she craves

Pandoro French Toast for Christmas

Most people - myself included - have one or two dishes that they hold close to their hearts. These dishes are considered the markers of big events like family gatherings, post-recital dinners or holidays.

For my folks, there's nothing more indicative of their successful American dream like a steak dinner (at a screaming good value, even better if a salad bar is included). Nothing screams Dickensian holiday like roast beef and a tray of steaming hot, bouffant Yorkshire pudding. Serial dieters dream of their first taste of cheesecake.

My special occasion dish - French toast.

Egg Muffins (Not the Golden Arches Kind)

Three things make me unapologetically American: 1.) Blue jeans. I would wear them anywhere and everywhere. 2.) Cars. Public transport around a cool city is great. But I would be lying if I said I didn't love the fact that I have my car around a city that has only recently realized the importance of public transport. Not to mention, my occasional wanderlust and restrictive budget make a certain type of impromptu travel a must. Viva el road trip!

And 3.) I. Love. Breakfast. Not a pastry and shot of espresso. Not a meal replacement shake in a can. Give me the hearty, the protein-laden, the hot. I want a proper breakfast. 

Breaking the fast is something I take seriously. Folks who know me know that the term "hangry" applies to me. 

"Hungry" + "Angry" = "Hangry" = Vanessa without meals

I've never understood those who claim who "forget to eat." How the hell do you forget that your stomach is eating itself and making uncomfortably loud noises among polite company? It has been, after all, approximately 8-10 hours between dinner and the morning. It's time to eat. So eat these.

The Perfect Poach According to Bon Appetit Magazine

Thomas Keller of French Laundry and Per Se acclaim offers up one way for the Perfect Poached Egg. And for the love of God, do not hard boil the yolk. If you do, Thomas Keller will come to your house and sucker punch you. True story.

Hurray for Lazy Sundays: An Omelet and a Stack of Pancakes

It's a bittersweet thought. The sheer pleasure of lazy Sunday mornings. So lazy that the morning seeps into the afternoon. Pajamas are suitable all-day attire. The paper or an unfinished book must be finished, with each page savored. There's always a pot of coffee or tea ready to be poured. And perhaps most importantly, breakfast can be served at any time of the day.

It's a bittersweet thought, that this feast of an omelet and a stack of homemade pancakes, this joy (like so many other sources of joy) is a luxury nowadays. It is rare, which makes its occurrence so sweet, like the appearance of the first strawberry blossoms on a long-given up plant or finding or the weekday cocktail before you even think about dinner.

Pandoro French Toast

Most people - myself included - have one or two dishes that they hold close to their hearts. These dishes are considered the markers of big events like family gatherings, post-recital dinners or holidays.

For my folks, there's nothing more indicative of their successful American dream like a steak dinner (at a screaming good value, even better if a salad bar is included). Nothing screams Dickensian holiday like roast beef and a tray of steaming hot, bouffant Yorkshire pudding. Serial dieters dream of their first taste of cheesecake.

My special occasion dish - French toast. Mom was always magical with a toaster, margarine and her cinnamon sugar. But rare was the morning when the smells of eggy batter and sauteeing butter would lull me away from Saturday morning cartoons.

Cooking for myself I've revisited dishes my mom used to make, things that have caught my eye and ego and things that I wished I had enjoyed more. It wasn't until I was an adult did I truly understand the joys of French toast. Especially when it's made from leftover holiday bread like say, an Italian Pandoro. Hey, you never know.

German Pancake

Cooking while in your pajamas is something we should at some point in our lives all experience. The reason you're even in your pajamas should be one of ease and leisure. A Sunday morning sleep-in. Or any day off.

During the freelance life, I learned to make the most of my flexible mornings, planning a bit of coffee, a bit of work, a workout and then a langurous morning meal to enjoy while multitasking with my Google dashboard.

Then it was good. But if you observe what I've heard referred to as a "tech sabbath," it's even better. The digital radio is just fine to catch up on podcasts or "Weekend Edition on NPR." The only multitasking you should be doing is minding the first batch of coffee and the German Pancake batter that will go along with that sweet, sweet caffeine.

Some people call it Dutch Baby. Others swear to God it isn't anything more than a less-beefy Yorkshire Pudding. I'm happy to stay out of the debate for the sake of just enjoying the damn, blessed thing. For all the dramatic height you achieve in presentation, there's relatively little work. A little flour, eggs and milk mingle with hot fat from a hot pan heating in a hot oven the chemistry does the rest to give pancake it's bouffant.

Maple syrup is always good. Butter would be overkill. For something really different (for those who insist on slathering dairy somewhere in the equation), I love creme fraiche and a good dousing of Lyle's Golden Syrup -- a sugar can syrup that's intensely sweet with an echo of molasses. I acquired a bottle to replace corn syrup I've seen in some confection recipes and let me tell you that the golden syrup does a wonderful job.

