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.

In retrospect

Today I’d like to share with you a vanilla and lemon pound cake I made for my birthday that rapidly came and even more rapidly went a little bit over a week ago. To be accurate, I made the cake the day after my birthday, because my birthday was nothing as I’d planned. Now, in retrospect, I see that as a good thing to have had a calm, unfussy, non-obliging twenty-seventh birthday. But on the festive day itself I found it emotionally challenging, somewhat, to go with the flow, especially when the flow meant sprawling on a couch for the most part of the day, and watching the Travel Channel.

In a few brushstrokes: Anthony and I had an idea to start the day with a small picnic in a neighborhood park. Equipped with the two requisite birthday accessories – this cake and a bottle of champagne – we were going to pass early afternoon hours by alternating sweet nibbles with fizzy sips, shooting the breeze, and watching boats and ducks sailing up and down the nearby river. Later into the day the picnic was to be followed, according to the plan, by a celebratory meal in an Indonesian restaurant (well-executed Indonesian fare is presumably the best part of the Dutch cuisine, owing to Indonesia’s once being a colony of the Netherlands). On my birthday eve, I made a reservation, studied thoroughly the restaurant’s menu online conjuring up in my mind’s mouth the exotic tastes and flavors, told Anthony repeatedly how much he’d like the place and the food, and, overall, got hyped up about the day to come. And to be fully prepared, I even laid out all the imperishables for the vanilla and lemon pound cake on the kitchen counter before we’d head out for pre-birthday drinks.

This year my birthday fell on a Saturday, and so it seemed right to start toasting to the good and everything in the preceding Friday’s gloaming, stepping into the wee hours of my new year with a bright cocktail in my hand, you see. We went to our favorite visit-on-a-special-occasion cocktail bar and did a great job acquainting ourselves with a new summer menu – as well as reconnecting with our all-time favorite. I don’t know how to relay this with self-tact and dignity, but I’d had one too many. Was I thinking that the morning after -- the morning of my actual birthday -- my skull and its contents might be hurting so much I couldn’t possibly detach myself from a pillow for fear not to pass my soul from a headache? The cake, the picnic, the Indonesian meal – all thrown to the wind; lying deflated on a couch – what a shame, what a shame!

On the upside, though, I got to have a great pre-birthday that had started with a fresh chocolate pizza as a special sweet from Anthony, continued with long walks around sun-speckled town, and got magnified by some fine drinks. Why would I want to do almost the same the next day, doesn’t make any sense! Why not to make a restorative day in out of my birthday? I was talking myself into a better attitude, don’t you feel. And because actions speak louder than words, as we all know, I got up from the couch, cancelled the dinner reservation, and went online to order an expansive sushi take-out for two.

And the next day there was the cake: this fine vanilla and lemon pound cake. I’ve been wanting to make it since I came across the idea a moon or so ago. And although it’s not a usual birthday cake model – no layers, nor butter cream frosting – the sheer flavors of the concoction made me want to have it for my festive day. Originally the recipe is for either a lemon or an orange pound cake, but Dorie Greenspan, whose recipe this is, relays it’s also meant for “a wonderful vanilla cake”. I couldn’t pass on a chance to enjoy the heady vanilla and the refreshing, enticing lemon in one bite, so I combined the two, tweaked the recipe ever so slightly, and made what I’d planned long ago to be my birthday treat: a rich, incredibly, almost illegally, fragrant cake. Happy belated birthday to me!


Vanilla and Lemon Pound Cake

Adapted from Dorie Greenspan

Yield: serves 12

It is to a great advantage that this cake speaks well with coffee and tea, is extremely confident on its own, is happy to be utilized as a snack, and keeps a while. Just think, vanilla, lemon zest, and, shazam, rum together, seeped into the tightly-woven, moist crumb. You take a bite and it gives under your tongue with no objection. Vanilla, of course, rushes in first, followed by exciting lemon zest that has metamorphosed into some floral sensation, and then rum, which you don’t taste as much but feel. Please don’t disregard rum, nip out for a bottle if you have none! It’s worth it.


