tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-91276532024-03-07T00:39:47.610-05:00Dream KitchenWhen I write of hunger, I am really writing about love and the hunger for it, and warmth and the love of it and it is all one.-- M. F. K. FisherLauren D. McKinneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09492156665800981450noreply@blogger.comBlogger297125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9127653.post-72799517581259135122023-10-24T13:19:00.015-04:002023-10-24T13:23:26.481-04:00Dream Kitchen is Back . . . on Substack. It Rhymes!<p>Please subscribe to me on Substack right <a href="https://dreamkitchen.substack.com/p/bountiful-butternut">here</a>. Thanks!</p>Lauren D. McKinneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09492156665800981450noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9127653.post-14949884895553525322018-08-12T09:08:00.002-04:002018-08-12T09:08:29.832-04:00Boo!I'm posting something new just to see if anyone still subscribes to Dream Kitchen. I've been rereading it and remembering how much fun it was to write.Lauren D. McKinneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09492156665800981450noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9127653.post-89767542917216754822012-02-15T15:10:00.000-05:002012-02-15T15:10:55.289-05:00In Which Liver Tastes Mighty GoodIn September we got an eighth of a cow from Phillycowshare, and the liver was included in our eighth, lucky us. Finally this week I worked up the nerve to thaw it. How to cook this much-maligned organ? Classic liver and onions sounded OK but too close to the liver I was forced to eat as a child. It was tough and gray and it took forever to eat. So I found a <a href="http://www.epicurious.com/recipes/food/views/Liver-Bacon-and-Onions-Down-Home-Style-10015">recipe</a> for liver with, yes, bacon and onions, but also ketchup. It sounded palatable enough to try to feed the kids. Instead of ketchup I used Trader Joe's barbecue sauce because that's what we had. Personally, I thought it was kinda fantastic. And the liver was not tough in the least. The pieces were about 1/2 inch thick and I only cooked them for two minutes on each side.<br />
<br />
Mr. Dream Kitchen thought the liver was just fine. He is an agreeable, low-maintenance guy. My younger son made dire faces and writhed about in his chair for a minute, and groaned, while the rest of us ignored him. He eventually ate a few bites, and all the bacon. (This is a kid who made a baconmobile the other week for the Pinewood Derby.) My older son had a couple of bites.<br />
<br />
In other words, the liver was a <i>raging success</i>!!! As Julia Child once said, "When it comes to liver, you gotta set the bar low, girl!" Maybe she didn't actually say it, but I feel she might have said it in a comment below, had she been imbibing, and had she never taken classes at Le Cordon Bleu.Lauren D. McKinneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09492156665800981450noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9127653.post-7825813767437500102012-02-13T14:13:00.004-05:002012-02-13T14:48:08.852-05:00The Sadness of Supermarkets at NightOr: I'm Sorry This Ends on a Downbeat But It's about Why Supermarkets Depress Me, So It Sort of Has To.<br />
<br />
When I was a kid, my mom would load up the cart with frozen vegetables, boxes of cereal, cartons of milk, a couple of TV dinners, meat in styrofoam packages, instant coffee, Tang, jars of peaches, a few pale tomatoes and heads of iceberg lettuce. We would leave with four or five bags full and pack it in the Ford Country Squire station wagon. Then we would come back a week later to get the same stuff. This ritual trip played a central part in our family's food life because the supermarket, whether A & P, Acme, Penn Fruit, Piggly Wiggly, or the Army post's Commissary,<i> was where the food was</i>. A big well lit, chilly room that played Muzak and sold Soap Opera Digest and The National Enquirer. <br />
<br />
Now it's the CSA, Swarthmore Co-op, Philly Cowshare, and Trader Joe's. The supermarket's role has shrunk, shrunk, shrunk over the years to the point where I only go there after the Swarthmore Co-op closes and I really need something before 8 AM the next day. Sometimes it's milk. Or it could be ice cream because we want to celebrate a baseball or Pinewood Derby success. After 9:00 PM you have to go in a secondary entrance, and it's all weird because I inevitably end up walking the wrong way through a checkout line. My supermarket happens to be a Genuardi's, which was a family-run store that expanded and was then sold to Safeway, who worked hard to make it as mediocre as possible. Now it has been bought by Giant. Yawn. <br />
<br />
Every time I go to Genuardi's, the wind is howling and snow is blowing, or frogs are raining down from the sky, or death-eaters are swooping through the parking lot looking for the few carts that don't squeak. I enter and the usual tinny music is playing. The music remainds me of some random part of my adolescence and dictates my thoughts for the evening. "Benny and the Jets"--10th grade gym class and those navy blue jumpsuits we had to wear. "Both Sides Now"--love wasn't all it was cracked up to be, 9th grade. "The Long and Winding Road"--eating lunch at the Benjamin Franklin Village Officers' Club every day of 7th grade. I will be glad to explain that to you some time. Wait, I'm here to get milk. It's always about a kilometer away from the door. Hike over to get it, pass the baked goods that look tasty but aren't, and get in the line. <br />
<br />
The line is short because everyone else is at the apocolypse, but it's long enough for me to read some tabloid headlines about Jennifer Aniston or Angelina Jolie. It's long enough for me to remember my single years of supermarket shopping, which coincided with the rise and fall of Princess Diana. Every time I went to the supermarket, whether it was in Center City, Philadelphia (Acme, Super Fresh) or Harrisonburg, Virginia (Kroger, Food Lion) I would read the latest about "Di" waiting in line. The almost-plump virginal phase, big-hat phase, baby phase, anorexic moping phase, thirty and separated and wearing a kickass black turtleneck phase, the extra blond extra divorced phase, and then the end.<br />
<br />
The supermarket at night connects me to all the other supermarkets I've ever been to, the trips to get diapers (no longer needed) and Tampax (no longer needed) and milk and Benadryl blending into one long string of banal experiences that never quite disappear from memory. The rise and fall of princesses and movie stars continues. My mother's supermarkets are never coming back, any more than my mother is coming back, any more than Princess Di or Whitney Houston or my youth are coming back.<br />
<br />
