Fresh Pasta

Before I finally succumbed to Book Club Failure and set aside Bleak House, I came across the following exchange, when the character Richard gets back a sum of money that he hadn't expected to:

'My prudent Mother Hubbard, why not?' he said to me, when he wanted, without the least consideration, to bestow five pounds on the brickmaker. 'I made ten pounds, clear, out of the Coavinses' business.'
'How was that?' said I. '
Why, I got rid of ten pounds which I was quite content to get rid of, and never expected to see any more. You don't deny that?'
'No,' said I.
'Very well! then I came into possession of ten pounds-'
'The same ten pounds,' I hinted.
'That has nothing to do with it!' returned Richard. 'I have got ten pounds more than I expected to have, and consequently I can afford to spend it without being particular.'

After Richard is talked out of giving the brickmaker those five pounds, he then adds that sum to his perceived credit as well. The narrator is frustrated, but I totally understand -- much of my life involves such ridiculous calculations, quantifying the world according to an entirely subjective mental math. You don't treat yourself to the massage you considered getting, and suddenly you have 'saved' money! Thus if you spend half the cost of a massage on, say, a nice dinner out, you haven't spent money at all! You've been a thrifty saver! These sorts of indefensible calculations and categorizations define much of how I financially interact with the outside world.

Perhaps the best illustration is what I like to call the Standard Burrito Unit (a concept developed in partnership with my burrito-making neighbor). To whit: burritos from the taco truck near my house are cheap. Ridiculously cheap. For $4.50, you get a hefty tortilla-wrapped handful of rice, beans, cheese, tomato, cilantro, onions, lettuce, and avocado. Avocado! For $4.50! And thus, $4.50 has become the new standard.

Sometimes, when I'm sweating over a home-cooked meal, I stop to ask myself: is this cheaper than a burrito? Other times, I'll pick up a dress at the thrift shop, amazed that it doesn't cost more than a couple of burritos. It's a hard habit to drop.

And thus, when I was at the farmer's market and saw someone selling Oregon black truffles, I was shocked to find that a single, stinky-ripe truffle, that emblem of luxury, cost the same price as a burrito. A single Standard Burrito Unit. I bought it.

But then there was the question of what to do with it. Usually truffles are enjoyed in basic creamy preparations, which serves as an unobtrusively rich backdrop for the truffle funk. Softly set eggs or cheesy risotto both work perfectly. But to serve to the dairy-free diner, I had to find something else. Pasta seemed a good fit, but how could I waste a luxurious truffle (though still the same price as a burrito!) on plain supermarket pasta! So I made my own.

For the most part, my feelings about making pasta by hand mirror my feelings about sewing a quilt. I've made both of these things, and I've been inordinately proud of the end results (which are miles beyond the commercially-produced option). But once the task is done, I'm content to not do it again for another year or so. Except that the fusty aroma of the truffle convinced me to break out the past machine. And it wasn't as bad as I remembered -- in fact, the whole meal came together in just over an hour.

Pasta-making is definitely a bit tedious, and requires a pasta maker (unless you're much more skilled/patient/Italian than I am), but it's also an amazing transformation of humble ingredients. I went with a particularly yolk-rich version, and white flour instead of semolina (because that's what I had). After a quick mix, a rest, and a whole lot of cranking, eggs and flour turn into noodles that manage to be both rich and delicate in the same bite. Add a glug of olive oil and a grating of Oregon black truffles, and you've got a showstoppingly good meal. For less than the cost of a burrito.


Fresh Pasta (with or without truffle)
serves ~4

2 cups flour
hefty pinch salt
2 eggs
4 egg yolks

In a large bowl, sift together the flour and salt. Make a well in the center, and add the eggs and yolks. Mix, from the center outward, and knead until the dough comes together and is smooth and elastic (truth told, I often resort to the dough hook for this stage). You can add more flour or egg yolk as needed to create a firm yet pliable dough. When the dough has been well-kneaded, cover with a towel or overturned bowl, and allow to rest for half an hour.

