Mexican Hot Chocolate Pudding

There are certain things that are best left to professionals. Asbestos removal, for example. Or complex surgery. Heck, even simple surgery. But there are other projects that just about anyone can pull off, and it boggles the mind that someone ever managed to convince us otherwise. Like making pudding from scratch.

Listen to me, people: do not pay for pudding mix. Ever. Pudding is one of the easiest things you can make. I guarantee that 4 out of 5 of you have all the necessary ingredients in your pantry right now. You take some milk, add some sugar to sweeten, a bit cocoa or vanilla to flavor, and a few spoonfuls of cornstarch to thicken. That's it. There are variations using eggs as well, which are also delicious, but the pudding they make is a bit heavier (and you have the added requirement of constant stirring, to make sure the eggs thicken evenly instead of clumping into unappetizing little curds). A basic pudding like this one is delicious, cheap, and dead simple. It takes less than 10 minutes start to finish.

This particular version is spiked with a dash of cinnamon for a Mexican flavor, which makes for a nice alternative to the standard straight-up chocolate. It's sweet-but-not-overly, and is relatively light and healthy. This version makes enough for 4, in theory, though the two of us have been known to polish it off in a day.


Mexican Hot Chocolate Pudding
adapted from Gourmet, February 2009
serves 4 (or fewer)

1/2 cup packed brown sugar
1/4 cup cocoa powder
1 1/2 Tbsp cornstarch
1/2 tsp cinnamon
large pinch salt
2 cups almond milk (you can substitute regular milk, or milk alternative, with equivalent results)
1 1/2 Tbsp butter or margarine, cut into a few bits
1/2 tsp vanilla extract

Place brown sugar, cocoa powder, cornstarch, cinnamon and salt in a pot, and whisk to combine. Pour in the milk, and whisk again. Bring to a boil over medium heat, whisking occasionally, and then boil for one full minute, whisking constantly (it will thicken noticeably). Remove from heat, add butter and vanilla, and stir to combine. Pour into serving bowls (or bowl, depending on how you'd like to serve it). Chill until cool, or else eat it right away.

Spanikopita

There's a certain magical romance to high school friendships. You spend all of your time together, unpacking the events of your day and planning for the future. You have loud conversations while waiting on lines and buses, wanting to be overheard because you're sure that everyone else must be entranced by your wit and vitality (only later do you realize how wrong you are). And you become part of another family.

A huge amount of my personal development happened with my high school best friend. And, as a lovely bonus, a huge amount of my culinary development happened with my best friend's mother. Let me take you back: the early 1990s. While American food was a far cry from the previous decade, it was still a different landscape. Health food stores, without fail, were located in basements. Italian food meant red sauce. Ethnic food meant canned water chestnuts. Heck, we were still learning about cilantro.

In the midst of all this was my friend Amy's mom. She restocked her pantry with bulk order deliveries from Walnut Acres, because local stores didn't stock her California-developed tastes. Brunch featured a french toast bread pudding with fresh blueberries, maple syrup, and cubes of cream cheese that still haunts my dreams. Taco Night at my house meant an Old El Paso MSG-based spiced mix. At Amy's, it meant home-made Navajo fry bread. But best of all was the spanikopita.

I'd had spanikopita (also spelled spanakopita) before, but only in diners. These versions featured frozen spinach and musty dried dill, and were seldom homemade. The fresh version, straight from the oven, was a revelation. I ate so much that I'm surprised they invited me back.

High school was forever ago, and I've made this recipe dozens of times since. It was never written down, and I can't remember what I've changed along the way. But authentic or not, this version is wonderful. The fresh spinach is layered with tangy feta and creamy cottage cheese, with some onion or scallions for savor. But it's the fresh dill which makes this truly lovely. It's amazing fresh from the oven, with the crisp phyllo dough contrasting with the creamy filling. But truth be told, I might like leftovers almost as much. I've made this for myself on my birthday. Many times. It's just that good.

Spanikopita
inspired by high school
serves 6-8
2 cups cottage cheese
3/4 pound feta cheese
1 small bunch fresh dill, chopped (a scant 1/4 cup)
1/4 red or yellow onion, or 1/2 bunch scallion, finely chopped
salt and pepper
1 egg
1 large bunch spinach, washed, dried, and roughly chopped
2 Tbsp some sort of cracked-grain hot cereal (farina, cream of rice, etc.)
1/2 package phyllo dough, thawed
olive oil, as needed (~ 1/3 cup)

Preheat your oven to 350 degrees.

Mix together the cottage and feta cheese, dill, and onion. Season to taste with salt and pepper (you want it somewhat strongly seasoned, since it'll be mixed with the spinach, but be careful as the feta will add a lot of salt). Mix in the egg. Add the spinach, by handfuls, until the mixture is somewhat well-distributed.