"Will that be all, ma'am?" It sure will. And when did I become "ma'am"? A long time ago.Lauren D. McKinneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09492156665800981450noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9127653.post-45358232054953658552012-02-08T12:30:00.001-05:002012-02-08T12:31:56.549-05:00Making Lunches at Home: The Dark Side<i>DISCLOSURE: The child in these statements is a composite and the events here did not really take place all in the same week.</i> <br />
<br />
Let's be frank. This practice of making lunches has a rarely acknowledged dark side. Let me walk you through it. <br />
<br />
Lunch is prepared by a devoted parent, late at night when said parent would rather be sleeping or making her way through Season 4 of <i>Six Feet Under</i>, or at 6:40 AM, when this parent would rather be mainlining coffee and reading the entertaining Republican primary results.<br />
<br />
This lunch, packed carefully in reusable containers, is then trotted out either at 11:00 or 1:30 or some other odd assigned lunch period, where it may or may not be eaten. Here are the possibilites, and I'm just tellin' it like is, America.<br />
<br />
1. The entire lunch is eaten. This is theoretically possible but . . . has this ever happened? Get back to me, readers.<br />
<br />
2. The lunch is not eaten at all. This happens five percent of the time because "I thought I was buying" or "I couldn't find it" or "Jimmy had a birthday party and he brought doughnuts" (elementary school only).<br />
<br />
3. Two bites or less are taken out of the sandwich (if it is a sandwich) because "It smells funny," "It's dry" or "I ran out of time." Occasionally in these circumstances, said child will eat more of the fruit or vegetables than usual. That's rare. <br />
<br />
4. The sandwich is eaten and the fruit and veggies are untouched. Again, "I ran out of time." This is a valid point. It's true that they must do lunch and recess in a short time, and recess rocks. Whereas a stinky cafeteria full of yelling kids and grumpy "monitors" does not rock.<br />
<br />
This neglect of lovingly prepared foods is then compounded by the following practices:<br />
<br />
1. (I love numbered lists so much.) The child leaves the lunchbag and contents in the locker. Middle school introduces this whole new private, dark place where junk and valuables accumulate in a heap. It's like the unconconscious only it smells.<br />
<br />
2. The previous problem causes a cascading set of issues. Now the parent must pack the next lunch in a CVS bag and GLAD containers. <br />
<br />
3. Repeat #1, only with Target bag that's too big.<br />
<br />
4. Repeat #1, only with newspaper bag with a hole in it.<br />
<br />
5. Repeat #1, with <i>Victoria's Secret</i> bag.<br />
<br />
6. The child brings home all the lunches at once on Friday because now there's room in the backpack for them, because the huge bursting binder is left in the locker because there's no homework. Are you following this?<br />
<br />
5. <i>Someone</i> must then must dispose of the molding, decomposing food and wash the containers on a lovely Friday afternoon. <i>Someone</i> is crabby and repercussions make themselves known. <br />
<br />
Makes you shiver, doesn't it?Lauren D. McKinneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09492156665800981450noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9127653.post-67780247952593438062012-02-07T14:32:00.002-05:002012-02-07T14:38:14.198-05:00How to Be the Boss of KalePerhaps you are afraid of kale. You're intimidated by its huge dark green leaves and its commanding bulk, you're rendered mute by its assertive bitterness, or you're not brave enough to break its toughness.<br />
<br />
It's true. Kale has been around the block a few times. In fact, kale was the dominant vegetable in Northern Europe through the Middle Ages. How do you think King Arthur became so wise? It wasn't from eating petits-pois. <br />
<br />
And Scotland was basically a giant kale garden, where the writer J. M. Barrie, who wrote Peter Pan, was a member of the "Kailyard School" of fiction. <br />
<br />
So let's not be cowards when it comes to kale. You just have to show kale who's boss. You must tame its strength. Here are a few tips:<br />
<br />
--You can eat it raw. But it's best cut up into thin strips. This is true for lots of strong winter vegetables. Thin strips tame the bitterness and allow more surface area for dressing or sauce. I made a dressing the other day of olive oil, lemon juice, and salt. I used the kale as a bed for roasted onions, squash, and sweet potato. The sassy kale was a perfect partner for the sweet vegetables.<br />
<br />
--You can throw it into soups or stews. I even put a whole bunch in a lamb chili last night. Again, it was cut in small pieces. One reason I make small pieces is to make it that much harder for certain boys to separate it out from the rest of the food. I'm shrewd that way.<br />
<br />
--If you are sauteing it, pair it with bacon. Cut up some bacon slices with kitchen scissors and cook the pieces, stirring occasionally. Drain any excess fat and cook some kale in with the bacon, again stirring occasionally. Add salt and pepper. Other tasty additions are Sriracha or tamari, depending what taste you are seeking.<br />
<br />
And if you are already a kale fan, or becoming one, you will be glad to know that the northern Germans have a kale celebration every winter, centered around eating boiled kale! Is that festive or what? The name of the ritual is Grunkohlfahrt (pronounced grune-cole-fart--yes, I know) and it also seems to involve wurst (of course) and schnapps. I would imagine a great deal of schapps.<br />
<br />
And, seriously, all fart jokes aside, kale is a great anticarcinogen (not boiled) and has tons of other vitamins including calcium. So boss around some kale today. And in the mean time, Happy Grunkohlfahrt!Lauren D. McKinneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09492156665800981450noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9127653.post-80852684366799575012012-01-05T10:00:00.000-05:002012-01-05T10:00:10.683-05:00Alice's Revolution<b><a href="http://www.amazon.com/40-Years-Chez-Panisse-Gathering/dp/0307718263/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1325773035&sr=1-1">40 Years of Chez Panisse: The Power of Gathering</a>.</b><br />
<br />
Chez Panisse, Chez Panisse. Alice Waters, Alice Waters, Chez Panisse. Are you getting sick of hearing about this place? Me neither. Alice Waters is the one who started this whole farm to table movement, and for the past few years she and the Chez Panisse Foundation have spearheaded the Edible Schoolyard, a way of empowering children to grow and eat their own food at school.<br />
<br />