After half an hour, set a bowl of salted water to boil. Roll and cut the dough on a pasta machine, according to the directions (my lazy cook's trick: pinch of lumps of dough that are double the walnut size recommended -- you can get several turns through the machine with one portion, then just divide it in half when it gets too large and unwieldy, making sure to cover the unused portion so that it doesn't dry out). Toss cut noodles with additional flour so that they don't stick together. When your pasta has been rolled and cut, simmer in the salted water until done (it'll take less time than you'd think), then drain and toss with olive oil. Serve with your favorite sauce (or truffles).

Kentucky Butter Cake (aka Wedding Cupcakes)

Yesterday, my next-door neighbors—and dear, dear friends—got married. It was a lovely ceremony, on top of a defunct volcano up the hill from our house, full of green trees and a distant mountain and good friends and so much love that I think my heart exploded a little bit. And cupcakes.

I spent the last several weeks baking batch after batch of cupcakes, wrapping them well and stashing them deep in the freezer (and the freezers of others when I ran out of space). I learned more than I thought there was to know about frosting, from using an Italian meringue in the service of a not-too-sweet-and-meltproof buttercream, to white chocolate's ability to secretly stabilize a June-proof cream cheese frosting (thanks, Cake Bible!). I baked rich, moist chocolate cupcakes; tangy, summery lemon-yogurt-strawberry cupcakes; and the cake I hadn't had since I left high school: Kentucky Butter Cake.

This recipe comes from the bakery where I worked as a teenager, and tastes the way you remember childhood yellow cakes tasting (instead of the disappointing, one-dimensional sugar bombs they seem to have become). These are rich and buttery (natch), drenched in a syrupy glaze (when they're not also enrobed in buttercream), but light from careful preparation and the lovely lift of buttermilk. But who wants to talk about cupcakes? It's really about love.

But it's hard to find the words to capture that. So I'll leave you with those of James Salter:

Life is weather. Life is meals.
Lunches on a blue checked cloth on which salt has spilled.
The smell of tobacco. Brie, yellow apples, wood-handled knives.

Happy wedding, and happy happy life to my loves. And cupcakes for everyone.


Kentucky Butter Cake (aka wedding cupcakes)

adapted from The Baker's Cafe
yields a 9” bundt cake, or 24 cupcakes

Cake:
3 cups flour
1 tsp baking powder
½ tsp baking soda
heaping ½ tsp salt
1 cup butter, softened to room temperature
2 cups sugar
4 eggs (best if these are at room temperature)
2 tsp vanilla
1 cup buttermilk (best if this is at room temperature)

Glaze:
½ cup sugar
¼ cup butter
1 ½ tsp vanilla
2 Tbsp water

Preheat your oven to 350. Grease and flour a 9” bundt pan, or place liners in 2 dozen muffin cups. Set aside.

Sift together the flour, baking powder, baking soda, and salt. Set aside.

Using an electric mixer, beat the softened butter until light and fluffy. Add the sugar, and beat until light and fluffy again, stopping a few times to scrape down the sides. Add the eggs, one by one, beating well after each addition and scraping down the sides regularly. Add the vanilla, and mix well.

Lower the speed of the mixer, and add 1/3 of the dry mixture, mixing on low until just barely combined (stop just shy of a uniform mixture to avoid over-mixing), and scrape down the sides/bottom to enure there are no un-mixed pockets. Add half of the buttermilk, and again mix until barely combined. Repeat the process, adding half of the remaining flour mixture, all of the remaining buttermilk, and then all of the remaining dries. Pour into the prepared bundt or cupcake pans, and bake until a tester comes out clean (~50 minutes for a bundt cake, ~20 for cupcakes).

While the cake is baking, prepare the glaze. Combine all of the glaze ingredients in a medium saucepan. When the cake comes out of the oven, stir and simmer the glaze until the mixture begins to bubble. Pour the warm glaze over the warm cake in its pan.