250 gr (2 cups) all-purpose flour
¾ tsp baking powder
¼ tsp table salt
300 gr (1 ½ cup) sugar
2 plump vanilla beans, seeds only
2 tsp lemon zest (one medium-large lemon)
5 large eggs, at room temperature
150 gr (2/3 cup) crème-fraiche or heavy cream, at room temperature (I used crème-fraiche)
30 gr (2 Tbsp) dark rum
110 gr (7 ½ Tbsp) unsalted butter, melted and cooled

1. Position a rack in the center of the oven and pre-heat the oven to 180 C (350 F). Butter a 22.5 x 12.5 x 7.5-cm (9 x 5 x 3-inch) loaf pan – I used a 22-cm (8 ½ -inch) springform – and put on a regular baking sheet (seeing that the baking time will be rather long, this is done to prevent the bottom of the cake from browning too soon). Set aside.

2. Sift together the flour and baking powder. Add the salt and mix well.

3. In a separate large bowl, combine the sugar with the vanilla seeds and lemon zest, and rub them together with your fingertips to infuse the sugar with the flavors. Beat in the eggs until the mixture looks pale and foamy. Add the crème fraiche (or heavy cream) and rum; mix well.

4. Using a rubber spatula, fold the flour mixture into the egg mixture in three additions. Pour in the butter, and stir just until incorporated. The batter can be rather runny, but that’s ok.

5. Immediately pour the batter into the prepared baking pan and send the baking sheet into the oven. Dorie Greenspan instructs to bake it for 1 hour and 25 or 30 minutes, but in my oven the cake was done after 1 hour. I’d say start keeping a close eye on it after the 30-minute mark, after which you might want to cover it loosely with a foil tent in case the top is browning too fast. The cake is done when a thin knife inserted in the center comes out clean. Let cool on a cooling rack for 10-15 mins before unmolding.

Willing to bet

Reader, I’ll bet my bottom dollar that you don’t care much about cauliflower. Yes, cauliflower is probably what you can easily live without. Or let’s take it further: perhaps you even believe that cauliflower is among those things you are sure you’d be better off not knowing. Golly gee whiz, am I not assumptious? What do I know about what you detest?

As to me, I don’t recall I tried cauliflower as much as even once, either in my childhood or green teen years. The thing is, I always had dreadful feelings about cauliflower. In our country house garden, my grandmother used to grow it in a remote vegetable patch not too far from a latrine. There were lots of spiders in that patch too; they weaved their fluffy webs in the thick cauliflower plant leaves. I don’t like spiders. Cauliflower was dead for me.

Of course to say now that I haven’t stuck my fork at cauliflower since then would be an ugly lie. If you are one of the irreversible cauliflower haters, worry not – I’m not going to sing paeans to the wacky vegetable. I myself seem to remain an ambivalent cauliflower eater. I noticed that unless it’s stir-fried with an amalgam of my favorite Indian spices (turmeric, coriander, mustard seeds, to name but a few), turning therewith into a bomb of flavor, I don’t usually strive to eat it on its own, what with its rather mute taste and appearance. Offer it to me baked under a thick coating of cheese, and chances are high I might call you – sorry! -- a disgusting person. (I do not like baked cauliflower with cheese.) With that in mind, I surprised myself recently at how pleasant I found a dish which, in essence, is nothing more than briefly cooked cauliflower florets, chopped finely and bejeweled with toasted pine nuts, preserved lemon peel and fresh parsley, all splashed with lemon juice and olive oil, and salted and peppered. The dish is cauliflower ‘couscous’, ladies and gentlemen. And it’s tasty: fresh; slightly citrusy and pickle-y (preserved lemons), and toasty (pine nuts) in spots; and, overall, mild. I liked it.

After being solidly anchored to bed by flu for almost a week earlier this month and having at last recuperated, I found myself in some sort of a culinary limbo. I finally felt hungry for more than a bowl of dry cereal, but my mind’s mouth stayed persistently empty -- I didn’t know what I wanted. My usual standbys – eggplant stew, tomato curry, red lentil soup – failed to re-ignite me. Even chickpeas didn’t cut it for me, which made me particularly worried. If not chickpeas, what then? My imagination stalled, I randomly pulled an old issue of a Dutch food magazine from under a pile of books parked on the living room floor seeking inspiration in a language I barely understand but for recipes. Forcefully leafing through it, I came across a brief instruction for cauliflower ‘couscous’. And although I wasn’t quite sold on that recipe (raw cauliflower; not even a single sprig of fresh herb; too much lemon juice), the idea I loved. Upon my soul -- I felt some excitement! What an indigenous take on traditional ‘couscous’ as well as on cauliflower, don’t you think?

