Oatmeal Walnut Chocolate Chip Cookies

I'm currently awash in a bit of last-minute planning and packing before I head back East. Doing a final sweep of the house, making lists, packing and unpacking and re-packing. Oh, and baking cookies.

There's nothing like Thanksgiving to get you thinking about gratitude. And there's nothing like Thanksgiving-related favors to give you something to be grateful for. I am lucky enough to have friends who will still talk to me after I, say, anxiously text dozens of photos for feedback on which combination of dress/earrings/shoes constitutes a serviceable grown-up outfit for a holiday wedding (and even forward them along to other friends for second opinions — thanks, Katie and Christi!); or require assistance navigating the consumer chaos of the mall in search of proper undergarments; or foist myself upon too-kind-to-say-no friends for a couchsurf and road trip. These are good people. And they deserve cookies.

When I head to the airport, I'll be bringing a stash of these oatmeal walnut chocolate chip cookies. These rich, nutty treats are far, far superior to their raisin-laden cousins, yet still have a slight pretension of healthiness. I love em. Sturdy enough to hold up through some cross country traveling, but tasty enough to feel like a legitimate gift. And, after all that I've received, I'd like to respond in kind. Tis the season to be thankful, after all.

Oatmeal Chocolate Chip Cookies

adapted from Portland's own The Grand Central Baking Book
yields ~3 1/2 dozen cookies

2 cups all purpose flour
1 teaspoon baking soda
3/4 teaspoon baking powder
1 teaspoon salt
1 cup (2 sticks) unsalted butter, softened to room temperature
1 cup granulated sugar
1 cup packed light brown sugar
2 eggs
2 teaspoons vanilla extract
2 3/4 cups rolled oats
1 1/4 cup chocolate chips or chunks
3/4 cup chopped walnuts

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

Measure the flour, baking soda, baking powder, and salt into a bowl and whisk to combine. Set aside.

Using a stand mixer with the paddle attachment, or a wooden spoon, beat the butter, granulated sugar, and brown sugar for a few minutes, until lighter in color and fluffy. Scrape the bottom and sides of the bowl as needed. Add the eggs and vanilla, and stir to combine. Gradually add the reserved dry ingredients, then add the oats, chocolate and walnuts, and stir until just combined.

Shape the cookies into ping-pong-sized balls, and place on the cookie sheets with some space between. Smoosh with the heel of your hand to form 1/2-inch thick disks.

Bake for 10 minutes, rotating the pans halfway through the baking time. Cook until the edges of the cookies are golden brown, but the centers appear blond and slightly underdone. Let the cookies cool slightly on the baking sheets, then transfer to racks. Enjoy right away, or pack to bring with you as gifts on your cross-country flight.

Old Nordic Cuisine

 

I am a staunch defender of the unstylish, the unhip. It's a policy born of multiple impulses. Mostly because it's just not me —I have a remarkably deaf ear to such fashions. But even if I had the leisure time/funds to pursue them, I also just happen like things a wee bit stodgy. I give an admiring thumb's up to the expertly dressed, but my heart goes out to the underdog in last year's (or, perhaps, last decade's) soft-worn standards. And so, when I heard so much abuzz in the food world over the New Nordic cuisine, my root-for-the-little-guy impulses kicked in — what about the Old Nordic?

And so I dug up some comfy old unstylish examples of Nordic cuisine. No fancy kitchen gear, no fancy foraged ingredients. Just some rye flour and root vegetables, smoked fish and brown bread. And it was great. You can read more about these recipes over at NPR's Kitchen Window.

Indian Spiced Pumpkin Seeds

Recently I provided a recipe yielding just two chocolate chip cookies, to allow some snacking within limits (when you can't trust yourself to provide them). But mostly, my dietary indulgences don't involve cookies. They involve salty snacks. And lots of them. Specifically, pumpkin seeds.

I can eat pumpkin seeds until I explode (and often have). So why did I think it was a good idea to make them even more delicious? Scratch that. This is a brilliant idea. Pumpkin seeds are roasted along with a smattering of Indian spices, like a much fresher, lively version of a Bombay hot mix. The spices play off of the seeds' deep roasty flavor, and they're savory and crunchy and taste like the best Halloween ever.

And yes, I know most of you are far, far ahead of me in your autumnal preparations, and have already carved your pumpkins. But for those who are as late to the game as I am (or, say, have carved your pumpkins but left the seeds and guts in the fridge because yeah you're going to do something with them sometime really really soon), this is for you. Happy Halloween!