Vietnamese Turmeric Fish with Rice Noodles, Dill and Nuoc Cham

For many diners, all it takes to enjoy a meal is the right condiment. Some people (and, for convenience, we'll call them Midwesterners) douse any number of dishes with ketchup before consumption. Others carry around a small bottle of a favorite hot sauce in their purse. For me, the magic condiment is fish sauce and lime juice.

Okay, it's not quite as versatile as ketchup. And I realize that fewer Americans share this obsession. But I love, love, love this combination. Funky, salty, umami-rich fish sauce, mixed with a bright sour hit of lime? Perfect. Add a little sugar to sweeten out the edge, and some water to lighten things up (yielding nuoc cham, a favored dipping sauce), and there's nothing better. And lest you vegetarians feel left out, you can often find fish-free fish sauce substitutes at Asian markets (look for the Vietnamese word chay, which means vegetarian, and also look out that it doesn't use msg as a shortcut). Even if you're wedded to ketchup, you should give this combination a try.

I usually put together my favorite nuoc cham to dress rice noodle salads (or, if I must admit, frozen potstickers). But a few years ago I tried this amazing catfish dish at a local Thai restaurant. Catfish was dredged in a turmeric-heavy rice flour coating, then pan-fried and served on a bed of rice noodles. Some fresh herbs (including the I-didn't-know-it-was-used-in-Southeast-Asian-cooking dill) were sprinkled on top. And my beloved fish sauce dressing pulled it together beautifully. A basic fried fish, when it came down to it, with an exciting punch of flavors. I had to make it at home.

Trolling around the internet, I discovered that this recipe is famous in Vietnam, originating in Hanoi's Chả Cá Lã Vọng restaurant. Recipes vary -- some with fried shallots, some with grilled instead of pan-fried fish -- but the basic model of turmeric-scented fish, rice noodles, fresh dill and nuoc cham remains the same. I've made it several times, barely following a recipe, adapting to the fresh herbs on hand (as long as dill is in the mix), and often tossing in some totally non-traditional broccoli or spinach to green up the meal. Sometimes I fry whole fish fillets and break them into the rice noodles as I eat, other times I cut the fish into bite-sized pieces before dredging and frying. It's always great. It's also a lovely summer choice, as there's no oven involved, just a bit of pan-frying. So when I had some fresh dill left over recently after cooking up a pile of Swedish midsommar food, and when I realized I had never told you about this dish, it was the logical dinner choice. Perhaps it'll win over some new nuoc cham devotees.


Vietnamese Turmeric Fish with Rice Noodles, Dill and Nuoc Cham

serves 4
adapted from several sources, notably Mai Pham's The Flavors of Asia

Sauce:
1/3 cup lime juice
1/2 cup fish sauce
1-2 Tbsp sugar
1/2 cup water
1 clove garlic, minced
4 small fresh chilies (or more or less to taste), sliced into rings

Noodles, Fish and Herbs:
6 ounces rice vermicelli (1/2 package)
1/2 cup rice flour
1 tsp turmeric
1/2 tsp salt
2 large fillets (~1 lb) catfish, tilapia, or similar fish (I'm currently smitten with the cheap-and-delicious Swai), left in fillets or cut into 2" pieces, as you prefer
2-3 Tbsp high-heat oil for cooking, such as canola
1 bunch scallions, thinly-sliced (~1/2 cup)
1 bunch dill, roughly chopped (~1 cup), divided
1 handful basil leaves, roughly chopped
1 handful cilantro, roughly chopped
1/4 cup roasted peanuts
hot sauce, such as sriracha

Prepare the dressing by mixing together all of the dressing ingredients in a bowl. Adjust as needed to get the hot-sour-salty-sweet balance to your taste. Set aside.

Cook the rice noodles according to the directions on the package, and set aside at room temperature.

Heat a large frypan over a medium-high heat. On a plate, mix together the rice flour, turmeric and salt until well-combined. Place the fish on the plate, and press into the rice flour coating so that it adheres. Turn the fish over over and coat the other side.

