In just a little over one month, I’ll be sending off the manuscript for the cookbook and breathing a huge sigh of relief. Now, at this very moment, I’m rifling through a desk full of notes, revisions, to-do lists, ingredient conversions, and word-count spreadsheets. It is the opposite of breathing a sigh of relief and yet, Sunday afternoon rolled around and I wanted to be in the kitchen like I used to be. Without notes or computers or spreadsheets, but instead with a recipe I was excited about, a little music, and my own thoughts. No pressure to get anything perfect, no brainstorming about flavor profiles — just a bowl of flour and sugar, citrus to zest, and butter to cream.
I recently filled out a brief survey about myself for a teaching engagement this winter. When asked what I felt I was good at, the first thing that came to mind was work. Then I thought, I can’t possibly say I’m good at work: I need something more interesting. What’s my second choice? And I stalled. And stalled. And then felt really troubled that I was stalling so much. So I caved and wrote down “my work” and briefly explained that I was very much a first child in the sense that if I set my mind to something, I get it done.
When I was in talks with publishers about the cookbook and the question of timelines came up, my agent asked me if I could do the book in a little over six months as that was what the publisher wanted. I’d never done a book before; I had absolutely no clue if I could, but I knew that I would. And I knew I’d say yes to her, and to them. For the first time in my life, I said a resounding yes and signed a resounding contract to something I had absolutely no idea if I could do. I just kept telling myself and others that it’d get done somehow. So while I suppose I wish I had something a bit more exotic to put in the blank of that questionnaire (tango or rock climbing or flying small planes), right now my mind is firmly planted in the work that I do, and guess what? It’s getting done!
Everyone says you learn something about your process once you get towards the end of your first book. I always kind of shrugged that off, thinking that I’d been cooking and baking for years and writing about food for some time — what more was there really to learn? Well I’ll tell you: I’ve gotten to the point of the manuscript where I’m doing much less creating in the kitchen and much more revising of work and recipes I’d written many months ago. Going through those recipes, it’s clear I’ve learned a lot. The revision process is looking to be long. I’m spending lots of time tightening up, clarifying, re-testing, and adding in useful information for home cooks on planning ahead and adapting.
As many of you know, I used to be a teacher. So when I think about learning, I think about actively being taught a skill or teaching someone something new. Writing this book hasn’t looked like that. No one has taught me how to write the book, no one taught me how to create or write a recipe — at times, I certainly wished there were Cliffs Notes. But there just aren’t. So the only explanation I have when I sit down and compare the work I’m doing now and the work I was doing at the very beginning: I just got better from actually doing it. I suppose that’s what happens when you work and work and practice and practice. Sam can attest to the fact that I even dream about the recipes and tell him in half-sleep about the trouble I’m having with a particular oatmeal or ingredient (sometimes the ingredients are even on suitcases. Or planes). Ohhh, boy.
So while, apparently, I’m thinking about the book even in my sleep, things have finally started to feel a bit less frantic. My entire work flow has become tighter, I learned how to squeeze recipe work into the chunks of time after dinner or before heading out to bake for Marge. I can see the book’s shape now. I’m in a fortunate spot of having a month to step back, take stock, pare down, and fill in. I’m also in the fortunate spot of feeling like this will be a book that I’d like to own myself — that’s what I always wanted. To write something that I’d like. I knew if I did that, I’d done all that I could do and hopefully, others would find it useful and inspiring as well.
These cookies were the result of my “time off” in the kitchen. And I chose well. They’re from Jerusalem, the new cookbook by Yotam Ottolenghi and Sami Tamimi. I talked about the book briefly when I made beet dip a few months ago. It’s a collaboration between Ottolenghi and Tamimi, two men who grew up with many of the same experiences and only lived a few miles from one another, but in very different worlds. Tamimi is Palestinian; Ottolenghi is from the Jewish part of Israel in the West and Tamimi from the Arab quarter. The collaboration is beautiful, which wasn’t shocking after delving into Plenty with gusto and glee. I have what feels like dozens of recipes bookmarked –everything from a butternut squash tahini dip to leek meatballs. Not surprisingly, the salads looks stunning and simple, and there is a semolina marmalade cake that will happen very soon in our house.
