Syrniki (Russian Cottage Cheese Pancakes)

Like most cooks, I tend to taste my way through a recipe. I pop cubes of raw vegetables in my mouth after I dice them, and grab a couple bites along the way to gauge whether they're cooked through. And then how can you season to taste if you don't taste? By the time the meal is served, I've already eaten my first course.

But with syrniki, I have taken the snack-and-simmer approach to new heights (or depths?). These Russian cottage cheese pancakes are just so amazingly delicious that I could not stop eating them directly from the pan. They're moist from the dairy (farmer cheese or cottage cheese, if you don't have access to the Russian dry curd cheese tvorog), fresh-tasting and barely sweet. And the pan-frying in melted butter probably doesn't hurt. Often they're studded with raisins, but in the summer they're lovely with cold sour cream and some sweet berries or compote (though I ate a good third out of hand, before they even hit the plate, and that might have been the best of all).

Unlike heavier American flapjacks, these light syrniki make for a sweet dessert. But they're equally good as a small meal in and of themselves, especially on summer days where you don't want to turn on the oven. Provided you have better self-control than I do, and can manage to actually save some for your dinner guests. You can find the details, along with stories and recipes for several other Russian dishes, over at NPR's Kitchen Window.

Sour Cherry Tart

When I see a fruit pie, even a home-made one, I must shamefully admit that my first reaction isn't generally excitement or anticipation. It's a small twinge of disappointment -- Why did you do that to perfectly good fruit? I feel like the old woman, looking at her granddaughter's new eyebrow ring, who wistfully tells her that you had such a pretty face. I know, I'm so much fun, right? But summer fruit, especially here in the Pacific Northwest, is so lovely. And most pies just don't do it justice.

Pies faults are usually small, but they do add up. Crusts are tough, cardboardy, a vehicle that's often pushed aside (especially after a stint in the refrigerator). Fillings are over-set into a sludgy gel, where the starch overwhelms the fruit. And the fruit itself can be over- or under-cooked, with dull, un-summery flavors. It's no wonder that I used the think I didn't like pie.

But as it turns out, I do like pie. I like it a whole lot. It just has to be made well. Which, thankfully, isn't all that hard. Make your own crust, and make it with butter and a light hand (or, instead go with a nice pre-made all-butter puff pastry). Give your fruit just a little bit of sweetness and thickener, and let the flavor shine through. The fruit isn't the same as fresh -- cooked fruit is sort of a different animal -- but if done well, it can be something better.


Yesterday I picked a whole mess of sour cherries from a neighbor's tree (with a good amount of help), in exchange for a jar of the jam I was making. We ended up with 5 lbs or so, which would make a whole lot of preserves. So I jammed up half of them, and reserved the other half for this tart. I mixed up a batch of my favorite fail-safe crust recipe (swapping in a little whole wheat flour, as is my wont), and layered it with just a bit of ground almonds and sugar to add a subtle nutty, goo-absorbing layer to the bottom. Then I tossed the cherries with nothing more than sugar and tapioca starch (my favorite pie thickener) and a few dots of butter to keep things lovely, then topped the whole affair with a bit of lattice and an overly-generous sanding of coarse sugar. The result is amazing. The cherries aren't so much sour as just flavorful, more punchy than puckery. They soften in the oven, their juices mixing with the starch to become a syrupy filling. The crust isn't an afterthought at all, but a flaky, delicate pastry that complements the soft fruit, with the coarse sugar as a delightfully crunchy counterpoint. I realize that my description is a bit over-the-top and swoony, but really, it's totally warranted. This is pie as it's meant to be.


Sour Cherry Tart

filling adapted from several sources, including The New York Times, though I recommend this crust instead

1 double crust, unbaked (I made a 3/4 batch of this excellent recipe, then used 2/3 for the bottom crust and 1/3 for the lattice, which worked perfectly for a loose lattice)
1/2 +2 Tbsp sugar, divided
1/4 cup ground almonds
2 lbs pitted sour cherries (~5 cups)
3 Tbsp tapioca starch
1 Tbsp butter, cut into bits
1 egg, beaten with a bit of water or cream
coarse sugar for sprinkling

Preheat your oven to 400 degrees. Mix together the 2 Tbsp of sugar with the ground almonds, and set aside. Toss together the cherries. remaining 1/2 cup sugar, and tapioca starch, and set aside.

Roll out the bottom crust and place it in the tart pan, crimping the edges. Roll out and cut strips for the lattice. Sprinkle the almond-sugar mixture evenly over the bottom, then give the cherries a stir and pour them on top, dotting with the butter. Weave your lattice strips gently over the cherries, tucking the ends in against the crust wall. Brush the lattice strips and crust with the egg wash, and sprinkle generously with the coarse sugar (this is a fairly tart pie, so be ridiculously generous to have lots of crunchy sugar to offset). Place in the oven, and bake until the crust is well browned and the juices are bubbling and thickening, ~1 hour (start checking before that). Allow to cool for 2 hours before cutting and devouring. If there are any leftovers, leave them, covered, at room temperature for up to a day or so.

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.