When the pan is hot, add ~2 Tbsp oil. Add the fish, and fry on each side until done, ~3-5 minutes per side, depending upon the size of your pieces. Remove from the pan and set aside. In the same skillet (adding another Tbsp of oil if it's dry), add the scallions and half of the dill. Saute for a minute or two, until the herbs soften and just begin to cook. Turn off the heat, and add the remaining dill and the other fresh herbs.

To serve, place a pile of rice noodles into a bowl. Top with a portion of fish and some of the herb mixture. Sprinkle with peanuts, dress with the fish sauce dressing, and add hot sauce as desired.

Chocolate Cinnamon Cookies

Recently a reader expressed an interest in a vegan version of this rich pistachio pudding. Despite its dairy-filled indulgence, that recipe actually lends itself fairly well to veganizing: the ground pistachio contribute a richness that compensates for any less-than-creamy faux-creams you want to swap out, and it's thickened with a cornstarch slurry instead of eggs. But the problem comes in putting together the whole package: part of the pudding's perfection comes in pairing it with bittersweet snappy-crisp chocolate cookies, to offset all that smooth. And so, here's an alternative: a dairy-free, egg-free, snappy-crisp chocolate cookie. Don't say I don't aim to please.

The recipe comes from the doyenne of vegan cookies, Isa Moskowitz. She introduced these as Mexican hot chocolate snickerdoodles, but due to my disagreements with cayenne, I ended up just adapting them as a regular ole chocolate cookie. But they are still quite exciting. The texture is perfect, crisp-but-not-too-crisp, and they crackle beautifully in the oven. The bit of cinnamon in the dough (and in the cinnamon-sugar dusting it gets before the oven) doesn't overwhelm the cookie, but nicely complements the chocolate flavor. They're perfect for enjoying with a cold glass of milk (or soymilk), sandwiching with some summer ice cream (or soycream), or dunking into a dish of rich, smooth pudding.


Chocolate Cinnamon Cookies

adapted from Isa Chandra Moskowitz, from her book Vegan Cookies Invade Your Cookie Jar
yields ~4 dozen cookies

Topping:
1/3 cup sugar
1 tsp cinnamon

Cookies:
1 2/3 cup flour
1/2 cup cocoa powder
1 tsp baking soda
1/2 tsp salt
1/2 tsp cinnamon
1/2 tsp cayenne (optional, for a spicy cookie)
1/2 cup canola oil
1 cup sugar
1/4 cup maple syrup
3 Tbsp milk (or soymilk)
1 tsp vanilla extract

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees. Line two baking sheets with parchment paper, or grease well.

Mix together the cinnamon and sugar for the topping in a small dish, and set aside.

In a bowl, sift together the flour, cocoa powder, baking soda, salt, cinnamon and cayenne (if using). Set aside.

In a mixer or large bowl, mix together the oil, sugar, maple syrup, milk and vanilla until well combined. Add the dry ingredients, stirring until dough comes together.

Scoop out tablespoons of dough (a mini ice-cream scoop makes this ridiculously easy, though it can also be done with two spoons), and plop them into the dish of cinnamon-sugar. Roll around to coat, then transfer to the prepared cookie sheets. Repeat with the remaining dough, leaving ample space for the cookies to spread. Press on each cookie to flatten it into a not-too-thick disc (a little thicker than the finished cookie, as they will continue to spread in the oven). Transfer to the preheated oven and bake ~10 minutes, until the cookies have spread and gotten crackly on top (they won't be entirely set). Remove, and let cool on the cookie sheet for 5 minutes, until firm enough to transfer. Move to a cool rack to cool completely.

Tomato Biryani

There's an old piece of advice regarding good hostessing and housewifery: never try out a new recipe with company. I'm not fully on board -- sometimes produce-driven inspiration strikes, or you find the perfect recipe right before a party (or you just want something special and new to excite you). But I understand the reason for the rule. As someone who cooks a lot, I've had my share of culinary flops. And I wouldn't want to subject my guests to these sorts of sunken cakes, crumbly breads, and underwhelming entrees. So for the most part, when others are involved, I stick to known commodities.

