it’s both.

If you are still figuring out what sweet species to include in your Christmas cookie tin, a place, as we all understand, notoriously known for being intolerant to the stale and tasteless, could I suggest you try these sea salt chocolate sables. Created, as I learnt, by the veritable French pastry chef Pierre Herme, he of the Isphahan macaron fame, among much, much else, these cookies are destined to deliver. I’d even say they are bound to surprise. Of course there is nothing surprising about the already classical combination of sea salt and chocolate, but that’s not what I mean anyway. What I’m driving at is the way the sweet (caramel-y from the brown sugar and bitter from the chocolate) and salty co-exist here. Upon the first bite, preceded by a clear and crisp snap!, it’s a sweet talk all over. The eater chews ever so slightly for a second or two, freeing the chocolate flavor from the cookie case all the while, and salty sticks its neck out from seemingly every sugary molecule in the sable. And at the end what astonishes the palate is not the fact that the confection is sweet and salty, but that it’s both at the same time. The impression lasts even if a stray salt crystal resides on this tooth or that for a little while.

Also to be noted: the said cookie is earnestly chocolate-rich. The richness doesn’t come from the overuse (is there such a thing anyway?) of chocolate. The latter is chaperoned by cacao powder and that is what makes the deep omnipresent chocolate flavor even more proper. In other words, the whole cookie, so wholesome and many-faceted at once, is the capital excitant for the palate. It’s small, but it plays big. I’m happy to have lost my heart, and mind, to it.

When it comes to keeper recipes, I’m a slow burner, I noticed. Paola made them a tough more than a year ago as one of her contributions to our mutual friend’s seventy-five people party that she and I had been asked to cook for. One cookie a pop was the idea, but I remember snatching a handful, surely leaving somebody cookie-less thereof. I know I should have been sorry or something, but honestly I was not. The cookie, as described above, was worth a sin or two. I’ve been thinking about that sable frequently ever since, but make it myself, well, I didn’t (am I lazy? forgetful? I don’t know!). I knew Paola left the recipe in a recipe folder at the bakery (the private party took place there), so before leaving in September I copied the recipe neatly with a view to make it imminently, which I didn’t get to do – until recently.

Despite having already made over a hundred and fifty (see the second paragraph above) for only the two of us, Anthony and myself, there are no intentions on my side to discontinue the process. I don’t see how I could, now that my mind got whisked away by the power of sea salt chocolate sable. Thank you, Paola!

Happy holidays, Dear Reader! Happy cooking, happy eating!

Pierre Herme’s Sea Salt Chocolate Sables

Adapted from Pierre Herme via a dear friend Paola
Yield: about 36 cookies

I can’t see how one could improve upon these darlings. They are great. A few minor things I changed are simply a matter of personal preference. One, instead of chopping chocolate into chip-size bits, I grind it (after some rough chopping). This way, the chocolate melts into everywhere in the cookie. Two, I also grind a fresh vanilla bean, which is, perhaps, just fussy, but I like the intense vanilla flavor the cookie sees from it.

And lastly, as cookies go, these are triply best when the dough rests amply in the fridge. Make the dough, form the logs, chill and bake the next day while replenishing the dough stash, if desired (which it will be). The recipe doubles beautifully.

175 g (6.2 oz) all-purpose flour
30 g (1 oz) best-quality unsweetened cacao powder, such as Valrhona ½ tsp baking powder
150 g (5.3 oz) butter, at room temperature
120 (4.2 oz) g light brown sugar
50 g (1.7 oz) sugar
½ tsp fluer de sel or ¼ tsp fine sea salt
½ tsp ground vanilla bean, or 1 tsp pure vanilla extract
150 g (5.3 oz) best-quality bittersweet chocolate, such as Valrhona, finely ground

1. In a medium bowl, sift together the flour, cacao powder and baking powder. Set aside.

2. Beat the butter at medium speed until soft and creamy. Add the sugars, fleur de sel and ground vanilla bean (or vanilla extract) and continue beating at medium speed for 1-2 minutes (do not let the butter get warm). Add the sifted dry ingredients and using your hands mix just until combined. The dough will look very crumbly and that’s fine. Work the dough as little as possible. Toss in the chocolate and quickly mix (again, you can use your hands) to incorporate.