GERMAN PANCAKE FOR A LAZY MORNING

You can make this for one in individual ramekins. You can serve a brood if made in a large Pyrex glass or ceramic lasagna/baking dish. For two, I used my little red ceramic gratin. Actually, I made two batches in the little dish. Once we polished off the first round, there was batter left for another batch and we couldn't find a reason why to deny the runny batter it's proper, full life as the big steamy pocket of morning glory.

1 cup all-purpose flour, sifted * 1 tablespoon sugar * 1/2 teaspoon salt * 1 tablespoon melted unsalted butter * 1 cup milk * 2 eggs * butter for coating

Preheat the oven to 425 degrees with your baking container in it. Use 8 ramekins, a large Pyrex or ceramic baking dish or make a couple of batches from a small gratin dish. Be sure to have a pat or two of butter in the dish heating up with the container.

Combine the dry ingredients in a medium mixing bowl. In a small bowl or measuring cup combine the butter, milk, and eggs. Pour this mixture into the dry ingredients and whisk together until the batter is smooth. If there are a few lumps, you probably didn't sift. And that's okay. It'll still taste good. [This whole step can be done in the blender, too.]

Remove the heated container(s) from the oven and pour the batter directly in. The batter should come up no more than 2/3 to the rim of the container, whatever it is. Plop it back into the oven and reduce the heat to 400 degrees. Keep the door closed -- as tempting as it is to spy on the chemistry in action -- you want the temperature to be stable for the sheer volume last seen on '80s hair bands. This recipe is far more tasteful ...

Bake for 15 to 20 minutes for a small gratin dish, about 10 to 15 for muffin tins and up to 35 minutes for a larger dish. Remove from oven and serve immediately with maple syrup or Lyle's Golden Syrup and creme fraiche. Great with salty pork like bacon or sausages.

Tropical Banana Bread

[As seen at the SLC Share Our Strength Bake Sale.]

Banana bread and I have had a tumultuous past. On the few occasions my mom broke out the Betty Crocker quick bread box, I experienced the sweet, downright intoxicating smells of bananas (pre-mashed in a pouch). Eating was more of an obligatory ritual. The Country Crock spread slathered liberally over the too-moist, rubbery slice.

Even now in life, the supermarket versions are rarely up to snuff. Banana bread to me is what my Mormon friend says coffee is to her. She LOVES the aroma. Hates the taste.

Soft-Boiled Egg & Buttered Toast

This is what I dream of weekday mornings when I'm half-listening to NPR in the car.

It's also what comes to mind when I'm sipping coffee in front of my computer, procrastinating before a deadline. (At least I'm sitting in front of my computer. Technically, my fingers are on the keys.)

This is what I dream of when I'm missing breakfast for the umpteenth morning.

This is why I buy those local, free-range, organic eggs that cost me more than the anonymous dozen that line the supermarket's refrigerated wall.

I'm not trying to be smug. I'm just trying to feed myself.

Something good. Something really worth savoring on the mornings I'm not commuting, loading up on caffeine or stressing about work.

Is worth my money? Is it worth my 8 minutes to mind the water as it gently boils and to add that precious egg? To mend the toast slices with soft butter? To pinch more salt than I will ever need for one precious egg. To plate, serve and clean up after just one person?

I'll get back to you on that ...

First, I have an egg to enjoy on a blessed quiet morning.
 

Tarte Tatin with A Cheddar Accent

Nothing against apple pie, but alone, it never quite cut it for it me. Oh I admire the pairing of crust and fruit and the middle ground of spiced juices that cools into a goo that, when done well, is quite heavenly. But more often than not, the bottom crusts turn out as appealing thickly-spread wallpaper glue and the fruit tastes more of the sugar jar than of the tree and the sun that babied it into existence. And if there were a top crust? That's a whole other story. You don't want to get me started.

Therein lies the appeal to the classic tarte tatin. It's one of those cases where things in another language — especially French — immediately sound more appealing, sophisticated and delicious.

Boeuf bourguignon = red wine beef stew

Sole Meuniere = Sauteed Sole in Butter

[and my favorite ...]

Tarte Tatin = Upside-down apple tart

But there really is no translation for what I ever so monstrously created over the weekend. As usual, it started with a craving. Combined with the task of bringing dessert to a gathering, it required accessible ingredients, fairly forgivable methodology and something easily shared with a crowd. I craved apples an that made me think of cheese. Something exceptionally sharp. Maybe made by someone who loved their cows as much as they loved profit. I craved apples they way one does when images of bronzed, caramelized slices appear in mind and trigger borderline vulgar reactions from smacking lips, excessive drool and rumbling stomachs.

Thus, by way of France, England, Vermont and many points in between (not least of which my Utah kitchen) — Tarte Tatin, with a Cheddar Accent.