All Alice ever did, at first, was so modest and simple. She opened a restaurant that served a three-course fixed-price menu. The staff would decide on the menu that day, depending on what produce, meat or fish they had procured. They actually told the diners where the food came from, which was never from far away. And the diners came, year after year, decade after decade, and now it's been forty years. Chez Panisse's philosophy has become <i>de rigueur</i>. She started a revolution.<br />
<br />
At Chez Panisse, they even serve mulberry sorbet, the berries always from the same big old tree in Sonoma. I always thought they were flavorless, and although we had a giant mulberry tree when I was growing up, we kids only used the berries to smear on our arms as "blood." Then we went inside and ate canned fruit cocktail.<br />
<br />
A revolution, no matter how small, threatens institutions. That's why it's called a revolution. If everyone in the United States ate local, that would be the end of agribusiness, supermarket chains, corporate food services, and the end of a whole industry of transport, refrigeration, shipping, and distribution systems. To say nothing of genetically engineered produce. And in its place? A nation of people who either grow their own food, or buy what is near them, in season. Or they "put up" for the winter. They nourish their land. They share their bounty with those in need, and teach those in need how to grow and forage. <br />
<br />
It's happening, but slowly. Even in my "progressive" town, our local elementary school serves an impoverished lunch full of factory meat and white flour. The flavorless apples remain largely untouched, the children preferring--you guessed it--canned fruit cocktail.<br />
<br />
Much work remains to be done. But we can do this. So it's January. Buy turnips instead of tomatoes. Invite friends over for a simple meal. Use the money that you would use for a diet program on organic eggs or locally grown meat. Invite friends to cook with you. Plan a modest garden this year.<br />
<br />
Let's take on Alice's revolution, one mulberry at a time.Lauren D. McKinneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09492156665800981450noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9127653.post-34151397687390722972011-09-20T10:47:00.003-04:002011-09-20T11:05:00.571-04:00And The Highest Purpose of Green Tomatoes Is . . .I was going to say the <i>special</i> purpose of green tomatoes, but once you've seen <i>The Jerk</i> you can never say "special purpose" again. So the <i>highest</i> purpose of green tomatoes is a gratin. They're fine pickled or fried, but in a gratin they reach their apotheosis, their verdant tartness marrying the rich creamy sauce so perfectly. <br />
<br />
The link to the recipe I worked from is in the previous post, but I changed it enough that I'm including my own version here. I tripled the recipe, using scallions instead of shallots, and breadcrumbs from homemade bread instead of panko, and lots more breadcrumbs than originally called for. In other words it's a bigger bolder recipe. Not to imply that the original recipe is dinky and timid.<br />
<br />
<b>Green Tomato Gratin, Chez Dream Kitchen</b><br />
<br />
This will feed 10 people if they like it. And they will like it.<br />
<br />
3 lbs green tomatoes<br />
<br />
For breadcrumb topping:<br />
<br />
2 1/2 C breadcrumbs (diced stale bread)<br />
Kosher or sea salt<br />
black pepper<br />
3 T olive oil<br />
<br />
For Mornay sauce:<br />
<br />
4 1/2 T butter<br />
1/3 cup finely chopped scallions<br />
6 T flour<br />
2 1/4 C heavy cream<br />
2 t Kosher or sea salt (less if you use regular salt)<br />
3/4 C fresh grated parmesan or pecorino <br />
1/4 t fresh grated nutmeg<br />
<br />
You can cut the tomatoes a few hours ahead of time, and you can also make the sauce ahead of time. Just warm the sauce up in the microwave a little before mixing it with the tomatoes.<br />
<br />
Preheat oven to 450.<br />
<br />
Mix all the ingredients for the breadcrumb topping together and set aside.<br />
<br />
To make the Mornay, put the butter and scallions in a medium saucepan and saute over medium heat for about five minutes. Add the flour and stir for about 1 minute. Whisk in the cream then add the cheese, salt and nutmeg. Continue whisking until the sauce thickens, then take it off the heat.<br />
<br />
Spread the tomatoes evenly between two large shallow glass or ceramic baking dishes. Pour the sauce over the tomatoes. Sprinkle the breadcrumb topping evenly on top then place the dishes in the oven.<br />
<br />
Bake for 15 minutes or until the sauce is bubbling and the breadcrumbs are golden brown.<br />
<br />
For selfish reasons, I'm sad that this disappeared so quickly at the dinner party. I did take three or four slices that were left on a child's plate . . . is that pathetic?Lauren D. McKinneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09492156665800981450noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9127653.post-77519096417845578542011-09-16T21:42:00.002-04:002011-09-16T21:49:33.515-04:00Fall Menu: Brisket Braised in Stout, Green Tomato Gratin.I wish you could smell my kitchen. I've been braising a six-pound beef brisket for a couple of hours, and the stout, bay leaves, homemade chicken stock, homegrown thyme and sage, mustard, and 2 1/2 pounds of onions <i>and six prunes </i>create just the perfect heady richness for the first crisp day of "fall." (Well, it's not really fall. Yet.) Here is <a href="http://www.epicurious.com/recipes/food/views/Brisket-Braised-in-Porter-355237?mbid=ipapp">the recipe</a>, from Epicurious. I confess a great, unrequited crush on prunes, and these six prunes are such winsome little fellows, like the seven dwarfs. How can you resist a huge recipe for brisket that calls for six prunes?<br />
<br />
What else to serve? Because I took down a couple of tomato plants to make room for lettuce, I now have a bag full of green tomatoes. So I looked on the friendly old internet and found <a href="http://norecipes.com/blog/2009/04/26/green-tomato-gratin-recipe/">this recipe, which I'm tripling.</a> I've made the mornay sauce ahead of time, and I've delegated tomorrow's actual slicing to Mr. Dream Kitchen, who will enjoy using our new kitchen scale to measure the three pounds of green tomatoes. Yes, I got tired of estimating the weight of produce and finally bought the scale. It's like getting a GPS; every little thing is quantifiable now. In a world gone daft, politically (not going to get more specific . . .), it's nice to have a few things that make sense, no matter how small. Little kitchen scale, you make me happy.Lauren D. McKinneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09492156665800981450noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9127653.post-40087312997770809352011-08-18T19:50:00.000-04:002011-08-18T19:50:00.802-04:00Rare Adjectives, Sliced and Pickled<br />
"The fusilli is a picaresque delight, a bumptious fugue of octopus and bone marrow." --Andy Borowitz, in his "<a href="http://http://www.food52.com/the_bib/judgement/marea_vs_torrisi_italian_specialties">first and last restaurant review</a>." <br />
