Stir

Stir Crazy

 It’s the weather. While the United States is under siege, under snow, under a frigid polar blanket of white, we have been wet. The rivers across Brittany rise, seething and angry, well up and spill over their banks, defy their restraints and swallow up roads, cars, shops, bridges and buildings. The rain, the tempestuous rain, fills our days and our nights, beating against the windows, wind rattling the panes like ghosts come aknocking, threatening us the same retribution. For what?

 We are stir crazy. Locked in the house, day after day, month after interminable month (how long has it been raining?), and though it is most cozy and comfy and despite that we have loads of work and looming deadlines and need to stay inside in front of computers, we are most definitely going stir crazy. The occasional burst of sunshine, the intermittent spots of light, a change in the weather has us looking longingly out the window (once we realize, in our sudden surprise and disbelief, that yes the rain has momentarily stopped) and we briefly discuss the possibility of digging out our rubber boots, packing a snack, leashing up the dog and heading out to the vineyards for a walk. Break the boredom, stretch our legs, clear our heads.

 And then it starts again. Spattering across the window ledge, speckling the panes, the watery yellow sunlight slipping back behind the steel gray clouds, the sky, once again, a smear of haze.

 Sigh. Stir crazy.

Stir

 Standing at the stove, stirring rice in the big pot with an aged, weathered, worn wooden spoon, one of many sticking up out of the canister like so many lollipops, I think of Nonna Anna. I had been making risotto for a couple years before I met her, recipes taken from a small, thin cookbook filled with a dozen variations on the theme, yet does one really understand risotto before seeing someone like this matriarch, a woman who has been making risotto for decades, a woman who has stood in front of a stove stirring a big pot of rice more times than I can even imagine?

 She instructed me, woman to woman, mother to mother, to stir, stir, stir. She showed me that risotto must be creamy and smooth, not dry. She let me in on the secret that the grains of rice should melt in the mouth, not be al dente. Risotto, I learned, should be comforting as it is filling.

 Risotto. White or yellow in the winter, lemon in the summer. Topped with mussels or paired with osso buco. Sweet rice pudding, much the same thing, all that stirring of rice, this in milk and sugar and vanilla, stirring, stirring, stirring, rich and velvety, comforting and soulful.

 Rice and a wooden spoon. Stirred.

Stir me up

 I adored winter in Florida. On school days, we would wake before dawn, the skies outside still an inky black, frost hovering around the edges of the plate glass window, and dash to the tv to watch the clocks. A wall of “clocks” like the clocks on a schoolroom wall above the chalkboard, big white-faced clock ringed in a black plastic case, were lined up elbow to elbow: time, temperature, barometric pressure, wind speed and who knew what else. Dad would have the tv already switched on, the mesmerizing dance of those clocks already tuned in. The camera would span the clocks in a slow sweep… time, temperature, barometric pressure, wind speed and the rest, from left to right and back again, right to left, and so on and do forth forever. I would scurry through a cold breakfast, poptarts or a bowl of cereal, get dressed snugly, warmly for a chilly Florida winter, ready for school. Air blown from my mouth, wisps of white, the air visible in the cold, hop on my bike and pedal to school.

 But winter weekends, I would wake and scamper to the kitchen for I know that I would find my mother stirring a tremendous quantity of oatmeal in an old aluminum double boiler.

 Stir. Stir. Stir. Do you want some oatmeal? I would grab a bowl and spoon what was left of the oatmeal into that bowl then place a pat of salted butter squarely in the center, watching as the heat melted the butter into a small neon puddle. A dusting of brown sugar, a splatter of cold milk, a handful of raisins and I would stir.

Stirring

 Not a creature was stirring? I often am. Béchamel, pastry cream, cake batter, stir, stir, stir. I seem to do a lot of stirring in this house, in my kitchen. By hand. Stirring with a wooden spoon or whisk, stirring sweet, creamy concoctions until they thicken, stirring wet into dry until blended and homogenous. Stirring oil in a steady stream into yolks or stirring hot milk into eggs to warm. Stirring onions until they caramelize and stirring big pots of this or that into sauces or stews.

 I don’t mean to cause a stir. I actually love stirring. Long, slow and rhythmic or quick and vigorous, I love the magic of watching elements change, evolve, transform over time just through the simple action of stirring. Mayonnaise, vinaigrette, panna cotta, choux dough, polenta. Standing at the stove or leaning in towards the counter, bowl pulled in close, I stir, at once concentrated and absentmindedly. My mind can wander, words spring to mind and I write in my head as I stir.

 Eggs, flour, oil, butter, sugar, spices, cans of this, a shower of that.

 Now and then I have to call in my husband to kick something up, stir in the right amount of spices, stir in more salt, stir in some love. He often adds the flavor, the piquancy, the gusto, stirring in what I have left out. And while he is the better cook and I am the baker, he bows down to my expertise, my fluency in béchamel – stirring until thick and velvety, seasoned just right, which he then pours over a baking dish of steamed vegetables or endives wrapped in thin slices of smoky ham – and risotto, stirring until luscious and rich, his favorite thing.

I love making béchamel, standing at the stove and stirring is soothing and allows me time to block out the rest of the world and think. And béchamel, so simple, so rich, is so versatile and used in so many different dishes. This gratin is an absolute favorite dish in our home; inexpensive to make, a snap to put together once you have understood how to make a béchamel, the perfect side dish for grilled or roasted meats or a simple meal served with a salad. And so warming and comforting in the cold-weather months. This gratin is perfect using almost any vegetable or combination of vegetables; we particularly love cauliflower and add the potatoes so it is a bit easier on the palate and the tummy.

JAMIE'S CAULIFLOWER POTATO GRATIN

1 head cauliflower, trimmed and broken into large flowerets *
Several potatoes that stay firm while boiling **
About 1 cup finely grated Parmesan cheese
About 2 or 3 cups grated Gruyère or Comté cheese

* Flowerets broken into small, bite-sized pieces will fall apart or crumble when being blanched or steamed. Pre-cook them in larger pieces and cut into smaller bites before tossing in the béchamel.