Indian Spiced Pumpkin Seeds

adapted from the amazing Ruchikala, with just a bit of tweaking because I like a pre-boil and longer roast

seeds from a good-sized pumpkin, rinsed free of pumpkin guts (~1 cup)
1 hefty tablespoon high-heat oil (coconut is especially nice)
3-6 dried red chilies (depending upon your taste for heat)
3/4 teaspoon black mustard seeds
1/4 teaspoon fennel seeds
15 curry leaves (available at Indian grocery stores — I buy em up, and keep them in the freezer)
1/4 teaspoon ground turmeric
hefty pinch asafoetida (or a clove of finely minced garlic)
1/2 teaspoon ground coriander
1/2 teaspoon ground cumin
1/2 teaspoon coarse salt

Place the pumpkin seeds in a pot of water, and salt generously. Bring to a boil, then reduce heat until it's just high enough to maintain a simmer. Cook for 10 minutes.

While the seeds are simmering, preheat your oven to 400° Fahrenheit, and gather your spices — place the chilies, mustard seeds, and fennel seeds in one small dish, the curry leaves, turmeric, and asafoetida in another, and the coriander, cumin and salt in a third. Then you're ready!

When the seeds have finished simmering, pour them out into a colander to drain. Heat an oven-proof skillet over a medium-high heat. When hot, add the oil, and the first dish with the chilies, mustard seeds and fennel seeds. Cook until the mustard seeds sputter and pop — this should just take a minute or two, and you will need a lid at the read to keep them from popping right out of the pan!

After the seeds have popped, dump in your second dish, with the curry leaves, turmeric, and asafoetida (or garlic). Stir to let the spices all hit the hot oil and toast, then dump in the pumpkin seeds. Stir to coat the pumpkin seeds with the spice mixture. Cook for 1-2 more minutes, then dump in the remaining spice dish (coriander, cumin and salt). Turn off the heat, and transfer the skillet to the oven (if you don't have an oven-proof skillet, you can just pour them out onto a rimmed cookie sheet instead).

Roast, stirring occasionally, until the seeds are crisp and lightly browned, ~10—20 minutes (depending upon your skillet, seeds, personal taste, etc). Let cool, then pour into a dish and serve.

Quince Jelly

A few years ago, I asked my Basque friend what to do with quinces. They grow all over Portland (including in the yard of my next-door neighbor, who generously gave me a bagful), but seem to have limited uses. You can stew them with long-cooked meat dishes, or make jelly, or the membrillo paste so beloved as part of an Iberian cheese plate. But I was hoping for some new ideas. "Well," my friend considered, as I leaned in close to get some exciting new inspiration. "Sometimes we put them in a car. You know, to make it smell nice."

So yeah, perhaps there aren't all that many things to do with quinces. But that's okay. Because the few things that you can do? Quite delicious. A raw quince is a rock-hard lump of pale, fuzzy, astringent nastiness. But once you cook them, they slump into rose-scented, rose-hued sweetness. The perfume alone can knock you out. What more do you need?

This jelly is more of a template than a recipe. You hack up quinces, skin and seeds and all (which, in addition to saving you some hassle, contributes a dose of pectin to help the whole batch set in a firm gel). Then you strain the mush, filter it into clarity, and cook it with sugar until it's sets into a gorgeous, fragrant jelly. You can use it to top your toast, or glaze a fruit tart, or add some rosy perfume to a cheese plate. You know, to make it smell nice.

And if you're looking for an aromatic condiment of a different sort, I direct you toward a recent radio story about fish sauce. In Ancient Rome. Sadly no rosy recipes, but on the upside: pirates! You can get a listen over at NPR.

Quince Jelly

adapted from several inspirations, including Food In Jars, Simply Recipes, and Chocolate and Zucchini

quinces
lemon
sugar

Wash your quinces, rubbing off the fuzz. Then hack them into rough cubes, skin and pits and all — trim away any nasty brown or wormy bits, but beyond that it's all fair game. Toss the cubes in a large pot with enough water to cover by barely an inch or so. Bring to a boil, then reduce heat until it's just high enough to maintain a vigorous simmer. Cook until the quince bits are totally mushy-soft, and beginning to take on a rosy hue, about an hour (you can also do this in a pressure cooker).

Pour the mixture through a strainer to capture the quince cooking liquid (you can run the quince pieces themselves through a food mill, or simply compost them — they'll have given up most of their flavor to the liquid). Measure the resulting liquid, and for every quart, add the juice of a small lemon.

Pass the liquid through a single layer of cheesecloth or loose-weave dishcloth, then through a couple layers of cheesecloth (or a coffee filter), to end up with a clear pink liquid. This final straining can take a while. If you are lazy or late-starting like me, you can leave it to drip overnight, and make your jelly the next day.