3. Turn the dough out onto a clean and smooth work surface, and divide in half. Working with one half at a time, shape the dough into a rough 4-cm (1 ½-inch) thick log (to make sure there is no air channel in the log, flatten it once or twice and roll it up from one long side to the other; work fast to prevent the butterfat from melting). Wrap the logs in plastic wrap and refrigerate for a few hours, preferably overnight. (Wrapped airtight, the logs can be chilled for up to 3 days and frozen for up to 1 month.)

4. Pre-heat the oven to 175 C (350 F). Place a rack in the bottom third of the oven. Line two baking sheets with parchment paper.

5. With a sharp and thin-bladed knife, cut logs into 1-cm (1/2 -inch) thick slices. (If the cookies break, just squeeze the broken-off part back onto the cookie.) Place the cookies on the prepared sheets, leaving at least about 2-cm (about 1-inch) space between them. Bake for 12 minutes and only 1 sheet at a time. The cookies will not look done nor will they be firm, but that’s fine, that’s the way they roll. Let the cookies rest on the sheet until they are warm. Repeat with the second sheet of the cookies. Keep in an airtight container for up to 1 week.

It would look decent

Dear Reader, hello –

How are things with you? I got a little bit distracted from here, as you can see. Since my temporary return to the bakery, I’ve been laboring there four consecutive days a week (as opposed to three days spread throughout the week before). Seeing that for most job-bound a working week would usually be comprised of five days, I feel I have no legitimate right to make a fuss now. I’d just say my only beef would be not to pass all my after-work hours in the vacuum of a deep slumber, which is what I’ve successfully been doing lately. I’m not a sloth, really. I’m rather confident my having to wake up for work before the birds – at 5 a.m. on a weekday, at 4 a.m. on weekends -- has a lot to do with my recent fondness of the pillow. Reader, I’d like to do much better than counting sheep before my usual bed time around 11 p.m, so I’m working on it. My latter-day strategy, of which I’m going to tell you in a jiffy, is working remarkably well. It keeps me from falling asleep soon after I get back from work in the late afternoon, which, in turn, raises my morale up a notch, which, in turn, makes me a better-ish person overall.

The afore-mentioned strategy is…cake-making. It’s brilliant. All this whisking, beating, and mixing have me skip around my kitchen area shooing hibernation away. Then it’s (usually) an hour wait for a cake to bake which has the same effect on me as a shot of inky espresso, only it’s milder and more considerate towards my heart rate. And of course it’s the eating of a cake itself that takes the edge off my tiredness completely. (Some irony: baking at work tires me, baking at home perks me up.)

I made my first cake when I was fourteen or fifteen of age (I was a late bloomer). It was an apple cake known in Russia as sharlotka (not to be confused with charlotte Russe). Growing up I was not really encouraged to cook. Reason being, tap water was a pleasant surprise rather than a 24/7 attribute in our household back then (brilliant post-Soviet reality). It’s well understood cooking goes hand-in-glove with washing up, but the latter in our situation was a rather dire endeavor to accomplish, what with the limited water stored in vats and buckets kept in the bathroom. In other words, no need for unnecessary whisking, whipping, and mixing, thank you very much. But I saw that cake on a Russian cooking show, and it seemed an easy one-bowl affair. All the domestic encumbrances be damned, I was so making it. The simplicity of the said confection laid in its use of all the ingredients in equal measure, the ingredients being flour, sugar, eggs and apples. You beat one part sugar with a few eggs, introduce one part flour to the mixture, and round the deal off by mixing in a few apples. The lot was baked in a frying pan, and regardless of one half of the cake going lopsided and the other burnt, my parents and I had a piece each with tea. We all agreed that theoretically it was a good no-nonsense cake, and that I shouldn’t be making it again.

Nigel Slater’s apple cake reminds me of my first baking affair, sharlotka. Similarly to the latter, it also calls for the equal quantities of the ingredients, only in addition to flour, eggs, sugar and apples it also cordially invites butter to the premises. Besides that, another difference is that nobody in their right mind would ever think of not making it again. You cream the butter with the sugar first, nudge the eggs in second, fold in the flour and baking powder third, and lastly, once the mixture is scraped in a baking tin, put spiced apples on top. At first you’ll most likely think that the cake batter is a dud, on the account of it being too thick, almost cookie dough thick. But go on notwithstanding -- the heat will take care of everything. The apples will surrender and sink in the batter, their juices trickling down and moisturizing the crumb. And the crumb, it will spring up a bit, carefully closing in around the apple pieces. The result is a loveable slim, tender, open-crumb apple cake that stays moist for a few days, no assistance of aluminum foil needed (as I accidentally discovered). It’s not overly sweet, with a quiet tart voice coming out from a little bit of lemon juice used with the apples. Last time I baked it I subbed whole wheat for plain flour. That is not necessary at all for the taste enhancement -- the cake is good as it is; I just think apple and whole wheat together make a fine autumn treat. In case if apple pies start to rub you the wrong way by now, give a chance to this apple cake. Some whipped cream on the side, it would look decent on your Thanksgiving table, that.