But first, these cookies. They are substantial and almost biscuity with a wonderful combination of warm spices, cocoa, citrus and raisins. The notes mention that they’re very loosely inspired by Pfeffernusse (my mom’s favorite dark and spicy Christmas cookie) but are more like an Italian spice cookie. I ended up making a few tweaks to the recipe largely because we were out of a couple of ingredients. I used part whole-wheat flour and natural cane sugar instead of white sugar as that’s what we have around these days. I also used a combination of golden and regular raisins although the recipe calls for currants. Choose which you’d like best — the raisins were wonderful and got quite plump in the brandy; I’d likely use them again.
With the exception of the changing leaves at Greenlake towards the very top of this post, these photos were taken on a recent trip to Lummi Island with Sam, my mom who was visiting from California, and my sister Rachael. We stayed at the Willows Inn, ate amazing olive bread from Bread Farm on the drive up (thank you, Ashley!), and enjoyed two completely computer-free days. Then, came home to make cookies. Enjoy.
This recipe is quite straight-forward and simple: a wet and dry ingredient affair. It does call for 1/2 an egg which I often find fussy, but I followed faithfully here. To do so, beat your egg and use a scale (or a keen eye) to divide it in half. Also, the recipe calls for superfine sugar, but I took my turbinado sugar and ground it down into more of a fine powder in the food processor instead. If this seems like a hassle to you, by all means use superfine sugar or white granulated sugar instead.
Slightly adapted from Jerusalem: A Cookbook
For the cookies:
For the Glaze:
Soak the raisins in the brandy for 10 minutes. Mix together the flours, cocoa powder, baking powder, baking soda, spices, salt, and dark chocolate. Mix well.
Put the butter, sugar, vanilla, and lemon and orange zest in a stand mixer fitted with the beater attachment and beat to combine but not aerate much, about 1 minute. With the mixer running, slowly add the egg and mix until incorporated. Add the dry ingredients, followed by the raisins and brandy. Mix until everything is combined. Then gently knead the dough in the bowl with your hands until it comes together and is uniform.
Divide the dough into balls the size of 3 tablespoons and shape each into a round ball. Place the balls on 1 or 2 baking sheets lined with parchment paper, spacing each out about 3/4-inch. Press down gently to flatten cookies slightly. I found that they don’t spread much at all, so the shape they are going into the oven will be similar to the shape they are coming out — I did press them down quite a bit to guarantee a flat cookie. Let rest in the refrigerator for at least 1 hour and up to 1 day.
Preheat the oven to 375 F. Bake the cookies for 15-20 minutes (mine took 15), or until the top firms up the center is still slightly soft. Remove from the oven and allow to cool 5 minutes and transfer to a wire rack. While the cookies are still warm, whisk together the glaze ingredients until a thin, smooth icing forms. Pour 1 tablespoon of the glaze over each cookie, leaving it to drip and coat the cookie. Finish each with a pinch of candied peel placed at the center of each cookie. Store in an airtight container for a day or two.
Winter Soups and Stews
If your house is anything like ours, last week wasn't our most inspired in terms of cooking. We're all suffering from the post-election blues -- the sole upside being Oliver's decision to sleep-in until 7 am for the first time in many, many months; I think he's trying to tell us that pulling the covers over our heads and hibernating for awhile is ok. It's half-convincing. For much of the week, instead of cooking, there'd been takeout pizza and canned soup before, at week's end, I decided it was time to pour a glass of wine and get back into the kitchen. I was craving something hearty and comforting that we could eat for a few days. Something that wouldn't remind me too much of Thanksgiving because, frankly, I can't quite gather the steam to start planning for that yet. It was time for a big bowl of chili.