But sometimes I just don't take my own good advice. A few years ago, I took a bad idea even further: instead of cooking a strange recipe for a dinner guest, I brought it along for a bulk cooking project with a friend. The plan was to bust out her shiny new food-storage machine (the kind that seals food in plastic and sucks the air out), and make 10x a few recipes, and thus be set with insta-meals for months to come. We made my beloved spanikopita, a tomato-chickpea curry I'd tried before, and then, against better judgment, a new recipe for biryani. I knew it was dicey to end up with pounds upon pounds of an untested recipe, but c'mon, it's biryani! Just Indian seasoned rice and vegetables! How could it be bad?

As you may have figured from my dramatic lead up, it was bad. Really bad. So-bad-even-thrifty-me-threw-it-out bad. The seasonings were wrong, the vegetables didn't work together, and the rice was mushy. I tried to choke down a bit of the awful mixture, but ended up moving the contents of those neatly-sealed bags from the freezer to the compost. Thus scarred, I avoided both bulk cooking and biryani for several years. But now, biryani has been redeemed.

When I first saw this recipe, I thought it was almost boring. Just tomatoes? No saffron or other such excitement? But it works, and it's perfect. Warm spices like cinnamon and cardamom combine with savory garlic, onion and tomatoes, creating the complex spicy interplay of flavors common to dishes from India's Moghul tradition. It's a simple thrifty pantry meal, easily dressed up if you want (I freestyled a spinach raita, which made a lovely complement). I prepared this for a potluck, where it stood out alongside grilled asparagus and a Greek egg-lemon soup, and was promptly devoured.

And if you're interested in exploring bulk cooking (with a well-tested recipe), I direct you towards this recent article on making your own freezer burritos (I've tasted the results of this recipe, and can vouch for its deliciousness). And, while I'm sending the links, I'll direct you to an NPR story I produced about a new type of training program at the local women's prison. Here's to delicious success, in the kitchen and in life.


Tomato Biryani

adapted from Pauljoseph via Food52
serves ~3

1 cup basmati rice
2 Tbsp butter, ghee, coconut oil, or canola oil
1/4 tsp whole cloves (don't overdo this one - cloves are potent)
6 cardamom pods
2 cinnamon sticks (~3 inches each)
2 blades mace (if you don't have this, no worries)
1 small red onion, cut in half and sliced thinly into half-moons
1 tsp julienned fresh ginger
4 cloves garlic, thinly sliced
2 hot red or green chiles, cut into thin strips or slices into thin strips (seeds included -- I used two frozen red Thai chiles, and they provided a good amount of heat)
1 can (14.5 ounces) diced tomatoes
1 tsp coarse salt
1/4 tsp turmeric
1/4 cup minced cilantro

Place the rice in a bowl, and cover with water. Swish around, then drain, and repeat until the water no longer turns cloudy. Cover the rice with fresh water, then let sit for 20-30 minutes until the grains soften.

Heat the butter or oil in a pot over a medium-high heat. Add the cloves, cardamom pods, cinnamon sticks and mace (if using). Let sizzle until fragrant, ~15-30 seconds. Add the onion, and saute until brown around the edges, 5-7 minutes.

When the onion slices have browned, add the ginger, garlic and chiles. Cook, stirring, for 1 minute (the garlic won't be fully cooked, but that's fine), then add the tomatoes, salt and turmeric. Simmer, stirring occasionally, until the tomatoes are softened, ~5-7 minutes.

When the tomatoes are soft, drain the rice and add to the pot, stirring well. Add 1 1/2 cups water, and cook, uncovered, over the same medium-high heat, until the water cooks down to the surface level of the rice, and craters are beginning to appear in its surface. At this point you can give it a stir to mix, then reduce heat to its lowest possible setting and cover the pot. Cook, undisturbed, for 10 minutes, then turn off the heat and allow to sit for another 10 minutes.

When the rice has cooked and rested, remove the lid, and fluff with a fork. Remove the aromatics if you like (trying not to mush the rice overmuch), or just make sure to warn diners about them. Sprinkle with cilantro and serve.