When you're ready to make the jelly, pour the quince liquid into a wide-bottom pot, and add a generous 3/4 cup sugar for every cup of juice. Bring to a boil, then reduce the heat slightly to a vigorous-but-not-crazy boil. You'll need to cook the mixture down to the gel point, which should take at least a half hour and up to an hour, over which time it will thicken and darken to a ruby color, and the quince flavor will concentrate. When you think it's becoming syrupy, place a few small plates in the freezer to chill. If you want to process the jelly, prepare your jars and start a boiling water bath.

To test the jelly, drip a few drops onto a freezer-chilled plate. Let sit a minute, then push into the edge of the drop with your finger. You don't need to see a full jelly-like set, but it should just begin to wrinkle and mound ahead of your finger as you push it. When it reaches this stage, you're done! Pour into your prepared jars, seal, and process in a boiling water bath if desired. The jelly may take some time to set, but will end up fairly firm.

Two Chocolate Chip Cookies

Several years ago, I was working a boring administrative job, and would often eat my breakfast and lunch at my desk. One evening, as I was washing out my little container of cereal and half-pint jar of soymilk, I wondered — why I was going through this packaging hassle (in my dishwasher-free life)? Why not save myself the trouble? The next day, I brought along a whole box of cereal, and quart of soymilk. And proceeded to eat three complete bowls over the course of the morning. Oooh, that's why.

My measure of self-restraint has grown somewhat in the intervening decade (and is no longer compounded by a soul-killingly boring job). But still. There are times I just cannot be trusted, and some sort of rationing is definitely in my best interest. Which is why I thrilled to see a recipe that yields just two chocolate chip cookies.

Make no mistake, these are nice, hefty cookies — two will more than satisfy. And they are great examples of the genre, crisp and golden on the edges, gooey and yielding on the insides. Yes, it's a bit of a waste to turn on the oven for just two cookies. But c'mon, we know they're at their best in a just-baked state anyways. And if your must-eat-all-the-foods instincts kick in, well, there's really not much harm done.

Two Chocolate Chip Cookies

from the mad genius over at No. 2 Pencil
yields, well, you know

2 tablespoons of butter, softened to room temperature
2 tablespoons dark brown sugar
1 tablespoon sugar
hefty pinch of kosher salt (smoked salt, if you've got it, is also nice)
¼ teaspoon vanilla extract
1 egg yolk
¼ cup flour

1 hefty pinch baking soda

3 heaping tablespoons chocolate chips or chopped chocolate

Preheat oven to 350° Fahrenheit, and line a baking sheet with parchment paper or grease it well.

In a small bowl, blend the butter with the sugars, salt and vanilla until well combined. Add the yolk and mix again, then stir in the flour and baking soda, then the chocolate.

Form into two balls, and place on the prepared baking sheet (they'll spread quite a bit, so place accordingly — you can chill the dough a bit if you want the cookies to be thicker). Bake until the edges are brown, ~8 minutes. Remove, and give the bake sheet a nice sold rap on the countertop, deflating the cookies. Let cool slightly, and enjoy.

Chanterelle Chowder

I have been a good forager (or, if you will, scrounger) since an early age, impressing my fellow elementary schoolers with my ability to identify (and consume) onion grass on the playground. Or perhaps they weren't really all that impressed. Regardless, I love me a good free-growing meal. And such meals are easy to find here in Oregon, where persimmons, pears, figs and grapes can all be found within a single city block. But I must make a confession: when it comes to mushrooms, I stick to the markets.

I know, I know, that identifying mushrooms can be safely done with a wee bit of training, and a false morel doesn't really look much like its non-toxic cousin. But still. It'd be hard to tell the difference between the I-just-poisoned-myself-with-toxic-mushrooms stomachache, and the I'm-nervous-that-I-just-poisoned-myself-with-toxic-mushrooms stomachache. As someone who manages to spectacularly injure herself on a fairly regular basis (and is still waiting out the scabs from steering a bicycle directly into the lightrail tracks), I'm content to sacrifice my Northwesty cred and forgo the mushroom foraging trips. Which is something of a bummer, as I do love mushrooms. Well, mostly I love chanterelles.

These trumpet-shaped golden mushrooms are Oregon's crowning glory, poking through the pine needles as the rains roll in. But luckily, even at the grocery store they're not prohibitively expensive, especially now during high season. And a little goes a long way. Especially when you stir them into a rich autumn chowder.

This chanterelle chowder is fall perfection. Just a simple base of leeks and fennel, with a shot of booze and thyme and comforting glug of cream. But mostly, it's all about the chanterelles. And they do not disappoint. Meaty and rich, yet delicately tender. Even if you didn't pick them yourself.

And speaking of harvesting the fruits of the Northwest, I recently looked into the agricultural labor shortages that have been plaguing the region (and the country). You can hear my story about Northwest pears harvesters over at NPR.