Grease a large casserole dish with olive oil. You can also use a sheet tray, if you prefer a thinner spanikopita, or whatever dish you so desire. Open the package of phyllo, making sure to keep any unused portion covered with a dishtowel so that it doesn't dry out. Lay down two sheets in the casserole dish, then drizzle with olive oil. Spread the oil out somewhat evenly over the sheet, using a pastry brush, wadded-up bit of waxed paper, or whatever you have. Repeat the process, until you have 8 sheets down. Lightly sprinkle the farina (or its equivalent) over the top sheet (this will absorb excess liquid given off by the spinach, and prevent it from sogging your bottom phyllo). Spread the spinach-cheese mixture over the top. Lay down another 8 sheets of phyllo on top, oiling between every two layers. Oil the top layer, and cut a few vents to allow the filling to bubble up. Bake until the top is lightly browned, and the filling is bubbling, ~45 minutes. Remove from the oven, allow to cool 5 minutes, and serve.

Grilled Corn Dressing (and Dip)

Salad dressing isn't usually one of those things that cries out for innovation. While my salad vegetables vary a bit with the seasons (and shopping trips), the dressing remains pretty much the same. Oil, vinegar, shallot, salt, pepper, a pinch of sugar. That's it. This formula allows room for variation: olive oil and red wine vinegar for an Italian meal, or walnut oil and sherry vinegar if you're feeling fancy. Sometimes there's a pinch of tarragon for excitement, or a few curls of orange or lemon zest when I've got citrus. Now and then garlic steps in for the shallot, or maple syrup for the sugar. But the standard dressing formula holds strong.

Except when it doesn't. Every once in a while, especially when there have been a lot of salads on the menu, the standard vinaigrette can feel a little tired, and I want to branch out. Our resident lactard rules out the buttermilk-based creamy dressings that call out to me. So instead, I turn to corn.

It sounds a bit strange at first, and I've even faced doubters in my own kitchen ("We're having salad topped with chowder?"). But this recipe wins hearts and minds. It's creamy without the cream, and has a smoky sweetness from the grill (and if you don't have the time or inclination to grill, you can fake it with smoked paprika and a pinch of sugar). It also makes a great dip for vegetables, and is absolutely heavenly poured over sliced avocados.

And for those of you wondering about the Wild America shots of prepared dishes in their natural backyard habitats? I don't really have a good answer. Our kitchen doesn't have much natural light, and is often pretty messy to boot. I figure I'll take advantage of the pretty before the rains set in.


Grilled Corn Dressing (and Dip)
inspired by my friend Sarah

makes about 1 1/2 cups dressing

2 ears corn
1 large shallot, roughly chopped
2 Tbsp rice wine vinegar
pinch each smoked paprika and sugar (optional, see instructions)
1/2 - 3/4 cups olive oil
salt and pepper to taste

Grill or boil the corn until done. Shuck any remaining husk, and cut the kernels off of the ears. This will yield ~1 cup kernels.

Place the corn kernels in a blender, along with the rice wine vinegar and shallot. If you boiled the corn, add a pinch each of the smoked paprika and the sugar (grilled corn will have enough smoky sweetness on its own). Add about half the oil and puree until somewhat smooth. Continue to add more oil, stopping when you have a pourable consistency. Adjust seasonings to taste.

Pickled Broccoli Stems

I have trouble throwing things out. Condiments stay in the refrigerator until the next move, even those I am fairly certain I'll never taste again (yes, I'm talking about you, weird Russian chicory concentrate). There's a T-shirt in my closet marking the confirmation of Supreme Court Justice Stephen Breyer (1995, for those of you who don't have the date committed to memory). And then there are the broccoli stems.

Broccoli is one of my favorite vegetables. The flowery tops sop up any sauce, from stir-fry to coconut curry. And if you roast it, the caramelized green-and-gold, vegetal-and-sweet end result is one of the best dishes you can imagine. But the stalks? Not so much. No little flowers to add textural interest and flavor, or meld into a larger dish. Just a whole lot of dense green.

For many years, I've dealt with my waste-o-phobia (and spend-money-o-phobia) by making my own soup stock. There's a bag in the freezer where I toss carrot tops, onion peels, tomato cores, and those last stalks of celery that go limp despite our best efforts. Whenever I need some vegetable broth, I dump the contents of the bag into my pressure cooker, add salt and water, and lock the lid. But, unfortunately, I can't do that with broccoli stems.

Broccoli, like its cousins kale and cauliflower, is a member of the plant genus Brassica. This cabbagey, mustardy family (which, incidentally, also contains cabbages and mustards) is known for its high fiber, and large helping of cancer-fighting compounds. And, oh yeah, its sharp taste and smell. The compounds that give the Brassica family its health benefits also result in a distinctive flavor, one that gets stronger with extended cooking (as anyone who grew up in a home with boiled cabbage dishes can attest). This mustardy edge can be great on its own, but it's not something you can subtly layer into your vegetable broth.