<br />
From whom we also have:<br />
<br />
"The Long Island duck breast is a bumptious delight, a picaresque fugue of mulberries and mustard." <br />
<br />
This restaurant review--and Andy, I can guarantee that it's not the last, my friend--caused me to think about how I, too, could use the words "picaresque" and "bumptious" to describe food. Not "fugue" because the word deeply depresses me--the sound, the spelling, everything. The way it slides and thuds, like a dead body falling down an elevator shaft.<br />
<br />
What about "picaresque"? "Of or relating to a rogue or rascals." Mulberries and mustard does sound like a roguish combo, like something 10-year-old girls would make each other eat at a slumber party. <br />
<br />
Let's look at "bumptious:" "Offensively self-assertive or conceited." Octopus and bone marrow? The combination sounds like an accident at sea, but is it bumptious? Or, after being cooked for a while, would it be "unctuous"?<br />
<br />
By the way, I did find the phrase "bumptious homoerotic picaresque" in my Google search. Not sure where to go with that.<br />
<br />
Anyhow, five pattypan squash in a row, on the kitchen counter, is picaresque AND bumptious. Picaresque because in my house squash is a mischievous vegetable that hardly anyone likes. I have to quash its bumptious personality. <br />
<br />
Here is what I did, and it worked:<br />
<br />
<b>Pattypan Squash Pickle</b> <br />
<br />
Slice five or six pattypan squash thin with a mandoline. If you don't have one, get one! Dice a jalapeno and add. Sprinkle a tablespoon of salt over all, and give it a good squeeze every few minutes until not much water comes out, maybe 20 minutes later. Rinse and squeeze one final time. Add one teaspoon of rice wine vinegar and a drop or two of dark sesame oil.<br />
<br />
Five little squashes, sliced, salted and civilized.<br />
<br />
Lauren D. McKinneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09492156665800981450noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9127653.post-51583967230227273772011-08-16T14:32:00.001-04:002011-08-16T14:33:02.593-04:00When Humorless People Edit Humor: A Local Case StudyHere is the title and introduction for an article that I wrote for a very local paper. Very. Local. So very local and folksy that it publishes several fake stories on April 1, so very local and folksy that after July 4, it is covered with photos of cute kids at the parade. Got it? Let's carry on.<br />
<br />
I am on a committee at the Swarthmore Food Emporium (pseudonmym) and my main role is to write stuff. This article is publicizing a fundraiser so we can make healthy meals for people who need them, and the meals are made on Sunday nights.<br />
<br />
Here is the BEFORE:<br />
<br />
<i>The Swarthmore Food Emporium Commits Senseless Acts of Kindness: More Accomplices Needed<br />
<br />
by Lauren McKinney, Food Emporium Committee of Blah-Blah<br />
<br />
One Sunday night in the spring, after the Food Emporium closed its doors to shoppers, some fresh food disappeared under suspicious circumstances. The scene of the crime looked like this: A local woman took some whole wheat off the shelf to boil on the emporium's stove. Soon thereafter, pasta with chicken and homemade sauce was seen leaving the premises. Meanwhile, fresh berries were cut, Caribbean black bean soup bubbled mysteriously on the stove, and another accomplice made a green salad. Officer Pardo of the Swarthmore Police Department was baffled. </i><br />
<br />
And here is a quote from a committee member upon reading my draft:<br />
<br />
"My biggest concern is actually the tag line and 'crime scene' theme. While it was really cute and catchy, I did not like going anywhere near associating an outreach effort with something criminal." <br />
<br />
She rewrote it and here is the AFTER:<br />
<br />
<i>The Swarthmore Food Emporium Is Taking It To the Street: More Support Is Needed<br />
<br />
On a Sunday night this spring, after the Food Emporium closed its doors to shoppers, the store was anything but quiet. Food was collected from the emporium shelves, whole wheat pasta was doused with olive oil and homemade pesto, chicken was sautéed, fresh kale was chopped, local berries were cut, and Caribbean black bean soup bubbled on the stove. In just over two hours, Food Emporium members Holly Norris and Kelly Shire [pseudonyms], together with eight volunteers, had prepared enough food to provide 4-5 meals for 10 people. Why? </i><br />
<br />
I went along with it, because I know how to do committees. And I added their names to the byline. Inside, I'm thinking BLOG FODDER. I lament, and today seems to be a day for lamenting, the humorlessness that is floating out there in the world, dully, pointlessly, inexorably. A gray cloud of humorlessness dampening high spirits everywhere!! (Nothing against the color gray or clouds.) So what do you say? Grab your whimsy, put on your satire, attach your hyperbole and even your litote (if you can find one),and let's fight this thing together.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Lauren D. McKinneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09492156665800981450noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9127653.post-66811368732842791212011-08-16T12:12:00.000-04:002011-08-16T12:12:13.620-04:00Honeysuckle: A Late Summer LamentInnocent in June,<br />
You now hold tomatoes in<br />
A knowing death grip.<br />
<br />
Lauren D. McKinneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09492156665800981450noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9127653.post-2612978634811437452011-07-22T08:30:00.001-04:002011-07-22T08:30:37.981-04:00Queso Blanco on a Summer's DayMy cheesemaking buddies Roxane and Oonie met Tuesday to spend a few hours making cheese and butter. (Remember that gallon of cream? I'm thinking maybe it was TWO gallons.) It was well worth it, for the conversation at least as much for the cooking.<br />
<br />
First we went to the local health food store, Martindale's, and bought a gallon of raw milk. Then we heated it up to between 185 and 190, while keeping each other up to date on the latest divorces, deaths, and home sales. At that point we added, slowly, 1/4 cup of apple cider vinegar. When curds formed, we ladled them into a colander lined with butter muslin. Then we hung the butter muslin from the kitchen faucet and allowed the whey to drip into a bowl in the sink.<br />
<br />
A couple of hours later, after we ate a lunch of hummus, veggies, and Oonie's homemade yogurt,the cheese was solid enough. Then we whipped up a couple of batches of butter in the food processor. We split up the butter, cheese, and expenses and said our goodbyes. I got to keep the fresh buttermilk, which isn't tangy like cultured. To me it just tastes like delcious whole milk.<br />