** How many potatoes, you ask? maybe about half to ¾ the quantity of cauliflower you use. Combined, the vegetables blended with the béchamel should fill a 13 x 9-inch baking dish or slightly bigger

Béchamel
4 Tbs (60 g) butter
4 Tbs flour
3 cups (700 ml) whole milk
1 small to medium onion trimmed and finely chopped
1 bay leaf
½ tsp dried thyme or 1 tsp fresh leaves
Large pinch nutmeg
Salt and freshly ground black pepper

Prepare the vegetables by simply cleaning and trimming the cauliflower and cutting into large sections and steaming or simmering in salted water until tender but not too soft or mushy; they will continue to cook in the oven, and peeling the potatoes and simmering in salted water until tender but not too soft. Drain. Once well drained, cut into smaller pieces and toss together.

Preheat the oven to 425°F (220°C). Butter a large baking dish.

Prepare the Béchamel: Melt the butter in a large saucepan over medium-low heat until bubbly. Add the chopped onion and toss to coat. Lower the heat slightly and cook, stirring, for about 3 or 4 minutes until the onion is soft and transparent and just beginning to turn golden on the edges.

Add the flour all at once and stir or whisk until the flour is well blended into the butter. Cook, stirring, for a 2 to 3 minutes. Then begin adding the milk, a little at a time, whisking to blend and allow each addition to thicken. As it thickens, add more milk and repeat until all the milk has been added and the sauce is beginning to thicken. Add the herbs, salt and pepper generously and allow to simmer very gently, stirring continuously, for about 10 minutes. Taste and adjust the seasonings. Remove the bay leaf.

Pour the hot béchamel over the prepared cauliflower and potatoes and gently toss until the sauce is evenly distributed. Pour into the buttered gratin or baking dish and spread out evenly. Sprinkle the Parmesan and then the Gruyère/Comté evenly over the top of the vegetables all the way to the edge of the dish. 

Bake in the hot oven for about 20 minutes or until bubbly and the cheese is a deep golden and browning as you like.


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Spiced

Spice Route

 There is a stall at our market place that sells Indian food; curries, dal, samossa, tandori, nan, biryani, dishes both spiced and mild. Aluminum warming trays display the dishes side by side, too hard to refuse as we scurry by. 6 chicken tandoori brochettes, dal for three, nan, two plain, two with cheese, throw in a serving each of chutney and raita please. The woman behind the counter with her accented French and her gentle voice, her kind smile and graceful gestures, scoops up ladlefuls of everything I desire, spoons each into tiny plastic tubs and seals them.

 To the right of the cash register lie the spices, more than I could ever need, although that never stops me from wanting all of them. Spices by the dozens in little clear plastic packets, so beautiful, so seductive. Spices ground and spices whole. Cardamom pods in pale green, lovely star anise, mustard seeds in black and gold, peppercorns in white, black and pink. Turmeric and ginger, cinnamon sticks elegantly, intriguingly curled into themselves, whole nutmeg like odd, rough nuts. And the colors! The cayenne, the deep desert red threads of saffron, the deep blue of the poppy seeds. This is an Ali Baba’s cavern of treasures, these spices tell stories of One Thousand and One Nights, of gold and gems and secrets of peoples and cultures. For only 2€ a packet.

 I think of baskets of perfect pyramids of spices in markets across the Dark Continent from Morocco to Nigeria, of spices sold in souks in the Middle East, in markets in India. Fantastic tales of traders, ships upon wild seas, camels gliding across desert continents. An imagination spiced and seasoned, poignant and perfumed.

Spiced

 Many men have wooed me with food. With the unbridled enthusiasm of a child bringing a handful of pollywogs to his mom, they placed platters of freshly steamed asparagus or shimmering gold boxes of Godiva chocolate before me; they ushered me gallantly to elegant restaurants or stood in the kitchen sliding baking dishes of parsleyed trout from the oven, served me hamburgers in Nigeria and oysters in Paris. They wooed and pursued, urgently offering me dishes and treats, the way to my heart most apparently over my tastebuds.

 An elegant, soft-spoken man, one for whom the word gentleman fit so perfectly, would stop to chat with me whenever our paths crossed on campus. A visiting professor, he spoke passionately of his home country Ethiopia, longing to impart the heat of the sun, the colors of the culture to me, a simple, untraveled, wide-eyed young woman. His dark face, pure white shirt buttoned up to the collar, his plain black trousers, his stiff, upright posture and his quiet, rhythmic voice were intriguing indeed; he was very formal, very polite in a respectful and old-fashioned way.

 He desired nothing more than to cook for me, invite me to his humble abode and share traditional Ethiopian dishes with me. We set a date and I arrived in time for lunch, curious, intrigued, trying to imagine what his cuisine was like. We sat on cushions on the floor and he served us rice topped with meat in a tomato-based sauce. A spiced sauce. An incredibly hot, fiery hot spicy sauce. He had tamed it just for me, he claimed, for my western tastebuds, tamed it as he knew his American guests could not bear the spicy heat. Try as I might, I could not eat any of it. The disappointment on his face, the apologies that tumbled from his lips and my utter embarrassment and the friendship seemed to fade away.

 A neighbor, young and handsome; no, more than handsome… outrageously gorgeous, a neighbor and I fell into step, desiring to get to know each other. As shy as I, the steps were tentative, a slow, quiet mating dance. He asked me to dinner and I accepted. “I know a marvelous Thai restaurant that serves traditional Thai food… I lived in Thailand for a couple of years, fell in love with the cuisine and I want nothing more than to share it with you,” he explained, love and desire burning deep in his eyes, in his soul. He was head over heals. We stared at each other nervously across the table, he ordered for two. “Make it mild for her,” he begged the waitress, even as he explained that traditionally Thai is a spicy cuisine.

 Once again, I let a man down, no turning back, hurt him to his very soul. Food heavily spiced, hot, searing, burning beyond my own desire for the man. Spiced food cooled the heat between us.

Highly Seasoned

 I brought the cinnamon, nutmeg and ginger. The chili powder and smoky paprika. The cloves. Not to mention the Old Bay and the gumbo filé. Sweet and spicy pumpkin pies, apples kicked up, earthy and warm. The big pots of seafood creole and steamed this and that. Thanksgiving dinners and winter desserts, Christmas puddings and stunning Bundt cakes. Crisps and crumbles and cobblers, Buckles and Brown Betties. A dusting of this one, a sprinkle of that and the fruit that he had known forever was suddenly transformed into something all-American.