Thankfully, I discovered something that can be done with broccoli stalks. Something delicious. Now instead of sadly tossing stalks on the compost pile, or letting them overpower a dish a dish with their dense crunch, I pickle them. And the pickles are lovely. Salt and vinegar tame some of the peppery edge of raw broccoli, and the garlic adds a great savory depth. They've become my favorite cocktail snack. I can't believe I used to throw them out.

Pickled Broccoli Stemsadapted from The New York Times, 3/3/09 makes about 1/2 cup
Broccoli is most easily peeled with a paring knife, as its irregular surface makes it difficult to use a standard peeler. Cut off any tough skin on the bottom end, and slide your paring knife under the tough peel. Press the peel between your thumb and the knife, and tug towards the top end. You should be able to peel the outer skin off in strips this way. Repeat until all of the tough peel is removed.

stems from 1 bunch of broccoli
1/2 tsp coarse salt
1 large garlic clove, minced or pressed
1 1/2 Tbsp sherry vinegar, or 1 Tbsp of a sharper vinegar
2 Tbsp olive oil

Peel the broccoli stems, and slice them crosswise into coins about 1/4 inch thick. Place in a jar with the salt, cover, and shake to distribute. Refrigerate several hours, or overnight.

Drain off the accumulated liquid. Add the remaining ingredients, shake again to distribute. Refrigerate for several hours, or overnight, to allow flavors to permeate, shaking occasionally. Serve with toothpicks or small forks. The oil may solidify, but will quickly liquify at room temperature. The green color will fade after a day or so, but they'll still be delicious.

Canned Plums In Syrup

I just can't stop looking at these canned plums. Or, apparently, telling people that they're pickled eggs (a joke whose humor seems lost on most of my audience). I'm no stranger to canning, as I've already mentioned. But I've never put whole fruits inside of jars before, an act that seems like it shouldn't work. You wouldn't throw whole plums in the freezer -- how can you cavalierly toss them inside a jar?

As it turns out, it's simply necessity that leads to this dramatic presentation. Most plums are clingstone, with the flesh firmly attached to the pit. There's no way you're going to end up with neat pitted halves, as you would with freestone peaches. The only option is to can them whole, and just eat around the pits. But even with this unromantic explanation, I still sit in wonder at the sight of whole fruit, bobbing in its enclosed syrupy habitat.

Canned plums are so simple that they barely warrant a recipe. So instead, here are a series of loose guidelines. Find a tree in your neighborhood before the season is over.


Canned Plums In Syrup

As many plums as you can handle
As much syrup as you need
As many jars as it takes
Optional: any flavorings you fancy to add excitement to the fruit (vanilla beans, rosemary sprigs, etc.)

Sterilize your jars, either in boiling water or a dishwasher. Wash the plums, and prick them a few times with a skewer. This allows the syrup to permeate, and prevents the skins from bursting (although if you have a particularly thin-skinned variety of plums, they might burst anyways, leading to a still-delicious-albeit-somewhat-less-pretty product). Place the plums in your canning jars, tamping them down to fit as many as possible. They'll shrink in the hot syrup, so really pack them in. Tuck any desired flavorings in amongst the fruit.

Prepare your syrup: I favor a medium syrup, of 2 parts water to 1 part sugar. Make as much as you'll need to fill your jars. Bring to a boil, and then pour over the plums, up to 1/2" of the rim.

Top jars with sterilized lids, screw the rings on finger-tight, and then process in a boiling water bath (20 minutes for pints, 25 minutes for quarts). Remove and cool, then check that the lids have sealed. The syrup will infuse the plums (and vice versa) as they sit. By winter, they'll be amazing.

Chewy Chocolate Chocolate Chip Cookies

At Thanksgiving about a decade ago, my friend's 3-year-old nephew was "helping" with the meal. After the dessert plates had been set out, he carefully began laying out a cookie on each plate. An elderly relative tried to halt him, gently explaining that not everyone wanted a cookie. This was mind-blowing information for a 3-year-old to incorporate. "Why don't they want a tookie?" he asked incredulously. "It's just a tookie. It's just sweet."

Even though I've got something of a grown-ups palate these days (i.e. I no longer dream about purchasing a can of frosting for a birthday meal), I feel the same way about these cookies. Some other desserts, sure. There are desserts for particular palates, or suited to particular meals or seasons. But these cookies are always perfect. Always. They've got a thin crisp outer covering which cracks in crags, letting you see the moistness inside. I can't think of the last time I baked cookies that weren't these.