<br />
The cheese was so easy to make, and it has that full raw milk flavor that makes you realize what we've been missing all these years. It's the kind of cheese that doesn't melt, along the order of paneer or halloumi. You can fry or grill it. I cubed it and added it to a main dish salad of cucumber, tomato, and onion, with an olive oil and lemon juice dressing.<br />
<br />
The cheese recipe is on p. 93 of Ricki Carroll's Home Cheesemaking, 3rd ed. Oh, and I used the whey in a bread recipe that I'll share with you all in the next post. <br />
<br />
Blessed are the cheesemakers.Lauren D. McKinneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09492156665800981450noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9127653.post-82574760972806094962011-07-21T13:00:00.000-04:002011-07-21T13:00:11.483-04:00Extreme Rustic Blueberry "Pudding"A Mennonite man who grew up on a farm in Iowa once told me that on summer days sometimes his family would eat bread and milk with berries on top for lunch. That sounded appealing to me, so today I made a version of it.<br />
<br />
Ingredients<br />
day-old homemade bread<br />
blueberries<br />
sugar<br />
cream or whole milk<br />
<br />
Toast the bread. Set it in the bottom of a wide shallow bowl. Cover it with blueberries, add some sugar to taste and and crush some of the berries and sugar with the back of a spoon. Or just skip that step; I like a little smushiness. Pour the cream or milk over top, and warm it up a little in the microwave if you want. (I did.)<br />
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You may then labor in the fields. Or take a nap.Lauren D. McKinneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09492156665800981450noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9127653.post-43531067162484158702011-07-11T10:10:00.076-04:002011-07-11T11:07:45.349-04:00A Gallon of Cream? For Me?One day in March I went to collect my Winter Harvest buying clu49055555 (kitten on keyboard, sorry)buying club 6cylby4 order (OK, kitten, have some liver treats.) and instead of a gallon of skim milk I found a gallon of cream with my name on it. Let's pause here for a moment to absorb how horrifying it was, to see <i>a gallon of cream with my name on it</i>. In block letters on a white label. I took this vat of fat home and emailed their office immediately, but there was nothing they could do. I had accidentally checked the cream column instead of the skim milk column.<br />
<br />
What to do? I learned that cream can be frozen, so I froze it a pint at a time in quart freezer bags, which is what we had on hand. That would buy us some time. I knew we would use some for ice cream, which Mr. Dream Kitchen makes. When the weather warmed up, we pulled out some to make mint ice cream with the mint from our garden. It transcends store-bought mint ice cream several times over.<br />
<br />
Last week I got started thinking about butter. I looked up how to make it, and saw that you can just whirl cream around in a mixer. I poured in a quart of the thawed but still cold cream into the mixer. Without a splash guard, I had to go at too slow a speed for anything to happen, especially with the cream being so cold. So I transferred it all to the food processor and gave it a whirl. I wish my sons had been there to see it. For a few minutes you think nothing is happening and then you can watch it seizing as the butter suddenly separates from the buttermilk.<br />
<br />
At this point I gathered up the butter with my hands and kneaded it gently in a bowl of ice water, in order to rid it of the buttermilk, which would cause the butter to go rancid. I didn't save the buttermilk because I was in a slight panic about a leakage from the Cuisinart (was it something I did?), but next time I'll save it.<br />
<br />
Here is the takeaway point: <i>Butter made from organic local cream tastes the way butter is meant to taste<i></i>.</i> Strangely enough, the day that I made the butter I learned about a new book called <i>Make the Bread, Buy the Butter</i> by a local writer, Jennifer Reese. In it, she figures out what's worth buying and what's worth making. Butter doesn't seem worth it to her. I'm not sure it's worth it for baking (it may be?), but for spreading, yes. Yes! Next I'm going to order a butter bell to keep it in. You pack butter tightly into the "bell," and a seal is formed with water that you keep in the bottom. If you change the water every few days, the butter can last 30 days at room temperature.<br />
<br />
The next project I want to attempt is ghee, in which you melt butter and simmer it for a while, skimming off the top layer. Also called clarified butter, ghee has a very high smoke point, and you can keep it on your counter, right near the stove for a long time. Ghee is used in Indian cooking, and is one small but important reason that Indian food is entirely marvelous.<br />
<br />
And today's math lesson is this. A gallon of cream could yield two quarts of ice cream, and two pounds of butter, some of which could be made into ghee. My current CSA supplies cream for $10.95 a gallon, so that's $2.93 for a pound of butter. That's four "sticks" of the best butter you've ever had. <br />
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The next time I see my name on a gallon of cream, despite being condemned to Weight Watchers' Seventh Circle of Hell, I will rejoice.Lauren D. McKinneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09492156665800981450noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9127653.post-29624812572572870652011-05-09T15:10:00.001-04:002011-05-09T15:11:15.308-04:00"Dirty" Mother's Day Brunch at Longwood GardensYesterday the Dream Kitchen family and grandpa had a Mother's Day brunch at 1906, the restaurant at Longwood Gardens. The salad I ordered came with mushroom soil, the menu said, with no explanation or asterisk. I asked the server, "This can't actually mean mushroom soil, correct?" Mushrooms grow in something even less suitable for eating than regular dirt. She said,"No, it just looks like mushroom soil. It's tiny bits of creminis and shiitakes sautéed with a little olive oil. Baby radishes appear to be growing out of it." <br />
<br />
I am none too sure they should ever have gone down the mushroom soil path, conceptual or actual, but once they had started down it I guess there was no turning back. It was the only salad on the brunch menu, so I ordered it. The salad was very fresh and interesting, and included tiny edible flowers and a hibiscus immersion and something that was sliced in narrow ribbons. Perhaps it was a bit too precious in its execution, but on Mother's Day I wasn't going to be picky. <br />
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Let this be a lesson to you, dear readers. As I said to the server regarding the mushroom soil, "This is where quotation marks would come in very handy." <br />