Happy Thanksgiving, Reader!

Nigel Slater’s Apple Cake

Adapted from The Kitchen Diaries
Yield: 8-10 servings

Slater calls the afore-mentioned sweetness English Apple Cake, but I’m not sure whether it’s because he uses local English apples for the recipe or because it’s originally an English recipe. I tend to think it’s the former, for the recipe is included in an entry christened A Basket of Apples. On the grounds that I’m not using the English fruit here and, generally, for the sake of clarity, I’ve taken to call this cake quite simply as Nigel Slater’s Apple Cake.

I don’t mind the apple-cinnamon flavor combination as such, but I personally prefer fresh vanilla as a spice for an apple. If cinnamon would be your choice, disregard my call for half a vanilla bean and use ½ tsp ground cinnamon instead, or use both, perhaps.

Slater uses a 24-cm square tin for this cake, but since I don’t own one I utilize a 24-cm round spring form here. It seems to work just fine too.

3 medium-size apples (I used Santana)
juice of ½ lemon
seeds from ½ vanilla bean
2 Tbsp demerara sugar
130 g (4.4 oz.) butter
130 g (4.4 oz) light brown sugar
2 large eggs
130 gr (4.4 oz) whole wheat flour
1 tsp baking powder
a little extra sugar (optional)

1. Pre-heat the oven to 180 degrees Celsius (355 degrees Fahrenheit). Place a rack in the lower third of the oven. Butter and flour a 24-cm (9 1/2-inch) baking spring form; shake off excess flour.

2. Cut the apple into small chunks, removing the cores as you proceed and dumping the fruit in a small bowl with the lemon juice. Add the vanilla bean seeds and demerara sugar and toss well. Set aside.

3. Sift the whole-weat flour and baking powder together, set aside. Beat the butter and sugar until light and fluffy. Add the eggs, one at a time, beating well after each addition. Fold the flour mix gently into the butter mixture (the mixture will be very thick). Scrape into the prepared baking form and smooth out. The cake mixture will be very shallow in the form. Put the spiced apples (together with the lemon juice, if you wish) on top of the cake mixture and scatter a little bit more demerara sugar, if desired.

4. Bake for 55-60 minutes. The centre should be firm and the edges should be nicely browning. Cool for 10 mins, still in the baking tin. Run a sharp knife around the cake and take off the side of the spring form. To remove the bottom of the spring form, you might want to run a long serrated knife under the cake. This cake is best eaten warm – reheat in a gentle oven before serving. Keeps well for two days.

There it was

What is there to say about carrot cake? I don’t have much, except that it frequently makes me wonder why it’s so named if carrots can only be found through a magnifying glass. Some say it’s for the moisture that the carrots are drawn into the business, but I’m not into buying that. Plus, it’s always cinnamon or ginger or allspice or whatever that steals the show, or rather, takes the cake (note: I’m not anti-spices, I just find it rather confusing when carrot cake is pulled into gingerbread’s dress, that’s it). All in all, I like cake and I like carrots, but should I see a carrot cake in my vicinity, most surely I wouldn’t reach for it.

Not so long ago I attended one potluck party. Actually, it was a goodbye bash for me and a few of my colleagues at the bakery. I don’t quite know how to better explain this, so here goes nothing: a while ago I decided it is time for me to learn and try new things, so I quit my job this past September; got a collection of farewell gifts; remained unemployed for a few weeks; and as October started, came back for a tad longer, until this year’s end, to be precise. More about that in due time, for now there is another thing to tell. There in one corner of the long white-clad wooden table set with the edible provision sat one carrot cake -- and I was going to lay my hands on it. It wasn’t an impulse. I knew the cake would be there. I couldn’t wait to try it.

