The day before our holiday party it was 65° in D.C. and I thought to myself, if the weather’s going to be this ridiculous, there is no way in hell I’m serving a hot drink. Of course, as it turns out the weather WAS ridiculous, but on the other end of the temperature spectrum… to the point where our favorite Australian parked himself next to the stove and refused to move.

So, a good thing that I had been mulling (har, har) a hot spiced cider and, more importantly, that  Mr. T was gracious enough to trot off to the market and pick up a few gallons at the last minute. The cider must have been good too, because even with the chilly weather, I was surpised at how quickly it got sucked down.

On reflection, though, the cider did have some seriously winning charms–sweet but not cloying, with a pronounced apple-y flavor and a tingle of warm Christmassy spice. It was even better with a judicious splash of spirit (the bottle kind, not the pep rally kind…).

I kept the cider pot virgin but parked a bottle of rum next to the stove and let people mix to their heart’s desire. I think this is considerate of the drinkers as well as the teetotalers… who wants to see good alcohol just evaporate anyway? Of course, I caught one discerning friend who knows his way around our liquor cabinet mixing his cider with rye whiskey instead, and frankly that sounds like an even better idea than the rum.

No matter what booze you choose, though, I’ve found that the key to success with mulled cider is the exact opposite of the secret to mulled wine. For the latter, the answer is sugar, a TON of sugar. When wine is heated–particularly the less-than-stellar vintages used for mulling–all those bitter notes come to the fore and thin everything out. A ridiculous amout of sugar is needed to smooth things over and round out the mouthfeel.

Sweet cider, though, needs no more sugar. In fact, in addition to the usual festive spices, it needs something bitter and tannic to give it backbone. The answer? The blackest, baddest, most powerful tea you can get your hands on. We’re talking paint-thinner tea, here. Fortunately, I live with an Englishman, and we are never without some ridiculously strong tea. So into the spice pot went 6 sachets of Yorkshire tea, and while it made the spice concentrate a chokingly bitter mess, it was just the thing when combined with the cider and hotted up a bit.

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I can’t quite face the backed-up sink and the wet “squish” noise the garbage disposal button is making right now (though I suppose I’ve not been electrocuted, so THAT’S good news…). Thus, I’m going to share one of my favorite holiday treats instead.
These sugared walnuts made their annual appearance on Christmas Eve, which we spent at my aunt and uncle’s house. There was always a broad array of tempting sweets, from iced sugar cookies to delicately twisted kringla, fragrant with cardamom. I always partook of these other offerings, but I was really there for the walnuts.

I can’t quite express to you how good they are… the contrast between the meaty, slightly bitter walnuts and their creamy, sugary cloaks pretty much makes for the most addicting thing ever. Just thinking about them makes my eyes roll back in my head a little.

What’s more, they’re kind of unpreposessing to look at, so they’re easily missed on the dessert table. I made them for our holiday party and had to point them out to a few select people–who agreed with me on their superlative tastiness: “Oh my god, I’m so glad you didn’t tell me about these earlier. They’re SO GOOD.”

Also: yes, this has demon corn syrup in it; and yes, unless you want to mess around with little plates of half-congealed sugar, you need a candy thermometer. Blah blah blah, whatever. You really should have the latter, and you just need to get over the former. It’s not like we’re making IV drip bags of double-strength Kool-Aid for preschoolers. Ok, objections dealt with. Let’s get on to the deliciousness…

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I came across this tantalizing English pudding recipe ages ago whilst perusing The Kitchn, and immediately put it on my to-do list… where it promptly langished for nearly a year.

Embarassing, since I actually own a copy of Jane Grigson‘s “Good Things”, in which the recipe first appeared, as well as a shame, really, since anything with such an august pedigree is bound to be good.

Moreover it involves lemon and gelatin, two of Mr. T’s absolute favorite things. I’d like to think that my tendency to be slightly sneer-y when it comes to Jell-O type things did not contribute to the lag time, but it probably did.

Although, having made it, I can say with complete confidence that no one could think for a second that this deliciously lemony whimsy came from a packet.

It does, however, bear more than a passing resemblance to the Jell-O 1-2-3 desserts of my childhood. Well, not MY childhood, but you get the idea. A thin layer of tart lemony jelly is topped by a foamy, chiffon-y, lemon mousse that crackles pleasantly in the mouth–a perfect textural compliment to its sprightly tartness.