 He brought the cumin and coriander, the turmeric and saffron. He brought the hot and the sizzling, the exotic; colors and heat, visions of spice markets and voyages in a far off land. Fragrant and heady, couscous and tagine, Yassa and Maafe, Cari and curries, he spiced up my life when I walked into his. 

 Like brides and grooms of old, like Magi carrying frankincense, and myrrh, we each brought our own spices to the marriage. Just to spice things up a bit. A little bit of piquancy, a little bit of tang, a whole lot of gusto, a marriage to relish.

Spice Girls

 It was a silly thing for five grown women to do, but there was nothing to stop us, either. We decided to dub ourselves the Spice Girls. We might not have been as sleek and sexy as those others, but we certainly had the pep, and most definitely we had the bite. Sweet and fiery. Spiced.

 Sporty Spice was a willowy, waiflike creature, bubbly and spirited, spicy indeed. Her sneakered feet were ever moving, she was always full of energy and full of pep. Zesty Spice was dark and exotic, yet snappy, peppery… definitely effervescent. Then there were Snarky and Sweary Spice, just for the hell of it. Words sizzling hot, humor pungent and piquant.

 And I was Sassy Spice. Yeah. Sassy. I can certainly be. Cheeky, just a bit, I was the gentle fragrance instead of the hot spiciness, the hint of cinnamon or nutmeg to their blazing chili.

Spiced Wine

 Cranberries strung on string, stained fingers pushing the needle through each bright red orb then gliding the berry down to its place snug next to its kin. Popcorn, one for the mouth, two for the garland, sliding it the long distance to its place gently without breaking it, snapping it into a million little crumbs.

 Strings of cranberries, ruby red, and strings of popcorn, ivory white, looped gracefully through the boughs and branches, coiled around the evergreen in elegant swags.

 Sitting at the table poking whole cloves, heady fragrance, a spicy nip to the senses, poking cloves into oranges, around and around, a dizzy circle of cloves like a whirpool. Or stab the cloves, pop into the skin of the fruit, up and down in perfectly parallel lines, then tied with a pretty ribbon and hung on the tree.

 Winter oranges pierced with cloves perched on the radiator, lined up to dry. Orange and cloves, a Christmas ritual, a fine spray of citrus oil, an exquisite scent of orange and a seductive, teasing perfume of spiced cloves like some exotic incense.

I often make my own herb and, as in this case, spice salts. There is nothing easier if you own a small electric blender; just drop the spices into it together with coarse salt, whizz and there you have it! If you haven't done it before, try this one out and then start experimenting on your own. Herb and spice salts are great in salads, on meat, with vegetables, really on everything, in my opinion.

ILVA'S SPICE SALT

125 ml/ 0,5 cup coarse salt
1/2 tsp black peppercorns
1 tsp pink peppercorns
1/2 tsp fennel seeds
1 tsp coriander seeds
4 bay leaves, preferably fresh

   Put all ingredients in a small electrical blender and whizz until you are happy with the blend. Store in airtight container.

Bread

Here is bread, which strengthens man's heart, and therefore is called the staff of Life.
- Matthew Henry (1662 – 1714) 

 Bread is considered the Staff of Life, Manna from Heaven, something holy, important to both body and soul. Yet what is bread, after all? Just flour, yeast and water really, maybe a tad of salt and sugar tossed in. You cannot get more elemental, more earthy than that. Some may call bread bland, some may call it insipid, yet as simple and pure as it is, bread is truly a basic necessity, a staple of our diet whatever our culture, whole and complete, rip off a chunk and stuff it in your mouth, earthy and good. And bread is the perfect blank slate for all the rest that we eat: bread for sandwiches, bread to sop up gravy and sauce, bread for dunking in hot cocoa, bread turned into croutons floating in soup, bread sweetened for puddings or tossed into salads. I am always amazed at how something so plain and simple can be turned into something so succulent, so exotic, so rich. Yet bread still remains the best in its plainest, simplest, barest most natural of form. Just bread. Indispensible.

 Manna poured down from the heavens and our fate was sealed. We became a bread-loving people. Rye, plain, marbled or studded with aromatic cumin seeds, piled high with salami or pastrami or corned beef. Challah sweet and elegant, lovingly braided once a week to celebrate the Sabbath or sweetened with honey and almonds and formed into round loaves to be eaten at the New Year, a round sweet year. Tall, airy Kugelhof or warm, flat mufleta depending on our origins, our culinary culture, and of course pita stuffed with hummus and falafel balls.

 A bagel and a schmear.

 Bread has always been an important staple on our Jewish table. Sacred meaning braided into loaves, twined into our festivals and celebrations. Bread filled with folklore and wrapped around traditions, studded and brushed with symbolism.

 Challah, lovely Challah, symbol of love, the braids like intertwined arms. Shaped into circles, the New Year Challah represents a sweet, round year, beginning to end and back to the beginning again; no beginning and no end.

 Challah, soft, tender chunks ripped off, pulled apart tress by tress, dunked in honey, dunked in milky café au lait, dunked in cherry jam. Challah cut into thick slices, adding a subtle sweetness to an egg salad sandwich, to chopped liver between two wedges. Soaked in egg and fried up just to crispy, drizzled with a shimmering thread of maple syrup for a very special French toast.

 I baked my first Challah in an old fifth-floor walkup in Brooklyn a cool November day. Two even loaves, ostensibly perfect, risen with a deep golden crust. My first yeast breads, a clumsy start, an awkward, unrefined attempt, those beautiful loaves came out dry and hard, dust in the mouth, a texture less bread than board. My own pride and self-contentment was mixed with embarrassment, yet I had overcome my fear of baking bread.

 Years later, I would come to understand the secrets of yeast with its earthy scent and mysterious ways. And years later, I would carry on the old traditions of kneading, shaping, braiding and baking homemade Challah once a week to welcome in the Shabbat, much to the delight of husband and sons. They loved nothing better than coming home Friday afternoon to the site of a plump Challah on the table between the long, tapered white candles in their holders, the table set for festivities.

 Matzoh, in my book, is a much-maligned delicacy.

