Photographing

The boule proofing. This was my "first" loaf of bread. I say "first" because it was technically my second (you might recall I mentioned my first being a baguette experiment after reading "French Women Don't Get Fat").


Part of a simple and tasty dinner the other evening. A remaining green pepper, some tomatoes purchased that afternoon, a little onion. Saute. Chicken breast seasoned with honey, paprika, and I can't recall what else. Saute. Corn cobbed and boiled until mature (thank you "Joy of Cooking"). If memory serves, after each bite, I might have uttered multiple "mmmmms" and "ooooohhhhs" and at least one "Oh my God!"



Brioche. Oh, Brioche. A recipe from "Baking Illustrated." I was told to allow the dough to ferment in the refrigerator for at least 10-24 hours. It might have gone a little longer. Worried that the dough would have gone bad or sour I was willing to dump it. Someone wiser suggested I bake. I did. And this is what emerged. Possibly the best bread I have ever tasted in my existence. And it came out of my oven.

Kitchen Therapy

Some people go shopping. Others eat ridiculous amounts of chocolate chased by equally absurd servings of wine. What do I do when I am stressed out or depressed? I bake. Yes, I bake. This morning it was a loaf of brioche. Okay, so this is sort of cheating. I technically started to "bake" this long before the frustration and the stress settled in. But does it really count until you bathe the proofed dough in egg and place it in the oven? I say no. So, stress produced a brioche. A beautiful one at that. Tasty. And perhaps something to rival Keith's challah. Perhaps now my family will stop singing the praises of the one loaf of his they tasted almost a full year ago. Jealous much? No, not at all. It was good bread. Let's move on, shall we?

What else comes after a day (or two) of swimming in self-pity until one's fingers become wrinkled with it? A chocolate cake. Okay, this is also cheating. The batter was already done and baked and the finished cake frosted (there is a funny story in there that tickles me and will have to be written for your pleasure at some point). But I had some batter remaining. I never "saved" batter before but I thought, what the heck, right? Okay, maybe Keith was the one who thought what the heck and told me to save it. But those are minor details that are not at all important to the trajectory of this post. Much like his challah or how good it is. Or how much my parents still talk about it. Let's move on, shall we?

So in went the cake batter tonight into my greased and floured (really, Baker's Joy, $10.99 for a can of convenience?) 6-inch cake pan and out came a beautiful devil's food if-not-exactly-spiced cake (2 teaspoons of chili powder is clearly not enough). On it went some rum frosting. One can never go wrong with chocolate, chili powder, and rum. And now it sits on my counter. To be enjoyed tomorrow.

And with that enters the reason for kitchen therapy. My life should come with the tagline: "To be enjoyed tomorrow." Somewhere in this cosmic universe a grand play is unfolding in which me--the wily, fiery, and fiercely independent dark-haired beauty--fumbles after every turn all while the great lessons of patience and perspective play over and over and over and over and over again. Patience and perspective. The former a lesson I knew I had to learn but never really took the time to. The latter a new lesson to be learned. Perhaps the more bitter of the two. Nay, patience leaves a copper taste on my tongue while perspective allows me to appreciate the notes.

The bottom line: pastry school holds tight until the funds of my focus piggy bank gain weight. A scholarship I hoped for failed to come through. An easy out not so easy and not so much of an out anymore.

Holding tight with a hint of copper on my tongue.

Focus

There are a lot of tricks we all employ to keep ourselves focused. Calendars taped to the walls. Electronic reminders beeping to us in our sleep. Photographs pasted to the refrigerator door. My focus came in a few forms. One, my binder full of recipes and tips, was the first bit of physical focus I pulled into my apartment. This blog yet another. And now I have a third. A can that once contained whole coffee beans has now been covered in recipes from past issues of "Cook's County," a slit has been cut into its plastic top. This is my piggy bank. In it goes loose change, loose bills, random bits of money I might choose to put in there whenever I am moved to. The point of this little piggy? To remember that I am moving toward something greater. To remember that school is still in my future even if I have to pay for it myself with every penny-penny-give-me-luck-i'm -the-one-who-picked-you-up. And if for some reason funding finds its ways through other avenues then that little piggy will walk itself all the way to the bank and to the bakery that will come after school. The home I will build for myself where I will always walk in clean and emerge at the end of the day smelling of cinnamon and flour.

Poor Cookies

Don't adjust your screen. There is nothing wrong with the photograph. It isn't blurry. The cookies are imprisoned. Poor cookies. I truly had no choice in the matter.


You see, I was in the mood for something sweet. Again. I was torn between brownies, cookies, a re-imagining of a s'more. And I finally settled on cookies. White chocolate coconut pecan cookies at that. Their beautiful fragrance melding nicely with the scent of a freshly cleaned apartment and the hint of the humid air beyond my laptop's screen and the smudged window. Okay, the words aren't poetic but that smell was. And I was suckered in. Out came a glass of cold milk (too hot for the coffee I'm really craving) and a single plate for a single cookie. Still warm. Still gooey. The white chocolate slightly firm but collapsing completely once in my mouth. Hints of coconut. Every so often a bite of pecan.

