I wrote to a friend today lamenting the fact that our fridge is filled largely with leftover grains. And some beer. It’s like college, with farro and wheat berries replacing the cold pizza. I had grand visions, when Sam was on the train, that I’d try a few recipes I’d been cutting out of magazines and make proper meals for myself. There were to be the green chile enchiladas or the Moroccan braised chicken. Or even a simple homemade tomato sauce. Instead, I ate pudding. And pumpkin beer. The first night I thought it kind of novel and fun: look, it’s like when I lived alone! The second night I admitted it to only Sam on the phone. The third night I thought there may be something wrong. So much for the enchiladas and braised chicken. So much for that tomato sauce. Clearly what I really wanted was some chocolate pudding.
I also had big plans to write a great deal of the narrative parts of the cookbook. Much like those enchiladas, that didn’t really happen either. I haven’t talked a whole lot here about the process of writing the cookbook quite yet. I think everytime I sit down to do it, I want to have a grand statement about it, or feel really joyful and proud. Neither one of those things has struck me yet. My friend Tara wrote a post about writing her first book this past week that struck a chord in so many ways. Yes, it feels like a blur. It feels scary. You feel like you don’t know what you’re doing … even though you really do. And deep down you know that. But it’s hard to convince yourself of the fact. So instead, you eat pudding for dinner. Over and over. You buy mums to plant in your window box and they sit outside the front door for three weeks dying. You only read magazines at night, all of those good novels you once read a distant memory.
I will write a post about the book, certainly. A number of people have mentioned how they’d be interested in hearing about how I develop original recipes and how I continue to find inspiration with such a tight deadline. Many of you may remember Heidi’s post on writing her cookbooks. The one thing I will say, right now, is that I reached out to people who knew more than me right off the bat. I’ve always done that, whether it had to do with Marge, or freelance writing, or traveling to a new city. I sit down and think about who I can ask. Who would know more? And people are almost always gracious and williing to share. I called Heidi a few months after signing with Ten Speed, knowing we shared a publisher. I wanted to know if she had any advice, I wanted to know if she thought I could do it in such a tight deadline. If you’ve ever met Heidi, you know she’s most, most generous with information and advice. We talked about inspiration boards (see mine below). We talked about how I was organizing the whole thing wrong (it turns out one loooooonnnng word document isn’t the best approach): Heidi advised me to start printing out all of the pages and actually compile them visually for myself. It’s helped immensely.
My friends Emma and Sara have answered questions about photographers, recipe measurements, and have so sweetly responded to my midnight freak-outs. Anne has been awesome, as always. Shauna helped me conceive of a whole new way to organize the sections of the book. Molly advised me on publishing questions and Jess sent me sweet encouragement (and granola from Boston to try!). And then: You all! Thank you, as always, for being here. This book is happening largely because of you, my friends. Really. I feel so grateful.
My point? The book’s not ready to be talked about fully quite yet. But there are so many people out there who have given so much already. My mom is recipe-testing her booty off. As are a smattering of you out there. And I’m trusting that it’s all going to come together in the end. It’s nose-down work, this writing business. It’s not quite what I expected, really. It’s harder. It’s not just about me sitting happily in the kitchen meeting a deadline. There are meetings, design approaches, photography choices, book-size decisions. There are ingredients, and seasons and colors to consider. There are recipes you have to make seven times to get just right. There’s pretending. And hoping. And finger-crossing.
Don’t get me wrong: I’m so grateful to have the opportunity to write this book. It really is a whole new approach to breakfast, with sweet and savory whole-grain recipes that span busy weekdays to Sunday brunches. And it’s going to make millet fans out of some of you just yet. You wait! But for now, I’ll just say hello from Thursday morning. And isn’t that Mumford and Sons album good? How about the new Avett Brothers? Do you have mulling spices in your cupboards yet? Falling leaves outside the door? Roasted a squash? Watching Parenthood (so good)? And, most importantly: does anyone have a good lead on cute lady oxfords? I’m in the market. Big time.
With oxfords behind us, it’s time for pudding. We eat out every now and again, and I’m often trying dishes and thinking, I wish I had that recipe! But I rarely ask for it because it can be awkward. But almost a year ago now, when I was up here visiting Sam, we ate at Skillet Diner. Truthfully, we eat there more often than I care to admit these days. It’s just such a solid spot for comfort food: fried chicken, meatloaf, biscuits, big salads, pie, cocktails … and pudding. They serve this Bittersweet Chocolate Pudding that I fell in love with the first time I tried it. It’s served with Pie Brittle on the side, is a genius way to use up leftover pie dough scraps (sprinkle them with a little sugar and bake them off).
When I returned to the Bay Area then, I wrote to Skillet to ask for the recipe and to see if I could share it with you all here. At the time, I’d just written about Chocolate Pot de Cremes, so I didn’t want to bombard you with chocolate pudding-like desserts. But I think it’s about darn near time. The recipe came to me as most restaurant recipes do: It was two sentences long. So I’ve flushed it out for you a bit here. Not that pudding’s tough, but there are a few things to know to make it great. While Skillet makes their version by “buzzing” it with an immersion blender at the end, I took the old fashioned whisk-and-stir-over-low-heat approach and find that it works much better. So that’s how I’ve written it for you here.
