TheKitchenSinkRecipes.com

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Recently, the list of where-have-you-been-all-my-life foods has grown at an alarming rate. Many of the foods on the list were formerly banned because I’d never enjoyed them properly prepared: Brussels sprouts, beets. Some were holdovers from childhood: peas, the dark meat of a turkey or chicken. And some I was just plain unaware of: fennel, kale.

One recent addition has me particularly regretting the portion of my life spent without it: butternut squash. I had no idea how gorgeous (that color!), flavorful (eating roasted nuggets of its sometimes feels like eating candy) and versatile it is.

I was also thrilled to learn that it’s nowhere near as daunting to prepare as it may look. Its mere proximity to the rutabaga at the market had me fearful (I’ve got Thanksgiving horror stories of the woman-versus-rutabaga variety and, let’s just say, the woman never wins). Here, you simply lop off the neck of the butternut, peel it by running your knife along the sides to expose the flesh and chop. Handle the bulbous bottom the same way, except scoop out the seeds before dicing. Oh, and don’t even dream of throwing the seeds away. Roasted, they make a wonderful topping or an addictive snack.

Ever since I stumbled on this recipe while in search of a really fallish appetizer (pictures like that definitely have contributed to the length of new-to-my-life-foods list), I’ve been on a constant lookout for other dishes in which butternut squash could star. Recent hits include this soup and the salad I’m sharing with you today, which we enjoyed for last week’s “salad Monday.”

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I love nothing more than a happy occasion that calls for a special treat. In truth, I made this tart the other night, to congratulate my husband for some work-related good news. But the beauty of a food blog is that I can send out the “leftovers” for a virtual congratulations for even more good news in my life.

So this delectable combination of deep, dark chocolate contrasted with sharp tinges of citrusy orange goes out to our newly engaged friends in San Diego. (“Goes out to?” Who do I think I am, Casey Kasem? Or, as the kids call him these days “Ryan Seacrest.”) Yes, folks, my oldest friend in the world (it all started when we were in the second grade …) got engaged last night and I couldn’t be more thrilled.

It’s times like this that I wished more than anything that my friend lived across town, rather than across the country and that I could show up on her doorstep bearing treats like this for such a wonderful occasion (actually, a bowl of steaming “Jimmy Dean Dip” would do just fine too — if you all are lucky, I’ll get her permission to share the recipe with you soon).

But since their doorstep is half-an-America away, this virtual offering will have to do. This tart is entirely celebration worthy too. A warning, though: it’s definitely strong on the citrus. If you read over the recipe and think that it might be too orange-y, I would suggest reducing (maybe even eliminating) the amount of candied orange peel that you use and perhaps increasing the amount of orange liqueur a bit. I’m guessing that doing so would impart more of a background note of orange, which will highlight the chocolate rather than stealing the show.

Whether you decide to reduce the candied orange peel in this tart or not, be sure to make it to celebrate wonderful news. It’ll make it that much sweeter.

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If you’re like me, you will soon be heading out of town: through the woods, to grandmother’s house you’ll go. We are headed to my parents’ house in Minnesota for Christmas on Friday. If I had it my way, I’d be spending every last moment in the kitchen before I left baking holiday treats. Not only would I bake a plethora of new selections and old favorites, but I’d package them up and send them across the country to friends and family who I won’t see over the holiday.

But since I clearly do not have time for such an endeavor—not with a First Amendment exam later today and my last exam on Friday, my time in the kitchen has been spent focusing on a far less festive and decidedly less glamorous task: emptying out the fridge.

While I’d love to share with you photos of a lovely array of cookies and candies, bars and biscotti, it’s just not happening. There’s always next year. And I can rest assured that my mom will have freshly-baked spritz cookies, my grandparents will arrive bearing addictive peanut brittle, caramel corn and “party mix” (the Chex Mix people should really call my grandma and grandpa for their recipe) and my step-father will have visited his favorite Scandinavian shops for the most delicately gorgeous krumkake.

Instead, I will have to share with you a dinner that will have you leaving for the holidays guilt-free: empty-out-your-fridge panini. I originally anticipated that this dinner, which we enjoyed last night, would involve homemade bread—ciabatta to be exact. But when I didn’t get around to looking at recipes until midday yesterday (Oh, the starter for ciabatta has to be made 24 hours in advance? Oh, some recipes call for special tiles to line your oven?), I had to abort that plan. Good thing we live near some excellent bakeries.