Months before the party, in truth, months before anybody would start talking about the party at all, I was given this recipe. I got it from Marijn. An official paper would describe Marijn as a retiree, but I don’t want to go down that route. I like to think of Marijn as a life volunteer. Having reached a certain age, she refuses to sit at home and do “nothing”. She would volunteer at the bakery every Wednesday for years making tartlet shells in numbers that on a given day would exceed a hundred, whisking lemon cream to the point you don’t remember you have arms and they can move, doing the dishes, grinding and sieving kilos of nuts, sorting out the macarons, and the like. We would be in that boat together, elbow to elbow. And despite being on the opposite sides of the age road, we sometimes called each other “sister”. One Wednesday past summer, Marijn came and gave me the recipe, a reaching gesture of her hand accompanied by the words, “This cake is so sticky, so full of carrot. It is so good – make it!”, or something very similar. I took a ruled piece of paper with the hand-written recipe, brought it home, studied the text very carefully, put it in a plastic sleeve, and forgot all about it. I don’t know what I was thinking, I don’t remember now. One thing is certain: I would not be writing about this carrot cake now if Marijn wouldn’t have brought it that evening, a farewell party for her too.

So there it was, resting on a glass cake stand, observing the ignorant me. It was impossible to see through the snowy cap of its cream cheese icing, but it looked different from the carrot cakes I’d seen before. It didn’t have the height or the volume of a normal, leavened, carrot cake. The one I was looking at was rather short, stubby almost. It didn’t seem cake-y at all. It didn’t taste cake-y either. Lugging no flour nor butter, the cake had only three vitals -- carrots, nuts and raisins. It was like a moist carrot granola bar, if there is such a thing, but only without the brick-like density of the latter. I think I want to say that the cake was nubbly, what with all those shreds of carrot and studs of nuts and raisins poking out from the cross section. In one swift brushstroke, it was what it’s called: carrot cake. It wasn’t a piece of beauty, but one bite had me like it quite a bit, so much so that I decided right there, almost a month too early, to make this sweetmeat for Anthony’s birthday, which I did this recent week.

I grated carrots; ground nuts; simmered raisins in some wine; beat egg yolks with lemon zest and sugar, and a dash of flour. I then whisked egg whites; combined the whole lot; and finally consigned it to the oven, waiting for it to emerge beautiful and graceful, ready to be coated with a sleek vanilla seeds-dotted cream cheese frosting. A few hours later, when the clocks were striking midnight, Anthony was Happy Birthday-ed with a manly piece of the confection. We had a friend visiting for a game night/pre-birthday drinks (hello, Charlie!), and with them two nibbling the cake all night long the said baked good was nearly gone by the early a.m. When I pulled out two remaining pieces from the fridge to be had with our late morning coffee, I was met with ferocious exclamations, Where is my cake? Why did you throw away Anthony’s cake? Yes, why did you throw away my birthday cake? My foot!

Nubbly Carrot Cake
Adapted from Marijn
Yield: 10-12 servings

Marijn’s recipe uses trail mix, the kind that contains four or five sorts of nuts and dark raisins. I prefer to choose for myself what nuts will go into the cake, so I use only two types – almond and walnut. I find dark raisins too sweet, which is why I sub white raisins for dark ones. I don’t grind them together with the nuts. I want the dried fruit plump and juicy, so I simmer the stuff in just enough white wine over lowest heat for about fifteen minutes. If there is any liquid left after that, I drain it.

Contrary to the original instructions, I didn’t add hot water to my cream cheese frosting, and I cut back the amount of sugar used. I also used fresh vanilla bean seeds in place of vanilla extract.

Lastly, don’t use a cake form smaller than 24- or 25-cm (9- or 10-inch) in diameter. This cake is meant to be short. There is just a smidge of flour, almost nothing to hold the stuff together, so if it’s tall it wouldn’t hold its own under the knife at all.

For the cake:
150 gr (5 oz) walnut, coarsely ground
150 gr (5 oz) almond, coarsely ground
200 gr (7 oz) coarsely grated peeled carrots
80 gr (2.8 oz) white raisins (see headnote)
zest of one medium lemon
120 gr (4 oz) sugar (divided use)
3 eggs, separated
50 gr (1.8 oz) flour

For the icing:
125 gr (4 oz) cream cheese
30 gr (1 oz) butter, softened
120 gr (4 oz) powdered sugar
seeds from ½ vanilla bean

1. Position a rack in the bottom third of the oven and preheat to 200 degrees Celsius (390 degrees Fahrenheit). Liberally butter a 25-cm round cake form. Flour and shake off any excesses.

2. In a large bowl, combine the nuts, carrots and raisins together.

3. In a medium bowl, rub the lemon zest into 60 gr sugar (use your fingertips), until the sugar is fragrant. Beat in the egg yolks until the mixture is pale. Mix in the flour. Add the egg-flour mixture to the carrot-nut mixture and stir well (the mixture will be thick and dry-ish, so use your hands, it’s faster).