Amazingly, this recipe is vegan, missing the eggs and butter which normally give cookies body and flavor. But you would never know. They're soft and chocolaty, deeply-flavored and studded with chips. If you know a vegan, or someone who has to avoid dairy, make them these cookies. And if you have friends who do indulge in dairy, they won't know the difference. I know, I know: many vegan and dairy-free recipes make similar claims, but leave you with cookies that crumble, don't spread, or feature a distracting soy or margarine flavor. I promise, these cookies just taste like great cookies. And who doesn't want a cookie?


Chewy Chocolate Chocolate Chip Cookies
adapted from Isa Moskowitz, The Post-Punk Kitchen
makes 4 dozen cookies

In order for you to have nice chewy cookies, you'll need to make sure these cookies don't cook beyond 10 minutes. They'll seem a bit under-done at first, but they'll continue to set outside of the oven. This recipe is easily halved if you don't want the full yield. But you know what's a better idea? Bake the full amount, then freeze any leftovers for a secret stash. We thaw ours in the microwave, but I've been known to gnaw still-frozen cookies.

4 tsp ground flax seeds (ground to a mealy powder in a spice grinder)
1/2 cup milk or soymilk
2 cups all purpose flour (or finely-milled whole wheat pastry flour)
3/4 cups cocoa powder
1 tsp baking soda
3/4 tsp salt
3/4 cup neutral oil (like canola)
2 cups sugar
2 tsp vanilla
1 cup chocolate chips

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Whisk together flax seeds and soymilk, and let sit at least ten minutes (IMPORTANT: this allows the flax seeds to release whatever it is they release into the milk, which binds the cookies into a nice chewy consistency. If they don't sit long enough, you'll have disappointingly flat cookies).

In a large bowl, sift together flour, cocoa powder, baking soda and salt. Set aside.

Whisk together oil, sugar and vanilla. Add the flax mixture, and mix well. Fold in the dry ingredients in a few additions, being careful not to overmix. Add chocolate chips.

Form the dough into cookies, either by forming 1" balls with your hands, or scooping them out with a tiny ice cream scoop. Place on a cookie sheet (no need to grease), leaving 1" between cookies. Bake 10 minutes -- no longer! Let set on the sheets for 5 minutes, then move to a wire rack or plate to cook completely.

Yeast-Raised Whole Wheat Waffles

I have an inner core of thriftiness that can make me something of a killjoy. Yes, it helps in our personal home economics, when I can add a handful of something-or-other from our garden to a can from the pantry, and turn out a passable meal. But it backfires when we go out to eat. I'll try to enjoy our meal, both the food and the occasion, but inside I'm thinking: I'm paying good money for this? I could make this at home! Easily! Needless to say, remarks like this don't really enhance the quality of an evening.

This problem comes on especially strong at brunch. Every now and then we get a particularly interesting breakfast confection, or a greasy plate that seems like manna to our hung-over stomaches. But often, brunch is an overpriced combination of basic ingredients -- some eggs and flour -- thrown together by a line cook struggling to keep pace with a pile of orders. I could make this at home.

But while this inner broken record makes me lousy dining company, it also makes me a good breakfast cook. In an effort to avoid disappointing brunches out, I've spent a lot of time working out home-cooked options. This waffle recipe is one of the best.

These waffles are surprisingly easy. The batter is mixed up the night before, and left out on the counter. The yeast provides a light airiness, and the long fermentation gives a complex flavor. And, shh, these are actually vegan. And healthy. The ground flax provides a shot of those good omega-3 fatty acids, in addition to binding the batter. The whole wheat flour provides a nice whole-grain flavor, but thanks to the yeast, there's no heaviness. Now, those with sharp eyes may notice that I topped my serving with butter and syrup. But perhaps you're more virtuous than I am.


Yeast-Raised Whole Wheat Waffles
veganized from the Raised Waffles recipe in Marion Cunningham's The Fannie Farmer Cookbook
makes 4 8-inch round waffles (about 2 servings, depending on your waffle-eating ability)

1 1/2 cups milk alternative (or, alternatively, milk)
1/2 packet active dry yeast (1 1/8 tsp)
1/4 cup neutral oil (like canola)
1/2 tsp salt
1/2 tsp sugar
1 cup whole wheat pastry flour
1/4 cup coarsely ground flax seeds (sold as "flax meal")

Whisk all ingredients together in a bowl the night before you'd like your waffles. Cover the bowl with a dish towel, and let sit on the counter at room temperature overnight. The batter will rise and fall overnight (don't worry, it will still rise in the waffle iron). In the morning, mix again. The consistency will be somewhat thicker than a standard waffle batter. Heat a waffle iron, and grease well. Pour the batter into the hot iron (about 1/2-3/4 cup batter for a standard size iron), and cook according to manufacturer's instructions.