 Matzoh is flat, crispy, flavorless unleavened bread eaten by Jews the world over during the eight days of Passover. Non-Jews everywhere recoil in horror at the thought of it, bland and dry, and my husband, for one, cannot fathom my love for the stuff, symbolism and holiday aside. He shakes his head in dismay as I slather plain matzoh eagerly, joyously with peanut butter or hummus, thin slices of tart kosher dills lined up and down, side by side, salty to accompany the nutty hummus, and relish every mouthful. A smear of tart, sweet cherry jam on creamier egg matzoh (with its pale yellow hue and gentle trace of sweetness) makes a wonderful snack when cake and cookies are out of the question. The flavor of childhood.

 One must need do without bread for those eight days of holiday, and I have always been able to switch my focus on matzoh, love it, adore it, eat it for eight days without regret, without loathing. But Passover is the most difficult of the Jewish holidays for a non-Jewish spouse. Hanukkah is fine, candles and prayers offering a beautiful ambiance, quickly followed by gifts, excited children, chocolate coins and hot, crispy potato pancakes eaten right off the griddle, smothered in applesauce.

 Shabbat, the Sabbath, is welcome indeed, Friday night, the calm oasis at the end of a harsh working week. He walks in the house, TGIF, to the glow of the warm candles on a beautifully set table laden with a special meal and a still-warm-from-the-oven Challah. No work, just a tranquil family-oriented evening.

 But Passover means clearing out the house of bread, cake, cookies and all the good stuff as he knows it; no rice, no pasta, no flour or yeast. And no bread. No run downstairs to the corner boulangerie for the lunchtime baguette or that once-a-week homemade pizza night. No bread, my Frenchman, no bread. By the sixth night he cannot take it anymore! No bread for his cheese? He sees me pull the box of matzoh from the cupboard and place it on the lunchtime table and he revolts. « I cannot take it anymore! » he cries, exhorting that there is no way he can go the entire holiday, those seemingly endless eight days, eight lunches, eight dinners, without bread. And he bolts from the house, dashes to the boulangerie and comes home proudly bearing a glorious baguette.

 

Good bread is the most fundamentally satisfying of all foods; and good bread with (chocolate*), greatest of feasts. - James Beard (1903 – 1985) (*change is mine)

 A pain au chocolat was my very first taste of France, standing in the Home Ec room watching my very elegant 8th-grade French teacher roll up chunks of deep, dark chocolate in pale, moist, out-of-the-can biscuit dough, pushing myself up on tippy toes trying to capture each and every movement of her hands as she created that special treat for a roomful of impatient students anxious to savor what to us defined that far-away sophisticated culture. Or the memories of that first flaky, crisp pain au chocolat on my first voyage to Paris, standing on a street corner, rather stunned that I was finally there. I so clearly remember stumbling into the nearest corner boulangerie from where we were staying, my college friend and I, and pointing, grinning, even my basic schoolgirl French having abandoned me, at the plump, golden pastry, just a teasing hint of the chocolate peeping out between the folds.

 Bread and chocolate stirs up visions of tow-headed children on Parisian streets, elegant little children in shiny Mary Janes or black brogues dressed in pleated navy skirts and Loden coats, their excited after-school chatter filling the void between honking cars and city sounds, each enfant clutching a hunk of baguette, dense, warm from the boulangerie, a long, narrow bar of chocolate sticking out for all the world to see. Watch them as they bite into the crispy crust, crumbs hurriedly brushed away, joyously ripping into the tender center, *crack* into the slender bar of chocolate Maman or nourrice has so lovingly tucked inside and all thoughts of sharing a crêpe and a glass of wine with a chic young parisien fall aside: this is picture-perfect French romance itself.

Tiens-toi à distance de celui qui n'aime pas le pain ou la voix d'un enfant.
- Proverbe suisse

 Half a lifetime ago, uniform slices of packaged white sandwich bread, chewy bagels and loaves swirled with traces of cinnamon, dotted with raisins were traded in for baguettes, croissants, brioche and pain de campagne. Lunch no longer consists of heaps of baloney smeared with mustard or peanut butter and jelly clapped between two slices, bread simply making that lunchtime appearance in brown papers sacks carried to school or while sitting in the front yard, sandwich clutched in one hand, book in the other. Bread became an important element of every meal, a chunk of baguette ripped from the loaf or sliced up and handed round the table, to push meat and vegetables onto a fork or to sop up sauce from the plate at the end of the main course; a thick wedge of miche or pain de campagne eaten with a thick wedge of camembert or comté, spread with tangy goat cheese or stinky maroilles, a basic element of every French meal.

 Fresh bread bought every day.

 White papers sacks carried home from the boulangerie on weekend mornings bearing buttery croissants and pain aux raisins (leaving greasy traces on the bag, greasy traces on fingers) was a habit I quickly adapted to. A French home without fresh bread was no home at all; a Frenchman without his bread at every meal, I discovered, was miserable indeed, the meal simply being incomplete. Croissants, something so special, so rare, so sophisticated back home were almost, but not quite, run of the mill, something sold as commonly as a loaf, baskets full in every corner bakery case. Bread back home was either the meal itself or simply an afterthought; here, in my new country, bread was heart and soul of the kitchen, of the home.

Stale bread dipped in egg and fried up, pain perdu.

This is actually my sister's recipe, one she got from a friend of hers. The tradition of turning stale bread into pudding is both American and French, though the result might be slightly different - Americans will make pudding with chunks of bread while the French pudding is often made with the stale bread ground fine like breadcrumbs and used to bind the pudding like flour - but either way, what a sweet way to use up leftover bread! I love this chocolate version which tastes much like a candy bar, especially when made with a sweet bread like Challah or brioche, my preference.

JAMIE’S CHOCOLATE BREAD PUDDING

1 ½ squares (1 ½ oz/ 45 g) unsweetened chocolate, chopped
2 ½ cups (600 ml) whole milk
2 large eggs
½ cup (110 g) sugar
¼ tsp salt
1 tsp vanilla
2 – 4 cups stale bread cubes (less bread will give you more custard, more bread will give you a denser, chewer pudding)

 Preheat the oven to 350°F (180°C). Butter a 1 ½ quart (1 ½ litres) baking dish.

 Heat the chopped chocolate and the milk together in a large, heatproof bowl over a pot of simmering water, stirring, until all of the chocolate is melted.

 Beat the eggs just until they are foamy then beat in the sugar and the salt. 