4. In a separate bowl and at high speed, beat the egg whites to the consistency of shaving cream. Add the remaining 60 gr sugar, and continues beating until stiff peaks form, 2-3 minutes. Using a rubber spatula and working in two or three additions, carefully fold the egg whites into the carrot batter.


5. Pour in the prepared cake form and gently smooth out the surface. Slide into the oven and immediately turn to 150 degrees Celsius (300 degrees Fahrenheit). Bake until the cake starts to pull away from the sides of the form and a knife inserted in the center comes out clean, about 45-50 minutes. Let cool in the form for 10 minutes, after which turn out onto a rack to cool completely.


6. When the cake is cool, prepare the icing. In a medium bowl, beat the cream cheese, vanilla seeds, and the butter until smooth. Sift the powdered sugar, and beat on low speed until incorporated. If the sugar starts forming lumps, increase the speed and beat until smooth again. Spread the icing all over the top of the cake.


7. Store in the fridge, but bring to room temperature before serving.

It's not a drag

After a long and thorough think I came to a conclusion that it’s time for me again to say something about potatoes. Frankly, the frequency with which blurbs about potatoes pop up here just goes to show that it wouldn’t be irrelevant at all if this site bore a different name, say, Potatoes&Company, or P&C for short. But Reader, hold on if you think are in for a drag. You are not. Today the potato is going Indian way, and, may I suggest, we all should tag along.

A question: does it happen to you, too, that some cookbook title brushes past your memory and your antenna goes up and you think, I would really like to have this book. But that fleeting moment arcs and goes off, and years already start flocking in a sizeable group, and suddenly something random reminds you about your old intentions, making you think, Holy spice, why don’t I yet own that book? In short, that is me and 5 Spices, 50 Dishes, a book of uncomplicated Indian recipes using only, as the name suggests, five accessible spices (in varying combination), a book I’ve been intending to acquire for four years, an absurd and unnecessary long wait that was over this past summer when exasperated with my own inaction I finally went to a book store to get the publication.

A sign of a promising cookbook, as we all would peacefully agree, is that its many pages get dog-eared or bookmarked by the selective hand of a reader. The book in question is one such thing, and it’s exciting. Besides, and I’m ready to admit that it is my thing, if at least one page of a book sports a potato recipe that doesn’t call for drowning them in cream or butter which this book has, I get excited some more. And when such recipe, after just one bite, makes me worried that it’s going to be particularly difficult to stop eating it, and when quite a few -- alright, three -- people, irrespectively of each other, say that “these potatoes are good”, I feel I’ve been given the green light to start talking.

There are dozens of ways to make a potato tasty. But of all the ways, I personally like best what Indian cuisine does to it, those exhilarating spices and the overall respect to the potato’s form – I have yet to find an Indian recipe that would mash the life out of a potato -- being the reasons. On a related note: it is rather remarkable what a restorative effect Indian cooking has on a cook (and those near one). In times of uncertainty and self-doubt, a wobbly soul should fire up the stove, pull out a cooking vessel, and get going: a whiff of turmeric, a trace of toasted black mustard seeds, a swatch of incendiary chili tickling the senses, the raucous sizzling of onions and potatoes. I feel good already.

Reader, commit to memory these simple steps. Toast black mustard seeds in well-heated oil. Add ground turmeric. Toss in sliced potatoes and onion. Round off with salt and cayenne. In ten minutes you will have got yourself squidgy, fragrant, oniony, spicy potatoes that will challenge your people skills, because, may I just say, lest you are stuck in company of another soul for dinner, these are not easy to share. Although originally titled Railway Potatoes, so named on account of the author’s, Ruta Kahate’s, childhood memories of her mother’s “travel food” prepared for the family train journeys hither and thither, the dish, in my opinion, should go into the world’s annals under the name Spicy Feel-Good Potatoes. It’s not a drag. It’s not a hoax. Believe me.

Railway Potatoes (Spicy Feel-Good Potatoes)
Adapted from 5 Spices, 50 Dishes by Ruta Kahate

Yield: 2 servings as a main course, or 4 as a side dish

700 gr (about 1 ½ pounds) medium red-skinned potatoes, scrubbed
60 ml (1/4 cup) non-fragrant vegetable oil
½ tsp black mustard seeds
¼ tsp ground turmeric
1 large yellow onion, halved and thinly sliced
½ to 1 tsp sea salt
¼ to ½ tsp cayenne
a generous handful of roughly chopped fresh coriander or flat-leaf parsley, for garnish

Quarter and cut the potatoes lengthwise into thin slices.