<br />
P.S. In answer to the question from Zane, when you learn to spell I'll give you all the bacon you want. In answer to MemeGrl, the Gouda was a little dry as you know, but there may be more feta on the horizon. The mozzarella we made in the cheesemaking class was great but I left the recipe there! Am about to buy Ricki Carroll's cheesemaking book.Lauren D. McKinneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09492156665800981450noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9127653.post-46432113265108570882011-05-06T11:53:00.000-04:002011-05-06T11:53:02.974-04:00The Negroni Cocktail: The Bitter and the SweetThe cocktail called the Negroni is very trendy right now. I had my first one last October at Cicchetteria, and have even had another since then. (My cocktail consumption is very small.)<br />
<br />
Negroni<br />
<br />
One part gin<br />
One part vermouth<br />
One part Campari<br />
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Serve on the rocks. You can add a twist of orange. I love the interplay between the juniper of the gin, the sweetness of the vermouth, and the bitterness of the Campari. <br />
<br />
A word about Campari. A long time ago I spent four weeks in Rome with a bunch of other grad students, supposedly studying aesthetics but actually hanging around in cafes, tasting gelato, going broke, and gossiping about each other. Temple Rome Program, I love you! So one day my friend Jesse and I ordered Campari and soda because it sounded daring. I'd seen ads for it in <i>The New Yorker</i>. <br />
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It was dreadful to my 30-year-old palate (I'm a late bloomer). "This is like paint-thinner!" But slightly more than 20 years later, I think Campari sassy and strong in a good way, and I like the way its childish Hi-C Fruit Punch red color belies the bitterness. <br />
<br />
You see, I've befriended bitterness in my middle age. Not emotional bitterness, which I used to find thrilling to discover in other people and energizing to cultivate in myself. Now that, like anyone my age, I actually have a few things to be bitter about, I try as hard as possible not to fall into that particular self-indulgent abyss. I try to cultivate gratitude instead, and take my bitterness in my Campari. And in my coffee. But that's for another post . . . .<br />
<br />
Meanwhile, celebrate the bitter and have a Negroni this weekend. Or, if you're very grown up indeed, Campari and soda.Lauren D. McKinneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09492156665800981450noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9127653.post-25251238100196626482011-05-05T14:15:00.000-04:002011-05-05T14:15:24.911-04:00Dream Kitchen Reboots! With a Super Special Reader's Choice Post!Complete with exclamation marks!<br />
<br />
Dear reader(s),<br />
<br />
It's hard to sneak back onto (into?) a blog, dust off the shelves, and quietly start typing a brilliant or even a just so-so post.<br />
<br />
To ease back in, I'm going to answer your questions. Please ask 'em in the comment box below (NOT on Facebook).Food history, etiquette, recipe questions, favorite apps, favorite appetizers, why is everyone suddenly drinking Negronis, you name it. <br />
<br />
Please address your questions "Dear Dream Kitchen" as it will help me feel vaguely authoritative. I thank you, dear readers. Should I get a flood of fascinating questions, I will use some inscrutable or arbitrary method for deciding which ones to answer.<br />
<br />
Bloggily yours,<br />
<br />
DKLauren D. McKinneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09492156665800981450noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9127653.post-66116546336251230292011-02-08T12:34:00.008-05:002011-02-08T12:37:56.329-05:00My Brief Career Writing Online "Content"Several weeks ago, I signed up to write that dreaded stuff called online content, for Aidem Dnamed (spelled backwards, you can figure this out). Or you could just move a couple of letters around and call it "Damned Media." I thought oh, what the heck, it's easy money. I can use a pseudonym to avoid the shame.<br />
<br />
First, I set up an account and then they sent me their list of "titles" for me to claim, so that I could then write how-to articles based on the titles. These are computer-generated strings of gibberish based on searches, mostly technical. I scoured the arts and literature lists, which were empty. I looked up food, pets, family life, anything nontechnical, so that I could claim a title. Nothing. I found nothing. And then I came to my senses and had them delete my account.<br />
<br />
But I do want to share with you, dear readers, some titles that captured my imagination, with brief answers that I made up. Yes, these are real computer-generated titles. But just for fun, I prefer to think that these particular ones were composed by a stoned beat poet, or perhaps Jimmy Webb in his MacArthur Park phase. <br />
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<b>How Make a Stone Crock</b><br />
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Easy peasy. Enroll in a pottery class and they'll give you some nice clay and you can make one on a potter's wheel. Or--I could lend you mine!<br />
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<b>How to Make a Wine Glass out of Wine Charms</b> <br />
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Hmm. This is a tough one. This would imply that you are trapped in a room with wine and wine charms, and no receptacles. Let's think outside the box. Put the wine charms on your fingers. Drink the wine out of the bottle. I hope it's a screwtop!<br />
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<b>How To Dress a Horse in a Renaissance Costume</b><br />
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Rent a horse trailer. Go to a Renaissance Faire, as they like to spell them. Lure a horse already dressed in a Renaissance costume into your trailer. That way you get out of having to put the massive, sweaty creature in the costume yourself. Choose the smallest, gentlest horse you can find. Don't stand close behind it. Good luck!Lauren D. McKinneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09492156665800981450noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9127653.post-80796100760065730452011-02-02T13:48:00.000-05:002011-02-02T13:48:39.610-05:00And the Latest Shiny New Appliance is . . .. . . a food processor. The last one had developed tiny hairline cracks that were making me nervous. We gave it away and went without one for a couple of years, because it just took up so much room and we didn't use it that much. But now that everyone in my family loves hummus, I'd like to make it at home. And lots of recipes from my latest healthy cookbook, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Food-Matters-Cookbook-Revolutionary-Recipes/dp/1439120234/ref=cm_cr_pr_product_top">The Food Matters Cookbook</a>, depend on one. I am trying to increase the amount of vegetables and fruit we eat, so anything that makes it easier to chop, dice, and slice is a good thing. And . . . I love it. In fact, I just sliced half a red cabbage, a cucumber, and a carrot. I don't want to stop. This is great! Now to make ginger tahini dressing. <br />