And, since this is do-ahead and pretties up well in individual glasses, it’s a perfect ending to any big holiday meal–bright in flavor, light in texture, but still indulgently festive.

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American sandwich bread is gross. One look at the ingredients will tell you why, and it’s usually number three on the list. No, it’s not the random chemicals and preservatives–though we do not approve of them either–but the sugar. Or, in most cases, the high fructose corn syrup. These suspect loaves could, however, be sweetened with cane sugar and I’d still be up in arms.

REAL basic bread, like from a bakery and not the “bread” aisle, does not have sugar in it. You can taste the difference. Mr. T, with his refined European palate (or, really, his hate of sweet where there should be none) was quick to point this out when we first began to cohabitate, and shopping habits were adjusted accordingly.

While we usually have some bagged bread on hand in the refrigerator in case of a toast emergency (if you’ve ever lived with someone from the UK, you’ll know that toast emergencies are SERIOUS crises), it’ll have no sugar in it. Hard to find? Mais oui, even at Whole Foods.

In any event, though, that the majority of our bread is of the bakery variety–much, much tastier, but also quicker to go stale. I suspect that the sweetness, or lack thereof, has something to do with this. Sugar, being hygroscopic, holds onto moisture, so sweeter bread probably helps bread stay softer, longer. See also: gross chemical preservatives.

So, what to do with all that good, expensive bread that’s gone stale? (This is what’s called “burying the lede, kiddies.) Call forth your inner thrifty French housewife and make breadcrumbs! This is very exciting for your inner thrifty French housewife, because she loves to gratinee things, bind things, and generally improve whatever it is she’s making with the crunchifying, stickifying power of the breadcrumb.

Thanks to our habit of having decent bread in the house, I now also have a nice big zip-t0p bag full of breadcrumbs in the freezer. Whenever I find a rock-hard bit of baguette or somesuch loitering around the kitchen, I just chop it up, whizz it in the food processor, and add it to the bag. I dip in surprisingly often, sifting bigger crumbs to top casseroles or gratins, and the finer bits to stick meatballs or meatloaf together.

Viva la breadcrumb!

Last Saturday as I sklathed myself around the apartment fighting the tail end of a sinus cold, Mr. T decided to jaunt off to the 14th & U Street Farmers’ Market for a few provisions. While he can always be counted on to buy tomatoes, peaches, and bread, he’s also quite adept with more imaginative purchases.

No surprise really. As he’s fond of pointing out, Mr T. possesses a vast theoretical knowledge of food, garnered from a lifetime of discriminating dining, and–of course–10 years in the immediate impact zone of a certain culinary tornado. So, when he recognized the vibrantly striped cranberry beans at the market as the key ingredient to a tasty Turkish mezze, he scooped a big bag up and brought them back as a special treat/challenge.

The cranberry beans–aka Roman beans, aka barbunya–are gently stewed in olive oil and tomato to make a really tasty topping for bread or crackers: tender beans in a clingy, tomato-y sauce. I have to admit that I was taken aback by how tasty this was for all its simplicity. The long cooking reduces the tomatoes and onions to a rich, deeply flavorful sauce punctuated by sweet carrots and tender, substatial beans. Though I liked it warm, Mr T says it’s traditonally served cold, so I’m going to split the difference and recommend it at room temperature.

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Ok, so this isn’t so much a menu as it is me telling you to make this ribollita for dinner, like, STAT. It’s easy, healthy, makes a ton, and is SO delicious you won’t mind eating it for a a few days. I certainly didn’t, and neither did Mr. T, who is kind of too good for leftovers most of the time… and he doesn’t even pick the carrots of of it and leave them in a sad little heap like he usually does. High praise indeed for a simple peasant soup.

Since this is really one of those chop-dump-simmer, meal-in-a-bowl type soups, there’s really not much else one needs to round it out. But, since it’s so easy, I’mma tell you to whip up a little batch of gingerbread too, while you’re at it.

Menu Monday: Ribollita & Gingerbread for a Chilly Fall Night

Ribollita
Ok, so I’ve already extolled the virtues of this extensively. It is a great soup. Key players: pork, kale, beans, stale bread. Other than that, whatever. Change up the veggies, mess with the herbs. It’ll come out great. Do also, however, hold onto your parmesan rinds. They DO make a big difference, particularly over a few days of reheating. Which brings me to my final note… this is delicious right when it’s done, but even better on day two. So, if you can bring yourself to start your Menu Monday cooking on Sunday afternoon, you’ll be amply rewarded.

