Should We Show and Tell?

Question of the Day: Should I write about what happens in pastry class?


Answer: I've chewed on it. After all, we've had a marvelous week thanks in part to a visiting top French pastry chef from Canada. In one afternoon he demonstrated several classics - pithivier (my version above), Naopoleons, turnovers, bouchees, vol-au-vents and tart tatin, as if they were no more difficult than peeling an apple.

This congenial chef and I exchanged pleasantries several times (me attempting petite French phrases), and I mentioned Kathleen Flinn's book "The Sharper Your Knives, the Less You Cry." It's about her love, laughter and tears while attending the palace of all culinary arts, the Le Cordon Bleu in Paris. The chef knew all about the book, and he asked me if I was blogging about my own adventures in butter, cream and sugar.

"Non," said I, because I have to keep my two worlds separate (or at least not incur any front-office heat while grades are still to be made).

The chef asked if I planned to write a book when I'm finished with classes. I shook my head. Kathleen's done it and done it so well that it would be a weak attempt on my part to add royal icing on top of fondant. Pourquois?

What happens in class is quite similar to the workplace, with a few twists. For example, I've had my share of verbal lashings in Cube City and kept them covered up on the inside. In a pastry kitchen, those wounds are usually visible. Last week I had no less than 5 blue bandages on my hands and arms, from lifting racks out of ovens set at 500 degrees. Bump your bare skin even for a moment, and its burns.

In the Cube you have deadlines - in pastry, same. You must stay on top of the clock.

At least in the kitchen, you can be master of your own success. Where in Cube City you may arrive at decisions by committee, your productivity hampered by the speed of others, or heaven help you, The Client, in the kitchen your progress is in your two hands.

Mistakes happen in both places, but if you drop a report on the floor, you don't have to rebake it. Get a grip and keep it at all times. Remember to breathe, the chef tells us. Relax.

I do enjoy the tangible reward at the end of the day; you don't always get one of those in the workplace. See that pithivier above? We taste it. We taste everything. Our visiting chef's tart tatin was a brilliant marriage of Granny Smith apples and vanilla essence.

Non, I cannot talk about what happens in class. My mouth is closed when I'm chewing.

Celery Garnish Gone Bad

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You know it's been a long weekend when I ask for the manager over a stalk of celery. The photo doesn't show you just how slimy the leaves of the celery were, but that's not what first caught my eye while dining at the airport in Nashville. Who can't miss the fact that the stalk is twice as big as the glass itself, threatening to topple it? Normally you just grab the celery and heave it sideways, but the slime leaves stopped me cold. When we pulled the celery out of the glass, it was spoiled on the bottom, too. Slimy on the top, spoiled on the bottom. This garnish should never have been presented to a customer.

All right all right, so I've had a little too much training now in prevention of food spoilage as part of my "controlling foodservice costs" class. But seriously, you can't let a little thing like rubbish slip by. I asked for the manager and was told "the manager is managing other restaurants right now." Oh really. Then whom can I speak with?

The staff sent over the bartender, poor guy. Turns out he was only a server, filling in for the bartender, who had broken her leg. OK OK, that backed me down a bit, so I merely suggested  a) leave the stalk out if it's spoiled or b) at least trim it down to size and of any slimy leaves/stem. I was nice about it. I simply asked him to remove it from my presence. He was not publicly redressed and no one got hurt. Flights took off on schedule.

I realize airport restaurants have weary travelers at their mercy. What's the chance they'll see you again due to a good or bad experience? They deal in volume, and they'll always have it. Still, I hope the server thinks twice over my small complaint. I hope the other server who brought the drink will watch the garnish next time. When you're paying $8 for a simple Bloody Mary, the least you can hope for is a fine green stalk and 3 olives.

Mind the Manners

This summer the ladies and I hoofed it to the Dallas Arboretum for time with the flowers. While strolling along, a friend grabbed my arm to see the following spectacle (above). That's you! she exclaimed. I didn't understand until she pointed out that most of the flowers were alike, but one flower dared to blossom in its true colors. She wanted me to see that I stood out. She knows how I agonize over this. I do believe we're on this earth to represent our real gifts and talents, but sometimes I struggle with what that should look like.

My ideas are hopelessly old-fashioned in the mod world. At Culinary College, I believe students should be seen and not heard unless called on. I believe in wearing the uniform because that is the expectation and the price of admission to class. You want to study here? Bring your cravat and sit down, on time, with your bouche ferme.

Yesterday in Culinary Class we had the usual interruption: A student arriving late to class, and loudly. "Where are your pants?" the teacher asked (there were pants, just not student chef pants). "Where's your cravat, where are your shoes??????"

Really? You're late and you're undressed after this many months in school? And you draw attention to yourself in this way? Julia Child would have waved the cleaver (one hopes).

When the student was told to could come back to class when correctly attired, she didn't just mouth off. She expleted. "This is Bowl Spit," she griped, only not those words. Worse, she stood there arguing the justice of the decision.

I was appalled - that a student would address a teacher in such a manner and have no regard for the time she wasted for her classmates. And then, she left, but came back without the shoes. When told to leave again, it got worse, and more uncomfortable for all of us. I'm old-school because I'm intolerant of such poor manners.