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We got a Cuisinart this time, and it's plainly much better than the old Hamilton-Beach. It's heavier, the blades are sturdier and sharper, and it includes a special lid for when you mix doughs and batters. <br />
<br />
Next on my agenda: to watch the hour-long DVD that came with it.<br />
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Just kidding. But it really did come with an hour-long DVD.Lauren D. McKinneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09492156665800981450noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9127653.post-44044250760808683192011-01-25T10:32:00.003-05:002011-01-25T10:38:35.185-05:00An Evening at Slate Restaurant in PhiladelphiaBack in early December I snagged one of those excellent online coupons for a restaurant. This particular one was dinner for two (drinks, entrees, desserts) for $40.00 at <a href="http://www.slatephiladelphia.com/">Slate</a>, a chic little neighborhood restaurant on 21st Street, between Chestnut and Sansom. We used the coupon on Friday night, to celebrate Mr. Dream Kitchen's birthday. I met him in the lobby of his building and we walked through the extreme cold for a neverending 8 1/2 minutes. What with the wind and the hood on my jacket, I was having a thoroughly bad hair day. Which I forgot about right away when we were led to our draft-free table in a side alcove.<br />
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(By the way, we know it was Restaurant Week, but ever since being served a dull Caesar salad at Brasserie Perrier (R.I.P), in a brightly lit banquet room, not even the fun part of the restaurant, we have religiously avoided Restaurant Scam Week.) <br />
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When it comes to deciding which chair to sit in, I have a strong preference. I want to face the action, not a wall. I assume that's how most people feel. Mr. Dream Kitchen had the "good" seat this evening, as birthday boy. I did get to evaluate a painting with super gloppy brushwork--I can't think of the formal word for that right now, but I'm sure it's French--the paint was so thick that the lighting created a nightlike shadow under the biggest glop. Browns and greens were stripily smeared, vertically and horizontally, in a large checkerboard pattern. It was the way a forest would appear, if you had observed it while spinning on a whirligig and jumping on a pogo stick.<br />
<br />
I'd always wanted to try a Manhattan, so I ordered the "Slate Manhattan," which had sour cherries and some of their juice. It was very strong and very good. The cherries were a nice match for the bourbon and the whole concoction went smoothly with my cassoulet. Not an especially complex drink, but regal and warming. John ordered a ginger pomegranate mojito, which was wonderfully herbal, astringent, and sweet in the same sip, just the way a mohito should be. <br />
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Now don't you think it's a little strange that our server came up to me and said, "Our chef accidentally started to make the Glazed Duck Breast instead of the cassoulet. We wanted to give you the opportunity to order that if you want." I stopped myself from saying "I already had the opportunity to order it, and I didn't, so why would I order it now?" Instead, I politely said, after a brief pregnant pause, "I'd like the cassoulet," without making a fuss. Making a fuss or being sarcastic isn't my style in a restaurant. The server should not have made me rethink my order, thus feeling a little guilty for whatever food waste may have been incurred. That was the kitchen's problem, not mine.<br />
<br />
Speaking of making a fuss, the next day I took my Dad to lunch, not where I planned to go, but to a restaurant conveniently located next door to where my car had broken down. I should really have made a fuss about some desultory blobs of Cheez Whiz that were lying obscenely in my taco salad, instead of actual cheese. However, I was too busy keeping an eye out for the tow truck's arrival in the parking lot next door. I was also pretending my Dad and were having a nice lunch when we weren't (the company was great, not the "food"), and so creating unpleasantness was not on the agenda.<br />
<br />
I need to wipe the image of the Cheez Whiz blobs out of my mind, so let's return to Slate. My cassoulet was perfect, with crisp duck and smoky, creamy beans. John's filet was rare and tender, with a truffly sauce. And he had very civilized mashed potatoes with decorative ridges from a pastry bag.<br />
<br />
Now for the dessert. Be forewarned that I often find dessert choices problematic. John ordered chocolate cake with a hazelnut praline filling, and I ordered a chocolate cake with a citrus filling and a blueberry compote. I thought the hazelnuts in John's were not fresh, but my cake was very fine. I'm not totally convinced about blueberry and chocolate, but it was a nice try. Our other choices were Rollo bread pudding and--yawn--crème brûlée. I detest this fad in which pastry chefs get cute with processed candy, and am dying for it to be over already. In between the faddish Rollo bread pudding and the tired crème brûlée the only other options were two chocolate cakes? Slate must try a little harder. I always look for cobblers, crisps, tarts, and pies in a dessert menu. Or what about rice pudding? Stop trying to be clever. Have one chocolate option. Just use the freshest ingredients and execute the dishes well.<br />
<br />
And, dear reader, why does crème brûlée persevere so?Lauren D. McKinneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09492156665800981450noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9127653.post-8829292715138644762011-01-18T13:13:00.000-05:002011-01-18T13:13:06.313-05:00My First MisoCan you believe I've never cooked with miso? In the recent <a href="http://www.bonappetit.com/ideas/miso-recipes/search">Bon Appetit</a> there's an article about it, which includes a recipe for apple cobbler with miso in the biscuit topping!<br />
<br />
So a couple days ago I found myself picking up some white miso, the mildest kind, just to taste it and sense what it wanted me to do with it. To just back up for a minute, miso is a fermented soybean paste from Japan. It's injected with a mold from either rice, barley, or soybeans, and then aged. The white miso does reminds me of cheese, which makes sense. <br />