So, we took our fresh-from-someone else’s oven bread, slathered it with pesto and piled it high with mozzarella slices and Italian cold cuts (both left-over from a recent antipasto platter) on one half, and with roasted vegetables (cleaned out practically an entire drawer of the fridge!) on the other. A turn in the panini press later, we had ooey-gooey deliciousness. And the panini were almost as satisfying as an nearly-empty fridge.

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As I’ve mentioned a couple of times, I’m in the middle of final exams. While I’m moving into the home-strech now, last week was pretty busy. Because of that (and as I’ve also mentioned), our kitchen was a little under-utilized last week. One exception, though: family dinner. I really didn’t want to cancel on my sister, who comes over once a week for dinner. But I also couldn’t bear the thought of planning a menu, grocery shopping and prepping. Frankly, the Uniform Commercial Code had ruined my appetite.

So, we set a tentative night for family dinner (Tuesday) and all agreed that we’d play it by ear. By Tuesday afternoon, I still hadn’t made a call. While I would’ve gladly swapped text books for cookbooks and traded in my computer for a cutting board, I didn’t think I could afford the time away from studying. We were this close to pulling the plug. There would always be plenty of time for family dinners in 2008, right?

But, it was Ali to the rescue! My sister saved the family dinner by planning the menu (fajitas and fixins) and doing the shopping. She even braved Whole Foods for me (no fewer than five phone calls were exchanged for additional guidance). Then she hauled all the groceries over to our place on the bus (after waiting in the rain at the bus stop). When she got here (after toweling off—it was really raining), she unloaded the groceries and started chopping veggies and chicken (yes, mom, Ali was slicing and dicing raw chicken). By the time I finished studying and Kevin got home from work, dinner was well under way.

By the time we sat down to eat—with our tortillas bulging with spicy, smoky peppers and chicken, salsa and guacamole—all thoughts of good faith purchasers for value and the fiduciary duties had disapppeared. It was a family dinner fiesta! And it was just the re-charge I needed.

There’s nothing novel, fancy or complicated about these recipes. In fact, I’m sure mine resemble many of yours. But there’s something wonderful about a meal that involves recipes you know by heart and that you can put together with your eyes closed. And something completely nourishing about sharing them with people you love.

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I consider myself pretty intrepid in the kitchen (exhibit A here; exhibit B here).  But certain kitchen topics strike terror in the heart of this cook.  Some are fear of physical pain: mandoline; flambé.  Others are a pure fear of failure: soufflé.

Last weekend, I had the occasion to conquer my soufflé phobia.  Kevin requested a dessert that was chocolaty and, knowing that we were about to leave for almost a week in Minnesota, I looked for something that wouldn’t yield 10-plus servings.  I came across a recipe for individual chocolate soufflés and made the mistake of mentioning it to Kevin before fully considering whether I was up for the challenge.

His eyes went wide with excitement and I knew I had to make it for him.  After all, he did drive me around Chicago to no fewer than five potential purveyors of potato ricers this weekend—all in the midst of a blizzard.  He deserved an individual chocolate soufflé.

Once our ramekins were scraped clean, I couldn’t figure out what I was so scared of.  But then, I think that’s the case with a lot of kitchen milestones: all it takes to demystify an intimidating dish is to try it once.  And these soufflés were pretty painless.  The worst thing that could happen kind of did happen.  Instead of gorgeously puffed up chocolate soufflés, we had slightly deflated chocolate soufflés (I was concerned about that when I chose a Cooking Light recipe, but being just the two of us, I wasn’t too concerned about the “wow” factor.  If I were making these for guests, I’d go with a more decadent recipe, I think.)  But find me someone who will turn away a slightly deflated chocolate soufflé (especially one disguised  with a scoop of vanilla ice cream).  I know we sure didn’t.

I really wanted to add a little ground espresso or coffee to this recipe, but given my soufflé apprehension, I figured it’d be best to stick to the recipe.  Next time, I’ll give it a try.  Yes, that’s right, next time.  These were so painless and delicious I’m certain they’ll be back.  So take that, soufflé.

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It all started innocently enough: “Let’s make gnocchi!”  “Okay!”  Well, little did we know that said gnocchi would involve five stores, four potholes, three inches of snow and Middle Age torture.  And a partridge and a pear tree.