Over high heat, warm the oil in a wide skillet. When the oil starts to smoke, add the mustard seeds, and cover the pan. After the seeds stop sputtering, add the turmeric, and stir for a few seconds. Immediately dump in the onion, potatoes, cayenne, and salt. Stir well; cover. Turn the heat down to medium-low and cook until the spuds are tender, stirring occasionally, about 10 mins. Taste and add more salt, if needed. Mix in the fresh herb. Serve warm.

This is good

“This double chocolate praline is so good. It tastes as if somebody who was eating only chocolate their whole life released their bowels, and what came out was made into the chocolate filling. So good. Are you guys travelling in Amsterdam for the first time?”

A burly, bold, bespectacled guy and his four female companions are seated in the furthest corner of the room, but I can hear his every American-accented word.

I am in a café. Its roomy interior comprised by dark wood panels and light brown watercolors on the walls, smooth and polished dark wooden floors, sturdy dark wooden furniture, sizeable windows and mirrors, and high ceilings are conducive to sitting still. This place has a feel of a railway station café, the kind one would find, I imagine, in a big city back in the dawn of the twentieth century, travelers poring over their newspapers, still crisp from the press and odorous of ink, and sipping on drinks in their wait for a train bound for the new and unknown, or, contrary, back to the familiar and predictable.

Given the early afternoon hour it’s still non-crowded inside. I’m here to write. Usually I write in the privacy of my home. There is no definite reason why. Maybe because the prime time to write for me is in the morning when my mind has not yet exhausted me with dubious worries and fears about the nascent day, so instead of going elsewhere in the early hours I choose to stay put and write in quiet. To write home is also convenient, because in case self-deprecating thoughts start bulldozing over me, I’m within an arm’s reach from a jar of Nutella, and, let me tell you, there is no such thought that a spoonful of the sweet, silky hazelnut spread cannot cover up for me, if only temporarily. But somehow today is different; I haven’t practiced writing in days and I wanted to venture out to start to again.

“How about some coffee before we go, guys?”, the man across the room addresses his acquaintances as a waiter dressed in black and white has come up to take their new order.

This person is annoying me. I suppress an urge to stand up and ask him out loud why on earth he is talking so raucously. Doesn’t he see I can’t focus because of him? Yeah, go and blame that guy; it’s his fault you can’t write, that’s right.

I’m thinking about what Molly Wizenberg said recently about her writing process (such a great post!). She compared it to entering the dark cave, “the cave where the story is”. To get there is a scary, even painful undertaking. Yet, tiptoeing around that cave will only make us lynch ourselves all along for avoiding it. There is no other way but in. Unlike Molly, I am not writing a book. Not yet. For me it’s not the story that is in the cave, it’s the writing practice itself. I’m terrified by it. I’m terrified by how vulnerable, almost naked writing makes me feel. I’m afraid to fail at it, to seem inadequate and worthless. Through turning my vitals inside out, it's teaching me to believe -- in myself and in the process.

Ironically, though, non-writing is even worse. Last fall I used to work in my bakery five days a week, from Wednesday to Sunday, non-stop, Monday and Tuesday being recuperation days. Pledging to myself everyday that I would write after grueling working hours, I would go home only to find myself able to do one thing: to sleep. That undid me. I reached for Nutella more often than if I did when writing. That undid me too.

“One Irish coffee and four cappuccinos, please.”

Growing up I didn’t think I would want to write. Until the age of twenty four when I started this blog, I hadn’t touched writing. Turning to the ilk of Tolstoy, or Chekhov, or Shakespeare (in translation) as a teenager, I stood in awe of those mighty writers: Their works are great, they are Cyclopean. Feeling belittled by their genius, page after page, I was rock-solid sure one can’t be a writer unless one is like them. I am not a Tolstoy, or a Chekhov, or a Shakespeare. Nobody would ever give me permission to write. My good school friend used to dabble in writing, more for fun than anything, and secretly I felt jealous that she had the courage and audacity to reach for a pen. She could also bake some mean sponge cake since she was ten or something. I felt jealous of that as well.

If writing makes such an impact on you, this is where you belong then, said Anthony after I’d confided my fears to him. He also added that he feels the same about his graphic designs. But he also conceded that if a blank page on the computer screen wouldn’t scare him, he wouldn’t get excited about the creative process in the first place.