<br />
I didn't have the right apples for cobbler, but I did have several turnips on hand, so I made a dish from Mark Bittman's <i>How To Cook Everything</i>. It's called "Braised and Glazed Turnips with Miso." I braised peeled, cubed turnips in white wine and butter, and when they were almost done, added a half-and-half mixture of white miso and water. I thought the miso tempered that turnipy bitterness and gave the dish a satisfying level of complexity. My older son's pithy review of the dish was, "It makes me want to gag." My younger son didn't even bother to taste it. I guess for the boys, turnips are too deeply disgusting to be garnished, sauced, or even disguised. Not to be deterred, I'll no doubt I'll offer them more turnips in a couple of weeks. <br />
<br />
Why is it that some of us constantly search for ways to add complexity to a food's flavor, while others want to leave well enough alone? All I know is that when I get some decent cooking apples, I'm making that cobbler.Lauren D. McKinneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09492156665800981450noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9127653.post-68243799306857894192011-01-13T16:33:00.001-05:002011-01-13T16:34:08.657-05:00Tandoori PopcornI can't leave popcorn alone. To me, its blandness begs for something more. Somehow, I discovered that popcorn is delicious with powdered buttermilk, and today I added some, as well as a sprinkling of Penzey's Tandoori Seasoning. I've also tried smoked paprika, Penzey's Turkish Seasoning, and chili powder. Not all at the same time. About a quarter cup of buttermilk powder is good for a big bowl of popcorn (I start from almost a cup of unpopped). I salt to taste and add the spices to taste. The kids love this popcorn, too. It's great to pop up a batch on a day when there are no other snack foods in the house.<br />
<br />
I did look up Tandoori Popcorn on the web, and only found it <a href="http://whaslikeus.co.uk/forum/viewtopic.php?f=1&t=16894">here</a> among some Scottish folks who like to write in a brogue. This laddie does not add powdered buttermilk,just a wee bit o' butter.Lauren D. McKinneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09492156665800981450noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9127653.post-22942108124307078562011-01-07T11:21:00.000-05:002011-01-07T11:21:58.392-05:00A Farewell to Crockpot Cooking; Or, How to Break Up Ethically with a Kitchen ApplianceIt finally happened, the old gal had just been stuffed with one too many stews, briskets, chickens, and chilis. She started smelling like burned plastic and not heating enough, so I transferred her last meal, a White Chicken Chili with Root Vegetables (from<i> The Food Matters Cookbook</i>), to my big pasta pot. A pasta pot isn't quite the thing, because it's too tall to heat the food evenly, but it was the only one big enough to hold everything. (And yes, I know I should use the term "slow cooker" but I just like "crockpot" for its succinct cuteness.)<br />
<br />
<br />
Since I'd been contemplating breaking up with the whole crockpot idea for a while, anyway, I was less than heartbroken. Callously, and without a proper mourning period, I Amazoned (sure, it can be verb) a nice big red 6-quart ceramic-lined cast iron Dutch oven. It's Lodge, not Le Creuset--what with college tuition approaching in eight years, and all that. Crockpots, while they're handy, aren't quite my style. For one thing, I don't like to smell food all day. Plus meat is much better seared first, and if you're going to do that you may as well use the same pan and braise everything in the oven. In the end, though, I just can't stand leaving that much food in a pot and then not being allowed to peek or fuss with it until almost the end. Just can't do it. Plus my new Dutch oven is much prettier than that big old ugly crockpot. See, I have no loyalty.<br />
<br />
Even bigger and uglier than a crockpot is a bread machine. A couple years ago I broke up with the idea of a bread machine as a worthwhile investment, mainly because annoying little parts would break, and replacing them was mind-numbingly complicated. I'm sure I could give it a go again, but why? It's not hard to make bread without one.<br />
<br />
Now I'm stuck with a bread machine that technically might work if anyone bothered to contact the company <i>again</i> about the basket problem, and how they sent the wrong replacement basket, and also a crockpot that has a little electrical problem. There's nothing wrong with the ceramic crock or lid. I refuse to throw this stuff away but I can't in good conscience drop them blithely off at Goodwill. <br />
<br />
How do you liked being dragged into my mundane, banal ethical dilemma? Want to give me advice? Of course you do.Lauren D. McKinneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09492156665800981450noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9127653.post-9887217296083684602010-12-24T11:01:00.001-05:002010-12-24T11:02:45.093-05:00Grandpa Jack and Aunt Julie are Coming! And Here's What's Cooking.The boys are at Christmas pageant rehearsal. One of my sons is Herod. I guess someone has to have that role . . . be assured, they're casting against type. Mr. Dream Kitchen is installing The Big Electronic Present (to avoid unpleasantness tomorrow). I've got cranberries bubbling on the stove, scenting the kitchen.<br />
<br />
This is just a quick post to tell you what our Mediterranean-inflected Christmas menu is.<br />
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S<b>low Roasted Leg of Lamb with Pomegranate Glaze and Red-Onion Parsley Relish</b>, From Paula Wolfert's <i>The Slow Mediterranean Kitchen</i>. My sister in law is bringing sumac for this from Penzey's. She lives near the Pittsburgh store. Have never made this, but I trust Paula. She even autographed my book, back when Philadelphia did The Book and the Cook. Back in the day.<br />
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<b>Minted Baby Peas</b> (frozen, from Trader Joe's--no need to get fancy with everything)<br />
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<b>Smashed Red Bliss Potatoes with Garlic</b>--again with the easy<br />
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<b>Spinach Salad with Broiled Preserved Lemon</b> (sounds harder than it is<br />
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<b>Mixed Olives</b> from DiBruno's<br />
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<b>Down East Cranberry-Apple Pie</b>, from Richard Sax's <i>Classic Home Desserts</i> (the first edition! Half the pages are stained by now). We'll serve with vanilla ice cream.<br />
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Peace to you, dear readers.Lauren D. McKinneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09492156665800981450noreply@blogger.com1