Having read about or watched gnocchi-making many times, I knew full well that doing so required a potato ricer.  Having never made gnocchi before and preferring a different instrument for my potato-mashing, I also knew full well that we did not have a potato ricer.  “No problem,” I thought.  We’d pick one up when we were out for the groceries.  Easy enough, right?  Wrong. 

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I’m in the middle of law school final exams.  My second-to-last set of final exams (I graduate in the spring) ever.  With a final on Thursday night and Friday morning of last week, our kitchen didn’t see a whole lot of action.  Add in a holiday party here and a night of running errands there, and the kitchen was downright neglected this week.

So, when my final was over yesterday morning, I did the only natural thing.  No, I did not head straight to a bar, to bed or back to the books, like most law students would do.  Rather, I headed into the neglected kitchen.  I was greeted by some pretty meager refrigerator contents and an intense urge to create something.  The leftover chicken carcass from our Hanukkah dinner and some veggies that were just this side of being tossed in the garbage spoke to me: chicken stock.

It was the perfect way to ease out of an intense week of studying and into the weekend (which, of course will contain more studying, but still — it’s the weekend).   I’ve skimmed enough recipes in the past to get the gist of making chicken stock—throw veggies (usually carrots and onions, but leeks, celery or parsnips can’t hurt), herbs (thyme, bay leaves, etc) and some seasoning (I always roll my eyes at the recipes that call for “20 black peppercorns”) into a gigantic pot with a chicken carcass or parts.  Fill the pot with enough water to cover the contents and set it a-simmering for four hours.  In less than a half an hour, I had put the kitchen back to use and had the house smelling savory and delicious.  Then, it was back to the books.

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On the day after the big baseball brou-ha-ha, it’s entirely appropriate that I share the recipe for these garlic fries. Let me explain.  When Kevin and I lived in D.C., we made a very concerted effort to visit every ball park possible.   Kevin, a huge Cubs fan, would propose a trip up or down the East Coast evertime the Northsiders entered the time zone.  In two summers, we did pretty well: Shea Stadium, PNC Park in Pittsburgh (a really pretty park, I’ll have you know), Citizens Bank Park in Philly, Camden Yards in Baltimore and, once the Nats came to town, RFK Stadium in D.C. (nothing to write home about).

While all those trips were really fun, none of them were noteworthy for ballpark eats.  Sure, we had shameful amounts of hot dogs and peanuts, but nothing out of the usual.  And nothing as good as a Hebrew National dog  in the Bleachers at Wrigley (topped as a Chicago-style dog should be, of course).  In the midst of this East Coast ballpark blitz, my job took me to San Francisco and I took Kevin with me.  As luck would have it, the Cubs were in town playing the Giants!  So, naturally, we headed to the park there (frankly, it’s changed names so many times I don’t remember what it was called then).

And that, my friends, brings me to the garlic fries.  At the Cubs-Giants game (where we saw Greg Maddux pitch his 300th victory), we had the most delicious ballpark food I’ve ever encountered.  The garlic fries.  Even roasting under an unusually hot (for San Francisco) sun, Kevin and I fought over every last garlicky fry.  Since then, I’ve been trying to recreate or at least approximate this treat—preferably without engaging in deep frying.  And, with this recipe, I did. 

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Sometimes, you find a recipe that looks so good that you are compelled to go out and buy the obscure piece of kitchen equipment for which the recipe calls.  And then there are the times when there is an obscure piece of kitchen equipment so must-have that you will search high and low for the recipe for which it will be put to use.  Behold: the rectangular tart pan.  It’s the same old kind of tart pan that features the pop-up bottom (impossibly fun)—but, rather than a boring circle, it is a rectangle!

 The recipe I want to share with you today captures a little bit of both of the scenarios I’ve depicted above.  First, the recipe sounded so good that I just had to make it.  And, even though it didn’t call for a tart pan (let alone a rectangular tart pan), I thought I could make it work.  AND, it would be the most perfect starter for our dinner on Sunday night.  The only problem was that I didn’t have said rectangular tart pan.  So, I launched a holiay shopping trip last Saturday with a very selfish motive: Williams-Sonoma (coal in my stocking, for sure).