Garlicky Sesame-Cured Broccoli Salad

My neighbor is a somewhat evangelical member of a local women's gym. In addition to the usual elliptical trainers and weight machines, the gym has one feature she prizes above all else: a light room. This small tiled room, just big enough for four chairs, features a large full-spectrum light, an aromatherapy machine, and a pile of trashy magazines. On these rainy Northwest days (which we are still having), gym members love nothing more to sit and soak up a little vitamin D and tabloid gossip. The smell of eucalyptus will now be forever associated with the Kardashians.

Thanks to the magic of the Groupon, I've joined my neighbor these last few weeks. I've sweated and gasped through cardio workouts that probably wouldn't phase a ten-year-old, and ended up painfully sore from lifting teensy weights. And I've spent a good amount of time sitting in the light room. I keep meaning to bring my own reading material (my book club is now planning an unseasonable summer-long trip through Dickens' Bleak House), but why do that when I can read about the romantic lives of celebrities I've never heard of?

Last week I was leafing through one such magazine in the faux sun, which featured an article on weight-loss lifestyle tips of nutritionists to the stars. In addition to the usual strategies of not eating every appetizer at the party (a strategy I forgot to keep in mind last night), they recommended limiting your diet to a short list of approved foods. The idea wasn't just to keep you from eating unhealthful items, but to literally bore you into weight loss. If you're only allowed egg whites, chicken breasts, and blueberries, you evidently start eating less because you're tired of egg whites, chicken breasts, and blueberries. Which just seems sad.

Like most people, I crave variety in my diet. I try new foods and new preparations, get excited about unfamiliar techniques and cuisines. And I reckon to say that I'm more satisfied with a meal that packs an excitingly novel punch of flavors. I get on short-lived kicks where one particular ingredient or dish goes into heavy rotation, but for the most part I want to try to do new things in the kitchen. Except when it comes to green vegetables.

My preparation of chard, broccoli, spinach and the like looks like this:

1. heat a bit of olive oil
2. add garlic, saute until fragrant
3. add green vegetable, cook until done
4. squeeze lemon wedge and sprinkle salt over the top
5. eat

Every now and then I'll throw said vegetable in the defective rice cooker that serves as our steamer basket, or turn it into a Thai curry or Indian saag, but 9 times out of 10 I run through the steps above. Other members of the household have mentioned a desire for something other than garlicky lemony greens, but I generally push these requests aside. It's a culinary rut I can't seem to break out of. But that all might change with this garlicky sesame-cured broccoli salad.

This recipe comes from the never-disappointing Melissa Clark. The broccoli is technically raw, but it gets tossed with a bit of vinegar and salt (as well as some warm garlicky oil). As the broccoli sits, the acid softens it, leaving it with an addictive crunchy-yet-yielding texture, somewhere between raw and cooked, and a beautifully bright green flavor. A bit of toasted sesame oil and some cumin seeds give it a nutty depth (and go together so well I wonder why I haven't paired them before), and a pinch of chili flakes provide heat. Variety never tasted so satisfyingly delicious.


Garlicky Sesame-Cured Broccoli Salad

adapted from Melissa Clark in The New York Times
serves ~4

2 tsp vinegar of your choosing (Clark recommends red wine, we used a mix of rice wine and balsamic)
1 tsp coarse salt
2 lbs broccoli crowns (~2 large heads), washed and broken into small florets
1/3 cup olive oil
4 large cloves garlic, minced
2 tsp cumin seeds
2 tsp toasted sesame oil
large pinch crushed red chile flakes

In a large bowl, mix together the vinegar and salt. Add the broccoli, and toss to combine. Set aside.

In a large skillet, heat the olive oil until hot but not smoking. Add the garlic and cumin seeds, and cook until fragrant (it should only take a minute). Add the sesame oil and chile flakes. Turn off the heat, and pour the hot mixture over the broccoli, tossing well so that the hot oil coats everything. Let sit for at least an hour, for the broccoli to soften and the flavors to develop. Taste before serving and adjust seasonings if needed.