Who knew it would be cauliflower, the ‘curdle’ head, to snap me out of my post-flu blues and send me back to my kitchen eager again to try and tweak? It’s not going to be my vegetable of choice any time soon, but I would pay attention to it more often. Cauliflower has some aces up its sleeve. I’m willing to bet on it.

Cauliflower ‘couscous’

Yield: 4-6 servings

This is a minimalist recipe, basic, even. If you have a food processor, enlist its help to pulse the cauliflower. I don’t, so I chopped the stuff with a knife, which is, by far, the toughest part -- if you can call the chopping of cooked cauliflower tough, that is.

To my taste, preserved lemon peel is a show maker in this concoction. Its deep charged citrus-floral taste gives a fillip to the cauliflower, cuts through the vegetable’s grassiness. Beware not to overuse it though, otherwise the dish might taste bitter. If you can’t find preserved lemons – these can be found at a Middle Eastern grocery store – go with normal lemon zest instead. It’s not quite the same, but use enough salt and you’ll get to bring the light out of the whole lot.

I prefer cauliflower to be crisp-tender, but if you like it soft – go on and keep it longer on the fire. For this recipe, I’m using a large head of cauliflower, the one that would approximately amount to two and a half pounds. Tailor the seasonings to the size of cauliflower you have at hand – and to taste.

We had it on the side with pan-fried salmon, which we first cooled down to room temperature. That was good. Cold roasted chicken would be good too. Or roasted eggplant, if that is what you fancy.

1 large head cauliflower (about 2 ½ pounds or 1.2 kilo)
1 heaped tsp finely chopped preserved lemon peel (see Note below)
1 Tbsp lemon juice, or more to taste
2 Tbsp pine nuts, lightly toasted
3 Tbsp fresh flat-leaf parsley, finely chopped
fine sea salt and freshly ground black pepper, to taste
3-4 Tbsp good-quality olive oil

1. Fill a medium pot with water, add a good pinch of sea salt and bring to a boil.

2. Remove any leaves and cut off the tough stem of the cauliflower. Lop off the cauliflower florets. Place in the pot and cook for 5 minutes. Drain and let cool. Discard the stalks and chop the florets finely. The final result should resemble couscous grains, but it’s OK if there are pea-size (or even larger) cauliflower beads left here and there. If you use a food processor, pulse the cauliflower briefly. Don’t over work – or the cauliflower will run juices.

3. In a large bowl, mix the chopped cauliflower together with the rest of the ingredients. Taste and adjust the seasoning. Serve at room temperature.


Note: Using a sharp knife, slice the peel off a preserved lemon. Remove any pith. Cut the peel into thin strips and dice the strips finely. To get 1 heaped tsp, you will need the peel of slightly less than half a preserved lemon.

It is principal

Reader, would you agree that flu in summertime sounds like a joke? Would you also second me on that it really, really, really does not feel like one? Aw shucks! However unpleasant, I don’t mind a running nose, a swollen, scratchy throat, a cough that turns my lungs inside out as soon as they appear in winter, preferably in February, a time especially designated for crawling in bed and spending days – with occasional visits to the bathroom and the kitchen, in that particular order -- covered from the daylight-deprived world with a blanket, sweating the cold and all other miseries out.

The sun is unsuccessfully trying to stick its neck out through the shambolic rain-bearing clouds today. But even so, it’s still warm and agreeable out. No need for a jacket or even a scarf, both not a very unusual outerwear choice in Amsterdam in June. My spirit is willing to take a walk in the rain and listen to the drum-drum-drum of raindrops against my umbrella, to the tchhhh of car tires knifing at high speed through the rainwater pools, to the rustle of the tree leaves disturbed by the wind high above my head. But my body, sneezing and coughing in two-minute intervals, has given my spirit the double bird and refuses to budge. I stay home, pull the blinds close, and put on a turtleneck sweater because I’m running a fever and feeling cold, the irony not lost on me. It’s time to make Tom Yum Kai, Thai hot-and-sour chicken soup, I feel.