Last weekend it was so windy – apocalyptically stormy, you could say – that our tent at the farmers market was uprooted by gusts of wind that were not messing around. I wasn't there, but apparently despite being heavily weighted down and with four customers holding onto each corner, it quite literally blew down the block. Sam, from across town, was reporting trees falling on every block and traffic lights out across the city. The next morning on a walk with Oliver around Green Lake, we were met with that same biting wind and ended up retreating for a hot chocolate instead. 'Tis the season in Seattle: we all get a little giddy and ahead of ourselves when we spot the cherry blossoms and daffodils, and I always trick myself into thinking that with the start of daylight savings time, summer must be right around the corner. In truth, before we had Oliver, we'd often travel somewhere sunny for a little mood boost around this time of year. When I moved from California, many friends – other (empathetic) 'expats' now living in the Pacific Northwest – recommended this: if you know what's good for you, they'd all say, go find the sun in February or March, and we would follow that advice faaaaaithfully. But with a baby, this just isn't where our priorities are this year, and I've found myself relying on other antics like buying out of season strawberries, drinking white wine with dinner, buying a new pair of sandals that likely will not see the light of day for the next two months, and making big, colorful pots of feel good, springy soup. Let's not kid ourselves: Cherry blossoms or not, Seattle's no Palm Springs when it gets down to bathing in the sunlight. But if you step outside onto your little porch, smell the honeysuckle blooming, take notice of the longer, lighter days and think about how you simply can't wait to see your baby crawling around on the sand when it's warm enough to stroll down to the beach, it starts looking better in its own light.
We returned home from San Francisco on New Years Eve just in time for dinner, and craving greens -- or anything other than baked goods and pizza (ohhhh San Francisco, how I love your bakeries. And citrus. And winter sunshine). Instead of driving straight home, we stopped at our co-op where I ran in for some arugula, an avocado, a bottle of Prosecco, and for the checkout guys to not-so-subtly mock the outlook of our New Years Eve: rousing party, eh? They looked to be in their mid-twenties and I figured I probably looked ancient to them, sad even. But really, there wasn't much sad (or rousing, to be fair) about our evening: putting Oliver to bed, opening up holiday cards and hanging them in the kitchen, and toasting the New Year with arugula, half a quesadilla and sparkling wine. It wasn't lavish. But it's what we both needed. (Or at least what we had to work with.) Since then, I've been more inspired to cook lots of "real" food versus all of the treats and appetizers and snacks the holidays always bring on. I made Julia Turshen's curried red lentils for the millionth time, a wintry whole grain salad with tuna and fennel, roasted potatoes, and this simple green minestrone that I've taken for lunch this week. Determined to fit as many seasonal vegetables into a bowl as humanly possible, I spooned a colorful pesto on top, as much for the reminder of warmer days to come as for the accent in the soup (and for the enjoyment later of slathering the leftover pesto on crusty bread).
One of the things I wanted to accomplish before really returning to work in earnest was to print some of our honeymoon photos and get them into an album. This project has taken far longer than expected as I find myself daydreaming about the craggy streets of Naples and meeting up with our friends Mataio and Jessica for a late night slice of pizza which we ate sitting on the sidewalk before embarking on an aimless but wonderful stroll of the city. There are photos of our balcony by the sea, most with tanned limbs, sandy sandals and a Campari and soda gracing the periphery of the frame. There was the little grocery store up the hill from our apartment on the Amalfi Coast that had the sweetest, tiniest strawberries and the best yogurt in little glass jars. Tomatoes drying in the sun, Aperol spritzes and salty peanuts before dinner at the bar across from the church square where all the neighborhood kids played kickball. As I sit here typing this now, photos remain scattered on my desk and it's likely they may not make it into the proper slots in the album anytime soon. Of course, they have me dreaming of sunshine and long days with little agenda, but they also have me thinking about the simplicity of our meals in Italy and how truly easy it was to eat well. Coincidentally, a few days ago Rachel Roddy's lusty new cookbook (can we call it lusty?!), My Kitchen in Rome, arrived at our doorstep. Clearly it was time to set the photos aside and get into the kitchen.
And suddenly, it's fall. I find that realization always comes not so much with the dates on the calendar as it does the leaves on the ground, the first crank of the heat in the morning, the dusky light on the way home from an evening run. Because we were gone on the train for nearly a week, I feel like fall happened here in Seattle during that very time. I left town eating tomatoes and corn and returned to find squashes and pumpkins in the market. It was that quick. And so, it only seemed fitting that I make this soup, one that has graced the fall table of each and every apartment (and now house) I've ever lived. In fact, I'm surprised that I hadn't yet made it for you here, and delighted to share it with you today.