Breakfast for Lunch

Try as I might, I am not a morning person. I am known to abuse the alarm, both verbally and physically. My brain doesn't quite work so making a decision such as which fiber-loaded rational cereal should I have for breakfast is on par with should I choose the blue pill or the red one? For the first few minutes of being awake, the coffeemaker is my only friend in the world.

Still, I am a fan of large breakfasts. Starch. Protein. More starch. Cups of coffee. Hard to achieve when you've got a late start and loads of work to do. Even harder when you've procrastinated in your workout clothes, determined (half-assed) to do the next series of weight training and plyometrics.

Solution: Breakfast for lunch.

Breakfast of Champions with a Friend

On the menu: Lemon-Ricotta pancakes * Tomato-Bacon Hash * Chicken-Apple Sausages * Fruit Salad

Nine a.m. Okay, maybe 10. We've established that I'm not a morning person. A groggy Sunday morning and the luxury of lingering in bed. It lasts as long as a rumble in the belly. Hunger sets in and comes the proverbial Sunday morning question: what to eat for brunch? It nags me once a week like clockwork. And it nags my friends, too. We're champion brunch-goers. We've been to pretty much every venue in town that offers scrambled eggs of various quality, stacks of pancakes gluey or perfect, and coffee weak as dishwater or thick as mud. Our options were close to up and the idea of waiting in a crowded front room and fighting for a bitchy waiters' attention wasn't as good as staying in bed. In fact, "staying in" sounded perfect.

But what would I eat? That would be up to me, the kitchen, and my friend, Amber.

Mangoes for a New Beginning

If I could eat this for breakfast everyday...

Truth be told, I never thought much of July 4th. There were the things we were taught about in school a month before we were let go to our lazy days of scorching heat, family barbecues, and endless nights of popsicles and bicycle rides. But I'll profess a new affinity for Independence Day, because I'm celebrating a bit of my own.

I quit my job. Left the banker's hours in a bland office for a year's worth of dream chasing. What's in store? Beats me. But that's a lot more appealing than the thought of half-assing the rest of my career. I decided on this Office Space inspired moment running through rows of Pinot Noir vines. Buzzed from several glasses of Jeriko Brut and Rosé, it dawned on me through the new summer leaves. A chance to take a break from others' expectations and catch up to my own. To geek out as much as I want to on food and wine. To become a more well-rounded person. And, of course, to attend to dear old blog. Won't be the year to get rich. But it'll be the year where I get to like myself a lot more.

 

 

So on this, my morning of Independence, I savor the taste of freedom. One fresh Manila mango, cut into filets the size of my hand, scored and pushed to reveal juicy little cubes, like some surreal little hedgehog. The mango that I picked up the day before at the Mexican market on an impromptu trip. I had a little time on my hands. As you can gather from the picture, it was juicy. And I can tell you the flavor was sweet. But then again, it could've been that new-found indepdence thing.

Baked Rhubarb with Ginger

Rise and shine sourly. That's my unspoken morning motto. I'm not a morning person. Though I often pretend/try to be. Pretend because morning-people seem a happier lot. They get more done. Walk the dog before the parade of rush hour traffic threatens the route. Soak in that special sunshine I've only managed to glimpse after an all-nighter (studying or partying, I leave that to your judgement of me).

But try as I might, very few things, let alone two alarms—a Zen chime alarm for my chi and a cell phone trill for my lazy ass—manage to get me out of bed. Food, though, seems to work. Typical. Brunch is a no-brainer. I get my sleep and a reason to stuff myself with some of my favorite foods. But during the weekday, it's a bit more difficult. I need to look forward to sustenance that's quick and what I crave. And, yes, even healthy. I consider it my redemption for not getting up when I was supposed to and going to the gym.

One Toaster. One Burner. Just One Breakfast.

If you've read a few posts, it's pretty obvious that I live with roommates. Roommates who aren't the best at cleaning. And I don't mean to imply that it's the only trait necessary to join the "great human being" club. But it helps when all you want is a proper breakfast before leaving for work. It's a little disheartening to wake up to a leaning tower of dishes, counters crowded with pizza boxes, groceries yet to be put away, and stray beer bottles. Cooking in something like this is like trying to juice a cold lime. I yield very little.

Angry Crabs and Golden Crescents

grrrrrr

I've always had this habit of playing with my food. Oh, it was never a question of whether I would eat it—not a bite would be left on my very large plate. But not until I had constructed a reality for the portrait in  the mashed potatoes. A purpose for the impromptu puddy of pulverized short-grain rice between my fingers. And even in adult life, a sub-conscious Freudian slip at the table, involving a slice of raspberry cheesecake eaten down to a solitary tower and flanked by two rosettes of whipped cream.

More recently though, a trip to the patisserie sparked the latest inspiration for mental play. The kind that you reserve for gazing at the clouds and sky. A phalanx of petite croissants four deep in the case stared me down with their buttery sheen.