Needless to say, I came home from the shopping trip with not only a couple of Christmas gifts, but also a brand spanking new cupboard-space-taker-upper.  But I will gladly shove the ancient circular tart pan (so yesterday) aside for my new rectangular-shaped friend.

 I will also have you know that I am pretty sure that the new pan made for the perfect format for this tart.  Oh, yes, I suppose I should tell you about the tart too: it featured a flaky, buttery puff pastry crust, filled with a completely decadent custard spiked with pungent camembert and melty leeks.  The recipe calls for a broad rustic circlular tart, sliced into wedges.   And I happen to think that this particular tart—awesomely decadent as it was—could be an example of too much of a good thing.  So, the rectangular shape afforded by my new pan allowed me to cut it into thin, elegant fingers—just the right amount.

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Photo Credit: S1 Photography

As I’ve mentioned a couple times now, Kevin and I are newlyweds. We are still reveling in the post-wedding glow—reminiscing and tying up loose ends, like ordering photos and finding the perfect cupboards, drawers and hooks for the bounty of kitchen-bound wedding gifts we received. These sporadic wedding-related tasks stand in stark contrast to the months leading up to the wedding, when The Wedding completely consumed my life.

As I’m sure many who have recently planned a wedding would agree, the wedding industry can be a terrifying thing. In the early weeks of our engagement, I felt as if we had been plunked down on some kind of wedding industry conveyor belt. I quickly realized that the easiest response would be to hang on for the ride. Still, I resisted the cookie cutter approach that many planners, florists, etc would push on us. I found the most satisfying way of doing this was to make whatever I could myself.

In a perfect world, I would have loved to cater the wedding myself. As the head count crept toward 200, I realized that this probably would not be the greatest idea (and just might cause my then-fiancé to reconsider the whole “marrying me” thing). Oh, and the venue of our dreams didn’t allow it. (Lucky for us, they had an exclusive relationship with a great Chicago caterer, who—in the end—served up a delicious array of hors d’oeuvres and dinner … so I heard, as I don’t really remember the food. Apparently, one loses her appetite when she’s walking in the clouds.)

So, I did the next best thing. I determined to bake the cake and host a welcome BBQ the Thursday night before our Saturday wedding. Both plans caused many people to think I was completely nuts. Thankfully, both my fiancé and my mother barely batted an eyelash when I announced these decisions.

In an effort toward sanity, I resolved to make the BBQ’s guest list as condensed as possible and began creating and editing the menu months in advance. Likewise, I began researching wedding cakes very early on (before settling on a wedding dress, of course). I quickly realized that cupcakes would be the most feasible and fun option. However, because I didn’t exactly envision multi-colored sprinkles or canned frosting, I scoured recipes for months. Several blogs—Cupcake Bakeshop by Chockylit in particular—were quite helpful and inspirational. I also dog-eared every wedding magazine layout featuring a tasteful cupcake display.

I settled on recipes for the cakes (from blog Alpineberry) and the frosting (see below), and tested and re-tested them. I tried a variety of cocoas in the cakes (ultimately settling on Scharffen Berger) and I experimented with various stabilizers in the frosting (anticipating hot weather for our outdoor August wedding – good thing, because temperatures on the big day neared 90 degrees). I carefully multiplied the recipe’s quantities to craft a grocery list and procured all the ingredients well in advance of the wedding weekend (I was the person who actually bought those impossibly enormous bags of powdered sugar and boxes of baking power at Costco).

Throughout the engagement, countless people said “I can’t believe you’re making your own cake!” In the end, that statement was far from true. Many others were involved as well. My fiancé was my loyal taste-tester. My sister helped in my search for wedding-worthy cupcake liners (when I found an online purveyor of these gorgeous mini-Pannettone liners, I was sold). My mom constantly reassured me and identified potential problems well ahead of time. And then there’s my stepdad, who built me the most gorgeous stand for the cakes I could’ve ever imagined. Heck, even the Best Man got in on the action, keeping me company when I started the baking at 6 AM the morning after the BBQ we hosted.

The plan, if I do say so myself, came off without a hitch. The cakes themselves were delicious (again, so I heard) and the stand made for a stunning display. More importantly, the project gave me a sense of ownership throughout the process and a surprisingly calming diversion during the wedding weekend. Even better, there was no need to freeze a couple of cakes for our one year anniversary. Rather than thawing cupcakes next August, I can simply whip up another batch (a single batch, thank you).

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