 Add the chocolate/milk mixture to the eggs gradually, stirring vigorously. Stir in the vanilla. Add the cubes of bread and press them down, stirring, until all of the bread is soaked in the chocolate mixture. Allow the bread pudding batter to stand for 10 minutes, stirring and pressing down the bread cubes occasionally.

 Grease a 1 ½ quart (1 ½ litres) baking dish of any shape. Pour the pudding into the baking dish and place in a water bath and bake 50 minutes until slightly puffed and the pudding is firm.

 Serve warm with freshly whipped cream or ice cream. Keep any leftover pudding in the refrigerator; the pudding gets denser and more satisfying, the flavor evolving into something like a wonderfully elegant candy bar.

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Few

Love all, trust a few, do wrong to none. - William Shakespeare

 We get the itch every few years. It is uncontrollable, really. Like the Seven Year Itch except closer to four or five. We quit our jobs, take the boys out of school, pack up the house and leave. For a new life, a new adventure. Discover and rediscover.

 We have gotten in the habit of moving every few years. Maybe it isn’t good for the pocketbook but it is certainly good for the soul. Maybe it isn’t the wisest thing for the kids but it certainly is an adventure, a learning experience.

 But we have been here, in this city, for a few more years than we usually are. Quite a few. It feels unnatural, abnormal, a bit horrifying, as if our life plans have gone awry. Just as the boys grow up and independent, we can’t quite make the decision to leave this town, this time. Now. Maybe we’ll decide in a few months’ time.

 I’ve been known to raise a few eyebrows in my time.

 My son used to beg me not to dress this way, wear that coat, make a scene when I come to his school. I was, just for the very fact that I was l’américaine, different and noticeable. I stuck out like a sore thumb. And I didn’t have to make it worse by actually making the choice to call attention to myself.

 Ah, my son. Yes, I admit I raised a few eyebrows. I didn’t do it on purpose (which he simply refused to believe), but how could I not? Crazy American lady who dressed the way I did, acted the way I did among the very restrained French, spoke my mind in an environment in which one did not.

 I think the French may have, at one time or another, considered that I was a few bricks short of a load, or wondered if I wasn’t a few cards shy of a full deck.

 Win a few, lose a few.

A few good men.

 Just a few ingredients is all one needs for a great meal. Warm, tender potatoes, cool frisée salad, shredded cooked beef. Or mussels, shallot, parsley and white wine. Delicate choux puffs, scoops of vanilla ice cream, warm chocolate sauce. Lamb, a few carrots, mushrooms and tomato sauce. Pasta, lardons and cream.

 A few spices to kick up a dish, more and it would be criminal. Cumin, coriander and turmeric. Adobo, paprika and pepper. Cinnamon, nutmeg and ginger.

 A few extras tossed into the mixture to give a dish personality, flavor and culture. Prunes, almonds and honey. Shallots, onions and parsley. Chickpeas, garam masala and coriander. Garlic, celery and carrots. Raisins, hazelnuts and vanilla. Or chocolate chips, pecans and cinnamon. Ketchup, mustard, relish!

Every day we should hear at least one little song,
read one good poem,
see one exquisite picture, and, if possible,
speak a few sensible words.
- Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

 I have a persnickety one. Finicky doesn’t begin to describe him, my angel, my son. The repertoire of what he will eat is a short one at best, a few items only, the bare minimum to survive. Pizza, grilled fish or chicken breast, grilled cheese or tuna sandwiches, tacos. No sweet tooth, he deigns nibble on only the few baked goods I now make specifically for him, chocolate cake, chocolate chip cookies, profiteroles. He was barely a few years old when he clamped his rosebud lips together and began to refuse anything other than a few chosen items.

 He apparently can live on only a few foods. Every few days I, his mother, runs screaming from the kitchen in desperation.

A Man of Few Words

 A few minutes, a few days, a few weeks, how long does it take? To fall in love.

 Éperdument, follement perdue… madly head-over-heels in love.

 A few minutes, I spotted him in the garden behind the big old house and something niggled deep in my brain, something ages old and familiar yet foreign and obscure. A few days of watching, listening and I knew it had to be him. A few weeks and we spoke, if ever so distantly, dancing slowly, gently around each other, unsure, doubting. A few months, the longest few months of my life, and we came together, somehow, inexplicable.

 A few sparing words, a few dance steps, a few glances and I was his. And he was mine.

 A few short months and we were married. Toujours.

A few ingredients can make a great dish. My natural inclination is to go for dishes without ingredient lists that are too long (maybe that is why I love Italian cooking so much) and this Fried Banana and Bread Dessert with Maple Syrup is a great example of how you can cook with just three ingredients (not counting the butter) and have a wonderful dessert in very little time!

ILVA'S FRIED BANANA AND BREAD DESSERT WITH MAPLE SYRUP

a few bananas
a few slices of stale bread
a few spoonfuls of maple syrup
butter (I prefer salted)

   Cut away the crust of the bread and then cut it into cubes. Heat up some butter in a skillet and fry the bread cubes until golden. Take out of the skillet and let them drip off the excess butter on some kitchen towel paper.

   Slice the bananas and fry them gently in the remaining butter until golden.

   Plate the banana slices together with the bred and drizzle maple syrup over before serving.

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Nuts

Nuts to you.

 My husband is convinced that he is allergic to walnuts. He has never cooked with nuts and as he does not bake, he had never considered how often nuts can be used in cakes, cookies, pies. Hazelnuts and pecans, macadamias and almonds, cashews and, yes, walnuts. Whole, chopped or ground. In the batter or for decoration. Walnuts, that most American of baking nut… loved by his nutty American baking wife.

 Walnuts have always found their innocent way into my confections. Fruited quick breads, chocolate chip cookies and brownies are always so much better with the crunch and bite, the earthy flavor of a good, coarsely chopped walnut. Roll chocolate truffles in chopped walnuts or press them into the frosting of a layer cake, round and round, and you’ve dressed it up for a party.

 And what better partner for chocolate, orange, vanilla, cranberry than a walnut? What better to add crunch to a salad than a walnut? What pairs so much more beautifully with gorgonzola, pears, comté, goat cheese and apples than walnuts? But no, husband has decided that he is allergic. To walnuts.

 He drives me nuts.

 And so I have given up on, abandoned walnuts. Replaced with pecans. Which somehow work.