Chanterelle Chowder

Inspired by the chanterelle chowder with bacon and corn on Not Without Salt, but, as you can tell by the absence of two of the three titular ingredients, tweaked a good bit.
serves ~6

2 tablespoons butter
1 large leek, sliced and washed

1 bulb fennel, finely diced

3 garlic cloves, sliced

1 scant teaspoon fresh thyme leaves

~2 cups chanterelle mushrooms, cleaned and torn into bite-sized pieces

1/2 cup sherry or white wine

2 1/2 cups broth

1 large yellow potato, cut into a 1/2-inch dice (swapping celery root would also be nice)

3/4 cup cream

salt and pepper

fresh lemon juice and fresh dill fronds for serving

Heat a soup pot over a medium heat, and melt the butter. Add the leeks and a pinch of salt, simmer for about 5 minutes until starting to soften, then add the fennel and garlic, and saute a few minutes more, until everything is well softened.

Turn up the heat to medium-high, and add the thyme and chanterelle. Cook until the liquid comes out and cooks off, and the mushrooms caramelize in parts, ~5-7 minutes. Add the sherry or wine, simmer a minute to cook off the alcohol, then add the stock and potato. Bring to a simmer, and cook until the potatoes are tender, ~15 minutes.

When the soup is done, add the cream, let heat through, and turn off the heat. Season to taste with salt and pepper. Serve, topping each portion with a squeeze of lemon to brighten the flavors, and a few fronds of fresh dill.

Eggplant Involtini

Having lived for years with someone who is lactose intolerant, I have a ridiculously low bar for excitement when it comes to dairy products. If a caterer lays out a boring old tray of econo-cheddar and crackers at a reception, my heart thrills. I recently attended a weekend full of gourmet food of all sorts, but what I remember more than anything is a simple buttery grilled cheese. It's possible I have a problem.

But I would wager that, despite the extenuating circumstances, my fascination is not all that unique. Because cheese? It is really, really good. And even though it's not usually put at the top of such lists, I'd argue that ricotta — good ricotta — is one of the best cheeses of all. And when that ricotta is wrapped in fried eggplant and baked in tomato sauce, well...

I had been lusting over this recipe for a while, and it seemed like the perfect time to give it a try. The last of the summer eggplants and tomatoes are still in the markets, and the rising autumnal chill calls out for just this sort of oven-baked, cheesy warmth (as making a long-baked dish is my favorite tactic for delaying turning on the furnace). I had my doubts about the lemon juice and zest— would it destroy the cheesy comfort with its sourness? But really, it's just perfect. There's no sourness, just a fresh flavor, that's a lovely match for the long-cooked tomato sauce and caramelized eggplant. And, of course, the cheese.

Eggplant Involtini

adapted from Tartine Bread
serves ~6 (~18 rolls)

2 globe eggplants
coarse salt
oil for frying (they recommend olive oil, but for those with tighter budgets, any other high-heat oil, or a mix of that and olive oil, will be fine)

2 cups whole milk ricotta
~1/3 cup dry, unseasoned breadcrumbs
juice and zest of 1 lemon
1 teaspoon fresh thyme leaves
1/2 teaspoon coarse salt

~ 2 cups tomato sauce (I used the late great Marcella Hazan's tomato butter sauce)
~1/4 cup heavy cream
Parmesan (or a similar cheese) for serving

Slice the eggplant, using a mandoline or a sharp knife, the long way into 1/4-inch planks. Layer in a colander, salting generously with coarse salt between the layers. Let sit at least an hour, then give a good press to push out the liquid. Blot dry.

Pour about an inch of oil into a heavy skillet, and heat to temperature over a medium-high heat (if you have a thermometer, you want it to read 360° Fahrenheit). Fry the eggplant slices (without crowding the pan), until they begin to color, ~3-4 minutes. Remove the slices with tongs, and set on a paper-lined plate or a rack/colander to drain. Repeat with the remaining eggplant (if desired, you can do this step a day in advance). If the slices crisp up a bit, you can put them in a covered container, and they'll soften back up (another reason cooking them in advance works beautifully).

When all of the eggplant has been fried, heat the oven to 425° Fahrenheit. In a bowl, mix together the ricotta, breadcrumbs, lemon juice and zest, thyme and salt. Taste and adjust seasoning as needed.

To assemble the casserole, pour the tomato sauce down on the bottom of a mid-sized casserole dish (or a couple small ones). Take a slice of the fried eggplant, and place a lump of filling at the wide end (~1-2 tablespoons, depending on the size of your eggplant), and roll it up. Place in the casserole dish, seam side down. Repeat with the remaining eggplant and filling. When you're finished, pour a bit of cream over each of the rolls to moisten (it's fine if it runs into the sauce).

Bake, uncovered, until the sauce cooks down around the edges of the pan, and the rolls darken a bit, ~20—25 minutes. Serve warm, with a grating of cheese over the top.