Moosehead Gingerbread
And if you’re soup is already made on Monday, WELL THEN, it’s time to whip up a bit of cake. This is a dusky, spicy, pungent gingerbread. Very adult, and so, so tingly-good. This is the only reason I have EVER purchased coffee at Starbucks–not to go with, but in. The flavors develop over time, so it will be spicier on day two. Great eaten out of hand as a snack, with a little whipped cream or ice cream it’s absolutely the last word on late autumn desserts.

Ok, so: eggplant. Such an unappealing name for what, ultimately, is quite the delicious team player. Of course, it’s not helpful at all that many people’s first introduction to the fruit is eggplant Parmesan–decidedly not the vehicle to play up its finer characteristics. So often the dish ends up a heap of wan, bitter, grease-sodden cutlets dribbled with indifferent marinara and glued together with industrial adhesives (er, “mozzarella”), that most eggplant parm qualifies as a UNESCO food crime. We shall, however, overcome.

Before we get any further, though, a note on purchasing eggplants–particularly of the common purple variety. First up, we want heavy, unblemished fruit (they’re actually berries–who knew?!) with taut, shiny skins. All those things being equal, you’ll then want to reach for a boy eggplant–you can sex your eggplant by looking at its belly button. Boy eggplants have small, round belly buttons and fewer seeds, which makes them less bitter, allegedly. Girl eggplants, with their larger, oval belly buttons and abundance of seeds are supposed to be more bitter. I’ve never really been bothered by bitter eggplant, though, so I’m just propagating this fairly tale to irritate anyone uptight enough to huffily draw broader conclusions of produce aisle gender inequity. I figure they deserve it.

Ok, so questionable folk food science aside, the major problem here is fighting against eggplant’s inherent sponginess. No amount of breading, begging, or bleeding (the whole slice/salt/sit/rinse palaver) will change the eggplant’s propensity to suck up whatever liquid you pitch at it. And, while it is possible to do nice things with eggplant and oil, it’s always going to be a lot of mess and effort. Frankly, I’d rather save my kitchen OCD for more rewarding challenges.

SO! We get around this by overwhelming the sponge with forceful application of really wet or really dry heat. In the first, we want to stew the eggplant into, well not oblivion, but close. Lengthy cooking in abundant liquid allows absorption of flavors and a relaxation of texture that’s light years away from the leathery eggplant of cafeteria parm. My friend the Persian Princess produces divine dips that are basically onion, garlic, and eggplant, cooked low and slow into silky submission. Similarly, my ratatouille is–if I do say so myself–a radiant example of eggplant at its hearty, toothsome, yielding best.

In the second, I like to char the bejeebers out of the whole eggplant on the grill stovetop (gas, natch) and then throw them in a hot oven to cook through.  There’s enough water already in ‘em, you see, so that holding them over a violent fire doesn’t do a whole lot of damage. Instead, it just kickstarts the cooking process and adds a smoky depth of flavor unobtainable by other means.

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Ok, so not so much the cat’s meow as its tongue. Actually, both. These delightful little cookies are fabulous in their crispy, salty-sweet and buttery, decadent Frenchiness. Thus, they’re a most fitting accompaniment to a chocolate pot de creme, but they’re also tremendously useful at dressing up a dessert of store-bought ice cream–and that’s generally how I serve them.

This recipe is a back-hacked version of the divine Clotilde Dusoulier’s, mistress of the wonderful Chocolate & Zucchini. She presented a green tea version several years ago and I was captivated with the idea–though much less with the whole green tea aspect. I’ve been burned too many times by gakkily bitter green tea-flavored sweets to be that into such a thing. Dropped back to it’s ur-version–flecked through with fragrant vanilla bean, though, and we’ve got something special.

Of course, having just poo-poo’d the green tea variation, I now have to admit that the possibilities really are endless: flavor the batter with a bit of cocoa, or orange zest or praline paste; or sandwich them with a bit of melted chocolate for a Pepperidge Farm-spanking Milano; or sprinkle them with black sesame for an elegantly Asian flavor… you get the idea.

Apart from the hour needed to chill the batter, these are quick and fun to make as well. The ones pictured were squeezed directly from a zip-top bag. If you use an actual piping bag and an actual tip, yours will have perfectly even margins. (Mine usually do too; I don’t know WHAT came over me…)

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