 My husband is a hard nut to crack, indeed.

Peanuts.

 Dig through the slender box of Crackerjacks, licking the sticky caramel off of your fingers, or pour out a pile into the palm of your hand, popped corn sliding off, bouncing onto your lap, and pick out the peanuts, salty-sweet, slightly bitter, a rare treat. Snap the shell and toss on the ground, slide and rub the meat of the nut in between your fingers until loose and pop into your mouth; circus, bar, bbq joint, goodtime peanuts!

 Peanut butter was a thing of my American childhood, peanut butter sandwich after peanut butter sandwich. Soft white slices glued together with peanut butter, sometimes smooth, sometimes crunchy, but always peanut butter. Peanut butter sandwich in a brown bag lunch or peanut butter sandwich in one hand, book in another, sitting wedged in the forked branches of the tree in our front yard. Or on toast, when another mood struck, a smear of peanut butter on the hot, fresh-from-the-toaster slice, melting and warm as soon as it touched the surface. I never really liked peanut butter and jelly. But during my adventurous years, I loved nothing more than blending peanut butter with sweet and salty and smoky. Anything goes! Peanut butter and banana slices, peanut butter and salty potato chips, peanut butter and salami or bologna or all of the above in one. I felt so cosmopolitan.

 Give the dog a spoonful of peanut butter and watch her tongue stick to the roof of her mouth. A wildly good joke among us kids.

Nuts

 My mother teased my father incessantly. More often than not, it was good-hearted teasing, meant to pull this kind, gentle, quiet man out of his shell. Make him chuckle. Sometimes it was like pinching him, pressure just enough to nip without seriously hurting, just a tweak to rile him up, make him nuts, when he did something that just annoyed her. She would taunt him by calling him Morty instead of Mort, or by placing objects where he didn’t like them to be. There were times, according to her stories, when she had been reduced to throwing dishes on the floor, shattering them at his feet to get even the slightest reaction out of this man who did not like confrontation, who was the most peaceful human being we knew.

 But her favorite jibe was a chant which never ever failed to make him smile, make him chuckle in its pure silliness. And love.

 "Your father is a nut. Your father is a nut."

 Sung to the tune of The Farmer in the Dell.

 In my father’s last year when he was sinking further and further into dementia, that no man’s land of darkness and decay, my mother took care of him on her own. In order to keep him focused, in order to connect with him and make sure he knew who she was, she would chatter to him, sing to him, attempt to stir up memories, links to his past. I would often peep into their bedroom as she was waking him up in the morning or tucking him in at night and I would hear her chanting “Your father is a nut…your father is a nut!” and my father, his eyes locked on hers, would be grinning ear to ear.

Nuts and Bolts.

 Pine nuts. Pecans. Almonds.

 Pine nuts. Pesto. Biscotti. Pan dei Morti. Pinolata. Torta della Nonna. Pignoli.

 Pecans. Pecan Pie. Brownies. German Chocolate layer Cake. Praline. Turtles. Pecan Fish. Apple Pecan Dressing. Pecans.

 Almonds. Macarons. Tuiles. Financiers. Truite aux Amandes. Nougat. Frangipane. Amandes.

 I have long associated certain nuts with certain countries. Nuts a hearty staple of a cuisine, of the pastry, of a culinary heritage. Dining on my first Truite aux Amandes in that huge, bustling, gorgeous Art Nouveau brasserie in the center of Paris, a whole trout lying placidly on the plate, staring off into the distance, elegantly dressed in a cloak of slivered almonds. Coquette. A shower of finely ground almonds like damp sand on a beach, the color of wheat, folded into meringue. Paper-thin flakes of almonds, gently toasted around the edges, the crispiness, the nuttiness of a tuile, perched architecturally atop a crème or a boule de glace. So very French. Receive one’s slice of galette des rois, flakey crisp puff pastry artistically embellished and hope to be the one to find the tiny ceramic charm tucked inside the dense, moist frangipane, almond cream filling. Smoked almonds in a tiny little bowl, elegant apératif with a glass of white wine. Amandes.

 The crunch of pine nuts in a spicy pan dei morti, Dead Man's Bread, so light against the deep deep reddish brown of the cookies like the bones they represent, eaten on Festa dei Morti e dei Santi, All Saint's and All Soul's Day. Thick, creamy pesto, handfuls of fragrant basil, fresh from the garden, a generous dusting of Parmesan, pine nuts. The nutty frangipane nip of a Torta della Nonna or a sweet Pinolata. Homey. Lightly toasted pine nuts scattered atop a plate of pasta or salad, the nubbly landscape of a cookie. Pignoli.

 Pecans, smooth, hard, chocolate brown shell cracked and crunched open, picked apart to reveal a tender, gnarly meat. Not the prettiest, maybe, but certainly the tastiest. Their heady flavor perfectly matched for stronger flavors like caramel, chocolate, buttery, rummy, spicy coatings. Or standing on their own in delicate, vanilla-scented cookies, dusted with cinnamon sugar. The centerpiece, folksy, rustic, of the Thanksgiving meal; although dessert, who doesn’t wait for a wedge of pecan pie? All American. Pecans.

The perfect blend of sweet, savory, salty and earthy, this pear salad is wonderful in winter when a variety of pears are available and at their best. This elegant dish can be served as a starter or to finish a meal. 

Ilva and Jamie’s Winter Pear Salad
Serves 2

 Slice one pear lengthwise (top to bottom) and fry them gently in salted butter until golden and soft without being mushy or falling apart.

 Divide the buttery slices between two plates, top with several leaves of rocket, cubes of gorgonzola and roughly chopped walnuts. Serve immediately while the pears are still warm.

Orange

 Orange, the cool color of winter, the warm color of summer.

 Orange Creamsicles, orange sherbet, orange Kool-Aid, orange soda icy cold, a kid’s survival kit for the searing, scorching heat of the summer months. Apricots and peaches in pastel shades, tinged with pink of the morning sky, orange juices dripping down chins, onto the sidewalk, pits spit across the lawn.

 Knock knock who’s there? Orange? Orange you glad I didn’t say banana?

 Candy corns, pumpkin pie, roasted sweet potatoes, the orange that heralds the change of season, rings in an autumn of orange and gold. Halloween and Thanksgiving, hallmarks of fall, filled with orange fading to brown, deepened with yellow, the colors of fallen leaves.