A new customer has come in. He is seated a few tables away to the left from me. Waiting for his order, he plunged deep into a newspaper, his hand perched upon his grey hair.

Why do I want to write? I like words. I like (telling) stories. Why do I write in English if it’s not my mother tongue? It’s an intellectual challenge. I like challenges. English doesn’t ground me in its strict grid. This is good. I like it too. Besides, maybe deep down I’m not quite content with being Russian and all that comes with it -- except my family, the brilliant short-story writer Anton Chekhov, and some food -- and I am just escaping. Perhaps that, too.

A waitress uploaded a tall glass of white wine and a platter of charcuterie, some cured meat rolled in a cigarette shape, some cut into rounds and fanned out, from her black tray onto the man’s table. Not turning his gaze from the newspaper, he is reaching for the glass first, and then for a thin medallion of sausage.

He doesn’t notice how the light pours into his wine the color of hay, making it sparkle like a crystal. He is not looking at his food. I am. And I am writing about it. I am writing because as Dayna Macy said in Ravenous: “sometimes there are promises you make to yourself that you have to keep, because if you didn’t, life would be too dispiriting”.

I hope you don't mind

I hope you don’t mind to fall into sin now and eat a cookie, which is not just a cookie but the essence of butter. And I also hope you are not squeamish at all about butter, because if you are, it will be difficult for me to reel you in, but I’ll try anyway, because I think you’d like this cookie. It goes by the name of graham cracker, and although I’m very tempted to dub it whole wheat butter cookie, I’ll stick with its original name in the interest of clarity. I am ready to hawk this lovely graham cracker to you.

A foreword: graham cracker is an intellectual product of one Sylvester Graham (hence the name), a 19th-century public health-concerned Presbyterian minister from New Jersey who believed that eating bland foods encourages abstinence, and abstinence, in turn, perks up man’s health. The graham cracker as Reverend Graham conceived it was to be made with a coarsely ground type of whole wheat flour named after himself (graham flour), and it had to be bland, which, I suspect, would mean no butter. I feel that that pioneer graham cracker (named a cracker for its crispiness, not for savory qualities) was a sad thing to munch, which, probably, made it challenging to practice cheerfulness during mealtimes, as Reverend Graham advised.

My first sentient experience with graham cracker occurred only a year and a half ago. I recall it was an early morning and I was in a hurry for work. I was hungry, too. The idea of scavenging Anthony’s kitchen cupboard (that was before we moved in together) for breakfast food I could eat on the run quickly came to mind, and in a moment I was holding an open box of HoneyMaid grahams that took residence in the back of the cupboard. There were only two crackers left, so I happily snatched them and went about my business. Biting into the crispy rectangular every dozen hurried steps, I recognized a hefty, toasty taste of whole wheat and floral notes of honey. My taste buds picked up on some fat too. On my tongue those crackers felt like a thinly buttered cookie, a treat I used to make for myself as a kid slathering butter on plain store-bought tea cookies. I liked HoneyMaid grahams. I was looking forward to having more of them. In vain, though, for I later found out that those two I’d gobbled up were the last crumbs of a special-occasion care package Anthony had received from a friend who was visiting earlier back then. The pack contained foodstuff that is difficult to come by in the Netherlands and that Anthony misses the most. No more HoneyMaid grahams -- or any grahams, at that -- until God-knows-when?

Such was the bad news that I had to plan to make grahams myself. Unfortunately, or maybe not, a project for home-made graham crackers was never ventured -- until now. The canon of the graham recipes that came my way called for graham flour, and that is an obstacle I couldn’t handle. Graham flour is unheard of where I am, and I wasn’t ready to pay fortunes for across-the-pond shipments (wouldn’t that be costly?). I was deterred and back to ground zero. While seeking that one recipe that would warrant me a batch of crispy grahams despite my pantry limitations, I overlooked all along the fact that graham flour is whole-wheat flour. The former is coarser than the latter, and so what? Whole wheat is whole wheat, no matter the grinding. Some people did take that into account, and here I am picking up the fruits of their labor, gleeful and adamant to catch up with the endless months of involuntary restraint.