I got to know Tom Yum Kai by happenstance last fall. I do like Thai food, but I must admit I never tried the said soup, which is ubiquitous in any Thai restaurant, good and not so much, near and far. When Anthony and I go to our favorite Thai place, I turn into a ferocious noodle eater usually leaving soups out for suckers. Or rather, I used to. I fell rather sick past November, and the cold wouldn’t go away for weeks. I don’t remember where or from whom I heard that Tom Yum (‘sour soup’ in Thai) is believed to have immune-mending properties – and now that I think of it, how could it not with all those red chilies, ginger, and lime juice packed in it? – but I do remember that that evening we rushed out for a Thai meal for one reason only: Tom Yum. Lesson learnt -- I add a steaming bowl of hot, sour, and salty Tom Yum to the list, if not instead, of medicines to take when a need strikes. Over the time I also learnt I don’t have to go to a restaurant to get my chicken Tom Yum. There is no secret in making the soup, except that you have to trust your taste buds to balance out the bright, bold, and tongue-tickling flavors. Oh Thai flavors!

You begin by preparing a quick aromatic broth. Just throw some garlic, ginger, lemon grass and kaffir lime leaves in a pot of boiling water to infuse it with incredible, exhilarating flavors. After a minute or so, you add chunks of chicken breasts and let the lot boil for a handful of minutes. Next, plop in some mushrooms. After a couple of minutes, you remove the pot from the heat and stir in the requisite fish sauce (salty), lime juice (sour), and chilies (hot). Then you taste and adjust the seasoning to achieve the balance between the three. Taste and adjust some more, if needed. A sprinkle of fresh coriander and basil as a final touch and that is that.

My rendition of the soup is not authentic in a sense that I didn’t learn it from a ninety-nine year-old Thai grandmother who has been cooking it since age ten having watched her own mother making it day in-day out for the rest of the big family. Still, it is authentic to me in a way that I followed and trusted my senses to align those big flavors and bring them to harmony. Taste and tweak as you go. It is principal. That and to eat Tom Yam Kai when you are battling a cold, in winter or in summer, all the same.

Be well, Reader!

Tom Yum Kai (Thai Hot-and-Sour Chicken Soup)

Yield: 4 servings

A few things before you put a pot on the fire…First, in the event you can’t find fresh Kaffir lime leaves – these are usually available at an Asian, of course Thai in particular, supermarket -- use zest of two limes instead. Further on, commonly the plant root of choice in Tom Yum is galangal, a member of the ginger family that is not quite as rich and potent as ginger. Frankly, I think galangal’s flavor in Tom Yum gets lost behind those of lemon grass and garlic. For this reason, I prefer to use regular ginger for its fiery, peppery, confident punch. And finally, I like my chicken Tom Yum to be on the chunky rather than on the watery side, which is why I call forth a decent amount of chicken and mushrooms. Speaking of the latter, you could use shiitake mushrooms to keep in line with the Asian flair of the whole composition, but all those innumerous Tom Yums I tried sported champignons, their plump, slightly firm round buttons floating atop like buoys. I like cute champignons. I use them here.

1 L (4 cups) water or chicken stock
5 fresh Kaffir lime leaves
1 stalk lemon grass, cut into 4-cm (1.5-inch) pieces
3-cm (about 1-inch) long piece of ginger root, peeled and thinly sliced
2 large garlic cloves, thinly sliced
450 gr (15 oz) chicken breast, cut into 4-5-cm (1.5-2-inch) chunks
250-300 gr champignons (8-10 oz), intact if small, or halved or quartered if big
3-4 Tbsp lime juice, or to taste
4-5 Tbsp Thai fish sauce, or to taste
1 Tbsp chopped fresh red chili (with seeds), or to taste
Chili oil (optional)
2 Tbsp fresh coriander leaves, finely chopped
1 Tbsp fresh basil leaves, finely chopped

1. Over medium-high heat, bring water (or chicken stock) to a boil. Add the Kaffir lime leaves, lemon grass, ginger, and garlic, and cook for about 2 minutes to let the liquid infuse with flavors.

2. Dump in the chicken and the mushrooms, dial the heat down to medium-low, and cook uncovered for about 5-6 minutes. The chicken should be cooked through. Do not overcook.

3. Remove from the heat. Tip in the lime juice, fish sauce, and chilies. Taste and adjust the seasoning. Give it a few squirts of chili oil, if using. Let cool slightly, about 4-5 minutes, before adding the fresh herbs. Serve hot.