The recipe really need little futzing, but I did end up decreasing the sugar, added a little vanilla, and love to sprinkle some flaky salt on top. I use natural cane sugar here (turbinado) because it’s what we have on hand these days, but if you’d prefer to use white granulated sugar, it’s not a problem. Green & Black were kind enough to send me a box of chocolate a few weeks back, and I chose the always wonderful 70% Dark bar for this pudding. The more I look at the recipe now, I realize it’s actually a pretty standard chocolate pudding recipe. There are few bells and whistles. And maybe that’s why it’s been such a comfort lately. While I’m spending so much time thinking about flavor profiles and interesting seasonal ingredients for the cookbook, sometimes it’s nice to have something simple and straightforward that takes few decisions and delivers everytime.
It turns out that returning from a sunny honeymoon to a rather rainy, dark stretch of Seattle fall hasn't been the easiest transition. Sam and I have been struggling a little to find our groove with work projects and even simple routines like cooking meals for one another and getting out of the easy daily ruts that can happen to us all. When we were traveling, we made some new vows to each other -- ways we can keep the fall and winter from feeling a bit gloomy, as tends to happen at a certain point living in the Pacific Northwest (for me, at least): from weekly wine tastings at our neighborhood wine shop to going on more lake walks. And I suppose that's one of the most energizing and invigorating parts about travel, isn't it? The opposite of the daily rut: the constant newness and discovery around every corner. One of my favorite small moments in Italy took place at a cafe in Naples when I accidentally ordered the wrong pastry and, instead, was brought this funny looking cousin of a croissant. We had a wonderfully sunny little table with strong cappuccino, and, disappointed by my lack of ordering prowess, I tried the ugly pastry only to discover my new favorite treat of all time (and the only one I can't pronounce): the sfogliatelle. I couldn't stop talking about this pastry, its thick flaky layers wrapped around a light, citrus-flecked sweet ricotta filling. It was like nothing I'd ever tried -- the perfect marriage of interesting textures and flavors. I became a woman obsessed. I began to see them displayed on every street corner; I researched their origin back at the hotel room, and started to look up recipes for how to recreate them at home. And the reason for the fascination was obviously that they were delicious. But even more: I'm so immersed in the food writing world that I rarely get a chance to discover a dish or a restaurant on my own without hearing tell of it first. And while a long way away from that Italian cafe, I had a similar feeling this week as I scanned the pages of Alice Medrich's new book, Flavor Flours, and baked up a loaf of her beautiful fall pumpkin loaf: Discovery, newness, delight!
I had every intention of starting a new tradition this year and hosting a cookie swap with some of our local friends, but somehow the season really got the best of me and it just hasn't happened. But! That hasn't stopped me from getting a head start on holiday baking; I posted a photo on Instagram the other day of some of my very favorite holiday cookbooks, and asked if there was a way we could all just take the whole week off to bake instead of work. Judging from the responses, it seems I'm not the only one who thinks this would be a really great idea. But back here in reality, cookie baking is relegated to later evenings or, I hope, this weekend we'll find some time to eek in a few batches (the recipe for Sam's mom's Nutmeg Logs is up next, and I'm set on making gingerbread men to take with us down to the Bay Area). Right now on our countertop, we've got a batch of these crumbly, chocolatey, whole grain shortbread that have proven to be a big hit. The ingredient list is small and simple, the technique foolproof, and I think they're a real standout in a sea of holiday cookies.
Hello from the other side! I realize we haven't been back here for a few weeks, and I'm sorry for dropping into a little black hole. My cookbook deadline was Monday, so I've been a writing and editing machine, stepping away from the computer to occasionally clean the house like a crazy person or throw together a most random lunch or dinner. But somehow it all came together although there was something strangely anti-climactic about sending it off: In the days when you'd print out your manuscript and have to walk to the post office and seal it up carefully to send to the publisher, I imagine it would feel much more ceremonial and important --you could stroll out of the building and do a cartwheel. Or high-five a fellow customer on your way out. Instead, I was sitting in our dining room on an incredibly rainy, dark Monday afternoon unable to hit "send." My sister Zoe told me to just close my eyes and do it. Sam gave me the thumbs up. So around 3 p.m. that's what I did. With the click of a button, just like that: it was finished.
Strolling New York City streets during the height of fall when all the leaves are changing and golden light glints off the brownstone windows. This is what I envisioned when I bought tickets to attend my cousin's September wedding earlier this month: Sam and I would extend the trip for a good day or two so we could experience a little bit of fall in the city. We'd finally eat at Prune and have scones and coffee at Buvette, as we always do. Sam wanted to take me to Russ and Daughters, and we'd try to sneak in a new bakery or ice cream shop for good measure. Well, as some of you likely know, my thinking on the weather was premature. New York City fall had yet to descend and, instead, we ambled around the city in a mix of humidity and rain. When we returned home I found myself excited about the crisp evening air, and the fact that the tree across the street had turned a rusty shade of amber. It was time to do a little baking.
We've been waking up early these days with baby Oliver. I've always been a morning person, so this isn't particularly challenging for me -- although the middle of the night feedings have proven to be really tough. There has been a lot of finessing of sleep schedules and figuring out how Sam and I can both get enough to function well the following day. And just when we think we have it down ("gosh, aren't we lucky we have a baby that sleeps?"), everything changes. When I was in the final weeks of pregnancy and would talk about how I couldn't wait for the baby to be here, all of my friends with kids would advise me to sleep as much as possible -- and now I get it. I should've napped more. I should've listened. In getting up at odd times throughout the night with Oliver, I've had the chance to occasionally see some really brilliant sunrises (although not this past week which has been a particularly dark one in Seattle); I've made up some wacky baby tunes that I'm happy no one else can hear; and I generally have a good hour in which I can put him in the sling and walk briskly around the house trying to soothe him back to sleep while also putting away a dish or two or making a quick cup of coffee. In that hour, I can usually get something productive done and this past weekend that something was pear gingerbread.