Pistachio Pudding with Chocolate Cookies

Neither pistachios nor pudding get the respect they truly deserve. To whit: order a pistachio-flavored dessert, and you will invariably be served something that's almond-flavored. But colored green, see, so it's pistachio (to give props, this realization was attributed to the amazing pastry chef Shuna Lydon). And pudding -- according to a friend, in Turkey you can find entire restaurants devoted to pudding. Just pudding. It boggles the mind. Stateside, unless you count its fancy euro-sounding cousins of mousse and pot-de-creme, pudding isn't likely to make it onto the dessert menu at all. Most of the time, it's served in individually-sealed plastic snack cups, or plopped out of industrial-sized tubs onto cafeteria trays. This is all a shame, because both pistachios and pudding have a lot to offer by the way of dessert. Especially when they are combined together.

This sweet combination has all I look for in a final course. The pudding is rich, deep and smooth, with a true pistachio flavor (I was worried that the cinnamon would overpower, but it just serves to deepen the pistachio's aromatic notes). It is a bit thick from the ground nuts, so the sweet blob of whipped cream provides a welcome lightness. And then the cookies lend a delicious snap and bittersweet edge (I reduced the sugar a bit, upon advice from Smitten Kitchen), as well as their basic chocolatey goodness (which we all kinda want from a dessert anyways). It's a pudding fancypants enough to serve at your next dinner party. It's a pudding that might just redeem pudding (and pistachios) forever.


Pistachio Pudding with Chocolate cookies

pudding adapted, somewhat heavily, from Cookshop, as told to the Amateur Gourmet, cookies adapted from Retro Desserts, as flagged and adapted by Smitten Kitchen
yields ~6 portions puddings, and ~2-3 dozen cookies

For the Cookies:
1 1/4 cups flour
1/2 cup dutched cocoa powder
1 tsp baking soda
1/4 tsp baking powder
1/4 tsp salt
1 cup sugar
1 1/4 sticks (10 Tbsp) unsalted butter, softened to room temperature
1 egg

Preheat the oven to 375 degrees. Line a few cookie sheets with parchment paper, or grease them well and hope for the best.

Place the flour, cocoa powder, soda, baking powder, salt and sugar in the bowl of a food processor or mixer. Pulse or mix a few times to combine the dry ingredients. Add the butter and egg, and pulse or mix a few times until it just comes together.

Scoop tablespoons of the mixed dough onto the prepared cookie sheets, leaving some space between cookies (these will spread). Flatten slightly, wetting your hand if needed to keep the dough from sticking. Bake for ~9 minutes, until just set. Let them cool on the sheet for a minute or two to set, then remove to a rack to cool completely.

For the Pudding:
4 cups cream, divided
2 cups milk
2 cups toasted pistachios
2 sticks cinnamon
1 cup sugar, plus more for the whipped cream
3 Tbsp cornstarch
vanilla to taste

Place 3 1/4 cups of the cream (set aside the remainder in the refrigerator), the milk, pistachios and cinnamon in saucepan. Bring to a simmer, then turn off the heat and allow to steep for 1/2 an hour. Get some cups ready for the finished pudding.

When the cream/pistachio mixture has steeped, blend it fully, and then strain it back into the saucepan (I had to sort of persuade it through the strainer with a spatula, clearing out the nutty detritus a couple of times during the process, but results may vary depending upon your blender and strainer). Whisk together the sugar and cornstarch in a bowl, and then add enough of the strained cream mixture to create a smooth paste. Whisk in the remainder, then pour it back into the pot. Heat over a medium flame, whisking, until it comes to a boil. Lower the heat until it just maintains a simmer, and simmer, whisking constantly, for 3 minutes. Pour into cups in your desired amounts, and chill.

Before serving, whip the remaining cream into soft peaks, and add sugar and vanilla to taste. Top the pudding with whipped cream, and serve with a chocolate cookie (or three).