 Citrus. Winter is welcomed with orange, darker, richer orange, nubbly skins and sweet insides, orange fragrance, spurts of juice. Navals and tangelos, tangerines and clementines, a slew of orange that brightens my winter days, a little bit of sunshine with each orange reminder of my youth.

 Candied orange peel dazzling in crystals of sugar or hiding wickedly beneath a dark cloak of chocolate. Christmas.

 Holidays were always punctuated with orange. My mother’s sweet potato casserole, sweetened with a splash of orange juice and a thick layer of mini marshmallows cooked until a gooey, sugary mess with a fine crust of blackened crunch was perfect with the bland turkey. Later, I would whip up a pumpkin pie, replacing dad’s canned filling and frozen crust with homemade, a splotch of whipped topping breaking up the monotonous orange landscape of the surface. Some years later, pumpkin would be alternated with sweet potato pie of a glossier orange speckled with faints flecks of a brighter orange against the duller tone.

 Pumpkin bread in a deep gamboge dotted with dark chocolate chips or cranberry walnut bread moistened with a glass of orange juice, perfect against the tart berries, the earthy nuts, an orange barely visible to the naked eye but for the blurred pinpoints of zest against white.

 Older, more sophisticated with a dash of daring, the orange now comes in astonishing scintilla, a heady whiff of Grand Marnier or Cointreau. No flaming, no amber, no golden color needed, this orange bursts forth on the tastebuds against a backdrop of chocolate of the deepest brown. Grand Marnier or Cointreau, orange hidden among the innocent white of a panna cotta or a delicate vanilla sponge, secretive in appearance, very adult, provocative, sexy when discovered.

 I awoke each African morning to a blaze of sunshine, a blast of heat and a tall, slim glass of freshly squeezed orange juice with which to swallow down two bitter quinine tablets.

 Thin, shiny, impossibly plastic version of cheese, an ode to cheddar, enveloped snuggly in plastic. Peel back the wrapper and pull up the orange square like a postage stamp and place in squarely in the center of a slice of white bread and then another and cover with a second slice of bread. Slather just the right amount of butter or margarine on that bread, flip and repeat. Slip onto a hot griddle, into a smoking skillet, fingers sticky, slippery with fat, and cook, flip, cook, flip until more than simply golden, close to burnt. Scoop out of the pan and onto a plate and slice on the angle creating two perfect, perfectly even triangles (never rectangles, never squares!), the bright orange goo stuck to spatula, stuck to plate, stuck to teeth.

 You added vegetables to my cake! His accusation stunned me. How did he know? This little boy, my angelic little son was a demon when it came to vegetables, could discover them, spy them, sense the merest presence in the wink of an eye, by simply standing in the same room as a cake, cookie or loaf. His accusation put me on the spot. How could I lie? He noticed the flecks of orange in the golden cake, claimed to be able to taste carrot in the sweet, cinnamon loaf. With his absolute abhorrence of vegetables, he acted as if I added finely grated carrot by design, to pull the wool over his eyes, to trick him into eating vegetables.

 We had a basketball. My dad screwed in the headboard and basket against the house above the garage (do not bang the basketball into the garage door, please). That basketball offered us kids hours, days, months and years of entertainment. Oh, the games we made up with simply one orange basketball and a basket, playing on that cement driveway, my brothers and I. Friendly competition in orange.

 The kitchen was a given: red, deep cherry red cabinets, gray countertops, white walls. Husband absolutely had to cook surrounded by red. The diningroom was a gift to me: heavenly raspberry walls edged in brick; edgy, indeed. The family room, one of two huge spaces lined on two walls with picture windows allowing for a flood of light all year round, was our common dream, white balanced with charcoal gray, half and half sensual, voluptuous, evocative charcoal, as moody as the photographs of the blackened faces of Chinese miners lining one wall. Charcoal and white with the merest touch of humor, a mod touch of Kelly green reminiscent of our youth.

 The argument came in the living room. The source of the disagreement, the bone of contention, was orange. An expanse of wall all in orange. Yes! He said. Noooo! She parried. There is nothing worse than orange (accept maybe green). Back and forth, the argument heated orange. Orange will suffuse the space with warmth, infuse it with energy, he affirmed. Orange, oh no, not orange! She begged.

 Of course, he won out. He dragged her to the paint store where samples of orange fanned out in front of them. He urged, she moaned, they argued. Until a color orange was decided upon. Burnt Orange. And that wall, concealed under an opaque coating of burnt orange radiated an energy, strength, something hot and positive, something that would lean towards bawdy, lusty, sizzling.

 And together they basked in that burnt orange. And orange invigorating, stimulating. Orange.



 Your food is all brown, she scoffed with distaste. Brown. From one end of the table to the other, from appetizer to dessert, brown. I am the granddaughter of immigrants, hearty Russian stock coming from a cold land where bodies were sustained with potatoes, cabbage, beets, onions and chicken. The dinner table was filled with hot cabbage soup, kasha varnitchkes and carrot tzimmis, potato kugel and carrot kugel, the Holidays found us sitting in front of plates laden with smoked fish and chopped chicken livers, chicken soup with matzoh balls and golden, sweet loaves of Challah. Making an exception for a ruby red bowl of borscht or the bright orange lox tinged with pink, our food, I have to admit that our food is decidedly brown.

 She was the daughter of Moroccan immigrants. Her own parents came from a land not of cold and grey, but one of sunshine and fertile land. Her culinary heritage is filled to overflowing with violet eggplants, golden orange pumpkin and carrots, deep green zucchini and bright yellow lemons. Dishes are spiced with saffron and cinnamon, drizzled with honey and flavored with dried fruits and nuts. Though I defended my culinary inheritance with the pride of a scrappy but out-weighed boxer, I could definitely see her point.

 Bright orange chunks of fork-tender carrots and wedges of pumpkin nestled against the zucchini and chickpeas in a fragrant broth; dazzling carrots neon orange glazed with a slick of oil, a gloss of honey, stained with a hint of saffron. Our dull brown carrot kugel is no comparison to the gleaming brilliance of a North African carrot salad dappled with deep green mint and coriander. Our beets may be rosy, but an orange salad, sweet, juicy, gorgeous and glistening, shiny with sunny slices of orange with the added brightness of slippery olives or pomegranate seeds like jewels against the dessert sand.

