We started house-hunting about ten days ago, and at the time I had no idea how all-encompassing it would feel. The market is such in Seattle right now that you don’t really get to think about this very large, immensely important decision for a few days (or even overnight, in some cases); you have to either make an offer right away or move on. And I’m not one to make very big decisions quickly. So there’s been a lot of pacing, and trips to the grocery store for bad (but so good) Easter candy consumed late at night while scanning through new listings online. I’ve had my head down for awhile now and I think somehow during this time, spring has moved right on in. Sure, we had blossoming trees even last month and noticeably more light, but lately the rain is even different: softer and sweeter. And there’s possibility and change in the air.
The photos featured in this post are from my new column over on The Kitchn called But First, Breakfast. I was inspired to write this column largely from some of the feedback from my book, Whole Grain Mornings. So many of you have said you love the book and use it often — but many of the days you crack it open happen to be weekend days. In my cooking classes, the recipes that students seem to respond to most are the accessible recipes that they can easily recreate at home the next day should they choose to. So I got to thinking about how nice it’d be to have a breakfast column that was geared towards doable, inspired morning fare that could either be tackled on an average weekday … or I’d give lots of make-ahead tips and time-saving tricks so it could be prepared over the weekend for the busy days ahead. It will be posted bi-weekly on the weekends with just this in mind.
I think you’re going to like this first recipe for Baklava Breakfast Parfaits. I’ve long felt like baklava is perfectly acceptable morning fare, but I realize not everyone would agree so I set out to create a breakfast parfait that featured many of the flavors of the popular sweet without feeling so desserty. And I have to say, it was a success. One of the components of the recipe is this buttery phyllo topping (below) that we’ve started to call “pie brittle” in our house. You will have a bit leftover which is really good news as I’ve discovered a wide range of delightful culinary uses for it (may I suggest starting by sprinkling it on top of your vanilla ice cream?). I hope you enjoy the column, and look forward to hearing about any recipe successes you have or things you’d love to see featured.
Get the Recipe: Baklava Breakfast Parfait
Beyond this parfait, there so many spring finds around the internet to get excited about:
Coconut Sea Salt Caramel Ice Cream – Minimalist Baker
Breakfast Porridge with Soft Eggs and Pea Shoots – Bon Appetit
Honey Rhubarb Quinoa Cornbread – Edible Perspective
Warm Cauliflower ‘Couscous’ with Green Peas and Herbs – Green Kitchen Stories
Cornmeal Crusted Fish Tacos with Lime Crema – Brooklyn Supper
Lemon Bars with Olive Oil and Sea Salt – Melissa Clark
And as if that weren’t enough, there are a few cookbooks coming out so very soon that I can’t wait to cook from:
My New Roots by Sarah Britton
The Sprouted Kitchen Bowl + Spoon by Sara and Hugh Forte
Simply Ancient Grains by Maria Speck
Hope you’re seeing all the blossoms and light from your windows, too. See you back here soon, friends.
The Thanksgiving Table
Today is a different kind of day. Usually posts on this blog come about with the narrative and I manage to squeeze in a recipe. But sometimes when you really stumble upon a winning recipe, it speaks for itself. We'll likely make these beans for Thanksgiving this year. They're one of those simple stunners that you initially think couldn't be much of a thing. And then they come out of the oven all sweet and withered and flecked with herbs. You try one and you realize they are, in fact, a pretty big thing.
I always force myself to wait until after Halloween to start thinking much about holiday pies or, really, future holidays in general. But this year I cheated a bit, tempted heavily by the lure of a warmly-spiced sweet potato pie that I used to make back when I baked pies for a living in the Bay Area (way back when). We seem to always have sweet potatoes around as they're one of Oliver's favorite foods, and when I roast them for his lunch I've been wishing I could turn them into a silky pie instead. So the other day I reserved part of the sweet potatoes for me. For a pie that I've made hundreds of times in the past, this time reimagined with fragrant brown butter, sweetened solely with maple syrup, and baked into a flaky kamut crust. We haven't started talking about the Thanksgiving menu yet this year, but I know one thing for sure: this sweet potato pie will make an appearance.
It has begun. Talk of who is bringing what, where we'll buy the turkey, what kind of pies I'll make, early morning texts concerning brussels sprouts. There's no getting around it: Thanksgiving is on its way. And with it comes the inevitable reflecting back and thinking about what we're thankful for. And about traditions. The funny thing about traditions is that they exist because they've been around for a long time. Year after year after year. But then, one Thanksgiving maybe there's something new at the table.
I didn't expect green beans to bring up such a great discussion on traditions, sharing of poems and how a piece of writing can linger with you. So thank you for that. Your comments pointed out how important people and place are and how food takes the back seat when it comes right down to it. Even if you feel quite warm towards Thanksgiving and are looking forward to next week, reading about recipe suggestions and meal planning online and in magazines can start to feel tiresome right about now. Why? Because I suppose when it all comes down to it, in the big picture it doesn't matter what we all serve anyway. Next year, you likely won't remember one year's vegetable side dish from another. What you'll remember are the markers that dotted the year for you: whom you sat next to at the table, a toast or grace, and the sense of gratitude you felt for something -- large or small.
I got a text from my mom the other day that read: demerara sugar? I responded back with a question mark, not sure what she was referencing. It turns out she was experimenting with a new pie recipe that called for the natural sugar and wasn't sure why she couldn't just use white sugar as that's what she's always done in the past. A few days later we talked on the phone and she mentioned she'd let me take charge of the salad for Thanksgiving this year as long as there was no kale. No kale! And I wanted to do the mashed potatoes? Would they still be made with butter and milk? In short, we're always willing to mix things up in the Gordon household. Whether it's inspiration from a food magazine, friend or coworker, either my mom or one of my sisters will often have an idea for something new to try at the holiday table. But what I've slowly learned is that it can't really be that different: there must be pumpkin pie, the can of cranberry sauce is necessary even though not many people actually eat it, the onion casserole is non-negotiable, the salad can't be too out there, and the potatoes must be made with ample butter and milk. And while I was really scheming up an epic kale salad to make this year, there's a big part of me that gets it, too: if we change things too much we won't recognize the part of the day that comes to mean so much: the pure recognition. We take comfort in traditions because we recognize them -- because they're always there, year after year. And so today I present to you (mom, are you reading?): this year's Gordon family Thanksgiving salad.