I wanted another. And as I was posing the cookies to capture with my camera, my nose kept brushing against that scent. My stomach lurched. Pushing me forward. I pushed even further. Went straight to the top shelf of my cabinet and pulled out two plastic storage containers. And so they sit imprisoned. And I sit the victor for having withheld and having survived the temptation of another cookie. Perhaps not an actual victor. Those cookies were good and I know I would be all the happier with another one in my belly.

Breakfast This Morning

An early morning this morning. I woke up feeling I was running late and had slept through my alarm (partly because I was sleeping on my alarm). Instead it was a full hour before the alarm was set to go off. I could have gone back to sleep but instead I rolled out the yoga mat, stretched and saluted the sun a few times, and then set myself to the kitchen for breakfast.

Breakfast this morning was the last of the leftover waffles from Monday morning. Keith loves my waffles. I love my waffles. And I can whip them up and together in the time it takes for the coffee to brew. The problem is always that the batter produces anywhere from 5-6 waffles. Did I say problem? How can that be a problem? It isn't. Not only is there enough breakfast for us on whatever morning I make them, but I then have breakfast for another couple of days. I think the waffles actually even get better after a couple of days. Doused with maple syrup and dotted with blackberry jam, I couldn't be happier (that was breakfast yesterday morning). This morning was simple with maple syrup and some chicken sausage because yesterday morning I began to believe that perhaps there was a massive whole in my stomach from which all food was escaping; how else to explain how I was hungry not even two hours after eating a waffle (a large one at that). With no real protein in my diet yesterday I figured a remedy was in order this morning.

As I was reheating, cooking, and pouring a glass of orange juice, I went back to thinking about a picture a friend sent me the other day. The picture was taken possibly no more than three years and sixty plus pounds ago. That lone picture coupled with the sight of my current one (the one used as my profile picture here) got the wheels turning and there are so many thoughts flowing about capturing my journey with food. How I went from a fattie to a foodie. That will be a to be continued.

For now, I look forward to the rest of today, which includes one of the last of the frozen muffins I made with the raspberry peach champagne jam. Tomorrow brings some sort of kitchen adventure. Perhaps even tonight I'll make the cookies my brother adores so much. There is a lot to look forward to. Good morning!

Another Hour

Another hour of an already long string of hours of this day spent in front of a computer. It is no wonder my eyes have gone batty and I need eyeglasses to see down just one tiny little New York City block. This evening spent in front of the computer playing around yet again with the template of this blog. Playing with what is available until I can either enlist someone to create the site I want or until I take the time to teach myself html so I can do it myself. But time spent with html means time away from my kitchen. And time spent customizing the little things like text size and visited link colors also keeps me away from the kitchen.

But earlier this evening there was a break from the mundane and 90 minutes spent in the world of baking. Granted that world was in the words of another and the most amount of work I did was moving my pen under words and lines that I wanted to remember, jot down, and utilize at a later date.

Another batch of bread was made the other morning. Along with four loaves of pumpkin walnut quick bread and an experiment of challah twists that were heaving with cinnamon and plump dumped with density. Not inedible but definitely something to continue to work on. The quick bread was a success. Snacked on our first morning camping. Set over our first camp fire with our first cup of coffee. Snacked on while waiting for the water to boil and the grounds to then sink in.

Sweets call to me now. Sweets always call to me. A cake. Perhaps a cookie or two. Perhaps that summer pie I keep dreaming of making but haven't yet. Perhaps a cheesecake. Perhaps that s'more pie I rolled around the insides of my gooey mouth while sitting beside our last camp fire of the trip.

Third Time Perhaps the Charm?

An evening to myself on Monday night. A bit of a crazy weekend and all I ached for at the end of it was a quiet apartment, no lights, no sound, just quiet. And just the lure of a kitchen waiting for me. It was a little late by the time I made it back home but I knew I wanted to try bread again.

The bag of bread flour came out, my yeast, milk, water, olive oil, and maple syrup. Yes, maple syrup. Starting with the basic ratio of 5:3 (five parts flour to three parts liquid) I altered the liquid used, substituting a little more milk and then going beyond the ratio just slightly to add in a tablespoon of olive oil and another of maple syrup. I mixed, I kneaded, and then waited. In the interim I popped in Branaugh's "Much Ado About Nothing" and relaxed. By the end of the movie the dough was ready for me to shape it and then allow for its proofing. I divided the dough in half and shaped both into baquettes, leaving both on the floured pizza peel and covered with a dish cloth.

An hour later, proofed, I scored and brushed with olive oil. In both baguettes went into the oven and out came ...