This orange and olive salad is a true Sicilian classic, there are other versions of it with fennel or onions but I choose to give you the original! I also present it in a different way than I would actually make it normally but for the sake of visual interest, I didn't peel the orange before slicing it. I suggest you do that. 

SICILIAN ORANGE SALAD

4 servings

3 oranges

a large handful of olives

pepper

salt extra-virgin olive oil 

   Slice the oranges and distribute them on a plate. Top with olives, salt and pepper lightly and then drizzle some extra-virgin olive oil over it all. Leave to marinate for a while before serving.

Holiday

 Will it snow this year? I find it extremely difficult to find that old holiday spirit while the rain beats against the windowpanes, as the hail clatters onto the balconies and the clouds hang low and menacing, the sky a steely gray. The lights glitter, diamonds in the shimmering black puddles, in the inky night, the branches crack and sway, the leaves spatter onto the sidewalk below as the wild wind whips the streaming rain cascading down in torrents across the square. Doors creak, we snuggle down deeper under the blankets; we love the coziness, the storms outside are romantic when one is safe inside, yet the approaching festivities call not for rain but snow! We awake to the gray, dismal morning, no sun appears at noon, and we search, alas, in vain, for that old holiday spirit.

 Snow somehow adds the jolly to Christmas, the happy to New Year. Slipping on the boots, buttoning up our warmest, snuggliest coats, burying our chins deep into mountains of scarf and, gloved hand in gloved hand, out we prance through the crunching white, the sun bright and cheerful and tip toe our way into town. Everything looks so sparkling clean, so lovely and festive to a backdrop of snow! The holiday songs carried to us on the wind and piped into every boutique somehow just sound merrier, the window displays more vibrant and playful, our fellow shoppers gleeful, convivial. Laden down with sacks and bags, boxes beribboned, we hurry home, noses red, cheeks rosy, giggling like children on Christmas morning, to curl up together in the corner of the sofa, hands cupped around steaming mugs to watch the snowflakes flurry in a Winter Wonderland on the other side of the icy, misty glass.

 One last day of shopping before Christmas and the gifts are all bought, piled up in secret places around the house. My baking has taken a festive turn and Stollen and cookies of all sorts have been tumbling out of the oven and lining themselves up prettily on the kitchen table. The magic of a real bûche de noël awaits, slathered in chocolate, dusted with snow. We’ve stocked the pantry with all kinds of simple, warming foods, enough to see us through the wintry week. My favorite Christmas films are stacked up on the coffee table, the old and the new, the real and the animated, each begging to be watched first, promising to fill our house with holiday music, laughter and good cheer!

 Tomorrow morning, Christmas Eve morning, we will wend our way to the market, bundled up in heavy coats, arms wrapped close around ourselves to ward off the blustery wind and the tat tat tat of wet flakes stinging our cheeks. We’ll push our way through the Christmas Eve crowds and fill our basket with oysters and a slice or two of foie gras, and maybe, just maybe, he will make a wonderful seafood choucroute for two. Or a cheese fondue for the boys. I’m rather a sentimental old soul, and as I step out into the flurries and chill, memories of Christmases past whirl up like a snowstorm in my mind and visions of icy white nights in Milan pulling smoky chestnuts out of paper cones, warming our hands, and popping them one by one into our mouths; excited little boys dashing up to greet le Père Noël who magically appears laden with gifts at their grandparents’ house; arriving late Christmas Eve to a balmy Florida town and being driven around up and down every street just to ogle the gaudy, outrageous Christmas decorations and the romantic luminaries all aglow, hands clapping and faces brimming over with delight, all intermingling in one glorious dance!

 The Christmas holidays have arrived in a blustery, wet haze, stomping in like an uninvited guest leaving filthy black shoeprints all over the new white carpet without even a bouquet of flowers to ease her unexpected intrusion. The chill winds of the holiday season whipped in unannounced when my back was turned, when I had least expected it.

 Christmas. The wind whistles and howls outside as the wet snow whips around through the trees, lighting up the square below and adding a festive luster to the treetops, while inside we sit cozy and warm. Like wide-eyed children on Christmas morning, we stare through the panes into the velvet night as the heavy plops of white thud against the glass and settle onto the inky black iron curlicues of the balcony railing for the night. The lamplight shimmers in the glistening snow blanketing the roofs of the cars and we snuggle up a little closer and whisper our prayers that it will last through the holidays.

 One blustery day leads into the next and as the rest of France is blanketed under an elegant stole of white, as images of Parisians standing amid flurries of flakes scroll across our television screens, we listen to the rain pound on the roof, watch it slide sadly down the glass panes, and the urge to warm up the kitchen with baking washes over me. The only feathery white powder I have the chance to feel against my skin is flour. Soft, fragrant flour blended with cocoa and sugar, eggs and cream, fill the house with the sweet scent of celebration. Thoughts of cinnamon and chocolate, nutmeg and orange fill my head as I skip into the kitchen and start pulling bowls and pans from the cupboard, as I sift through the drawers in search of teaspoons and tablespoons, measuring cups and zester. And as traffic in the City of Lights comes to a standstill in the frosty night, as grumbling tourists try and make light of closed roads and closed airports, as a warm glow emanates from a bustling workshop somewhere north of Lapland, I blend and stir, whip and fold. I toss in a little Christmas spirit in the form of mixed holiday spices: cinnamon and nutmeg, star anise, ginger and cloves, a dash of lemon and orange zest, a splash or two of rum, heady and wild, and it smells as if I am living in a white-icing edged, candy cane and gumdrop-trimmed gingerbread house.

 So while others dream of a White Christmas, while visions of snow-dusted sugarplums dance in their heads, we sit inside in the warmth, snuggled up together, listening to the rain and watching the darkness come much too early every afternoon. We cook, bake, eat and watch old films and are overcome with that wonderful holiday spirit that wraps its arms around us no matter the weather and no matter what is happening outside in the world, outside of our own existence. So slice another piece of cake, pour another glass of wine and turn up the volume of the stereo or the television just a little bit more and maybe this year we will even exchange gifts.

Plated Stories will be taking a holiday break and will see you in the New Year. 

We wish you one and all a joyous, merry holiday filled with peace and good cheer.