In her new cookbook Miette (a beautiful tome of scallop-edged, crisp pages carrying delicious recipes from elegant festive cakes to everyday cake-y concoctions to cookies to candy, among much else), Meg Ray, the chef and owner of the eponymous pastry shop in San Francisco, shares a recipe for grahams that foregoes graham in favor of regular whole-wheat flour. And that is not arbitrary. Ms Ray reveals that regular whole-wheat flour provides “a smooth, crisp, buttery cookie”, contrary to the uneven texture that graham flour yields. The recipe promised me a smooth, crisp, butter-rich, honey-flavored and cinnamon-laced graham cracker without graham flour! That’s the one. I scanned through the list of ingredients, and having determined I had them all, I immediately zipped into the kitchen ready for action. All what was required was cream butter, a big hunk of it, together with brown sugar and honey, and then turn the lot into a ball of dough by adding a mix of flours, all-purpose and whole-wheat, ground cinnamon, and salt to it.

I have felt free to double the amount of whole wheat flour, because I like the dense, nutty flavor it brings, and I feel that’s what a graham cracker needs to be about. One time I questioned the large quantity of butter, and having made the grahams with less of it, I found out that their flavor and crispiness were compromised. Skipping the butter is a poor taste, don’t do that. This graham cracker has the heart of a butter cookie, and that’s what makes it exceptional.

After mixing, the dough would be chilled briefly, rolled out, cut into scallop-edged rounds (give a break to regular squares and rectangles), and baked for about ten minutes. And as the crackers sweated in the oven, every corner of the apartment was getting filled with warm scents of freshly cut hay, spice, and dairy. Crisp, redolent of butter, with lingering notes of cinnamon and honey, good-looking, these grahams are moreish. To me, they are the ultimate graham crackers. Anthony dubbed them the “star cookies” (“They are more buttery than normal, way better than HoneyMaid!”), and between the two of us, the yield of twenty grahams lasts no longer than twenty four hours. Surely, Reverend Graham wouldn’t approve of such indulgence – until he tried one, perhaps.

Graham crackers, anyone?

[Ultimate] Graham Crackers

Adapted from Miette: Recipes from San Francisco’s Most Charming Pastry Shop by Meg Ray

Yield: about twenty 8-cm (3 ¼-inch) crackers

Since butter is the major flavor-maker in this recipe, go for the best one available. I use Lurpak®, justly famous Danish butter “made from cream and nothing else”. The type of honey you opt for will also determine the crackers’ final taste, so feel free to play with different varieties of honey -- from eucalyptus to rosemary to acacia, what have you – to see what sings for you.

I love these grahams with coffee as much as with fresh raspberries or blueberries – now that the season permits -- on top of each bite, the bright juiciness of the fruit cutting through the richness of the crackers just so.

150 gr (1 cup; 5 oz) all-purpose flour
100 gr (3/4 cup; 3 ½ oz) whole-wheat flour
¼ tsp table salt
heaped ¼ tsp ground cinnamon
180 gr (2/3 cup; 6 oz) unsalted butter, at room temperature
120 gr (firmly packed ½ cup; 4 oz) light brown sugar
35 gr (2 Tbsp) honey

1. In a medium bowl, sift together the flours, salt, and ground cinnamon. Set aside.

2. In the bowl of a stand mixer fitted with the paddle attachment, combine the butter together with the brown sugar and honey, and beat until fluffy. (While bringing the butter to room temperature, make sure not to let it become too warm – otherwise the cookies will spread and flatten during baking.)

3. Add the dry ingredients to the butter mixture in three additions, beating just until combined after each addition. Divide the dough in half. Wrap each half tightly in plastic wrap and refrigerate for 30 mins before rolling, or up to 2 days.

4. Preheat the oven to 175 C (350 F). Line a large baking sheet with parchment paper.

5. Remove one half of the dough from the fridge. Unwrap and place between two sheets of plastic wrap or waxed paper. Roll out to a thickness of about 5-mm (1/4- inch). Using an 8-cm (3 ¼ -inch) round cookie cutter with a scalloped edge, cut out the graham crackers. Keep the dough scraps. Arrange the crackers about 1 cm (½-inch) apart on the prepared baking sheet. Bake until golden brown, 10 to 12 mins. Let cool on the baking sheet for about 5 mins (the crackers will be soft to the touch, but they’ll solidify when completely cooled). Transfer to a wire rack. The crackers should give a crisp snap once cooled.

6. Repeat with the other half of the dough. Bake more crackers on the cooled and freshly line baking sheet.

7. Gather up all the dough scraps (freeze briefly if they are too soft to work with), re-roll once, and bake as directed.

8. Store in an air-tight container for up to two weeks. I learnt that placing a clean piece of kitchen paper towel in a container with the cookies will absorb any moisture emanating from them, helping to keep the cookies crisp.