I wanted to bust her chops after class, but I'm not in charge and not the boss. I wanted to say "Listen, stop bringing the drama; you're using up everyone's time right before finals." What I really want to do is assign her to watch the grease dumpster. Yep. There should be a chair right beside it - a penalty box kind of thing.

I did see in one classroom that a chef has a toque, and it's marked, "I was late to class." Wonder who has had to wear THAT?

Message to unruly classmates: Showing your true colors may not make you stand out in the field. Or if it does, you're red for all the wrong reasons.

The Egg and I

Let's get into the egg Donnybrook.

Before all shell broke loose with the salmonella recall, I experienced a moment of great wonder at Culinary College. Above you see the willing hand of my baking friend Candace, who on a rather ordinary day cracked open an egg and discovered TWINS! See the double yoke? Have you ever seen that before?

I've cracked a lot of eggs in my time but never come across this phenom from the natural world, but Chef assures me that he has and it does happen. At school we spend a lot of time learning about eggs - their components, their behavior, how whites and yolks have different functions in cake batter - and how to use that to your advantage. Egg shells are porous, did you know that? Their contents can evaporate moisture; they can also absorb odors.

Do you think the students have been told to stop making hollandaise or mayonnaise because of the egg scare? Goodness no. We're still at it with the whip and the drip of butter or oil, depending on the recipe. Still learning how to poach eggs in swirling, vinegar-charged water. Still painting egg wash on croissants. Our school teaches proper care of eggs but with some recipes, you have to use raw eggs. As Chef says, "You're a culinarian. Take your life in your hands. Live dangerously. That's what we do."

Long live the incredible egg.

Jeanne lives in the state where the egg scare is coming from. Let's see if we can get her to weigh in on the mood there . . . 

You Say Potatoes

What is it like going to culinary school? I get this question all the time, especially when volunteering at events like "Battle of the Bakers" or "Chocolate Conference." People come to the table, gingerly pick up your promo materials and start in. There's a look in their eyes - they ask questions in ways that make you think they just want to live out the fantasy of running away and joining the circus - and culinary school seems like a good version of that escapist clause.

Attending school is like anything else worth doing - it's work. It's math - that math you thought you'd never use again. If you didn't get it the first time, you'll do it over. It's learning, studying, memorizing, trial and error. There are assignments, pop quizzes, blowups, burn downs and yes, the bitter taste of failure.

There's something else, though, and I don't mean the cool knife cuts. There's the art of discovery, and let's face it, if you've done your day job every day for 6 months, how much discovery are you feeling?

Culinary school is a way to explore one of life's most basic attractions: food with taste.

As an example of what I mean, I give you the Duchesse potatoes above. As many spuds as I have peeled in my life, did I know they could be piped into attractive shapes? No. Did I know how to cut a potato into a cylinder and build a flower petal fan shape for Pommes Anna? Uh-uh. Had I ever made gnocchi from potatoes? Never. And it is like child's play flipping potato dough over fork tines.

Do I feel like a kid again when I make something with my hands? Well wouldn't you?

There is something absolutely marvelous about coming home from school and announcing, "look what I can do!"

Foundations II - The Beginning

We are three weeks into the Foundations II class, which is back to the culinary side of cooking and frankly, I've had to pound some French bread dough this morning just to get a break from studying how acids and alkalis affect red cabbage. Culinary. You devil.

The first practical exam, I drew hollandaise and a veloute sauce. I sailed through the hollandaise without breaking it and quietly declared it brilliant, best ever. Well done. The chef was not of the same mind. He found it too salty, too lemony and too thick. (Just the way we like at it home.) You see how humbling a culinary practical exam is? Got whipped on that one. And then, the veloute.

I cooked it for an hour, well beyond the minimum 30 minutes, but the chef found it "too starchy." Mein hair, how can it be? Overall score: 89. I'll take it. I was happy in fact, because I'd finished on time, nothing broke, and nothing slid to the floor. Nothing caught on fire, and I got a perfect score on station cleanliness (this is harder than it sounds).

On Practical No. 2, my paper slip said "consomme and potato soup." Uh-oh. I had practiced every soup in our packet - except the potato, and we had not had time in class to do  it. Confident that I could get through the consomme with love, love, love as I'd given it in my own kitchen, I swanned through it with an excellent result and a respectable 9.5 of 10 on the knife cuts (braise heaven) and a 9 of 10 on seasoning. It didn't break, and chef said it was the "clearest soup" he had seen that day. Brava. How hard could simple-minded potato soup be, I'd already done the hard one.

With no clarification to bilge up, I raised my knife. The devil is in those knife cuts, those medium size perfect squares you need to cut those potatoes into. It had been 9 weeks since I had done knife cuts, and they just weren't falling for me. I used too much time trying to get perfect squares, instead of applying that time to reducing the soup. With time running out, like you see on TV, I threw everything into the sauce pot - this is so infantile. Why didn't I just pour a little milk and cream, and use my eyes? Would I do such a thing to bread dough? Of course not.

The soup took a beating like you wouldn't believe - a 5 out of a possible 15, and all on the consistency mark; the flavor was fine. YeastGods. Final result for both: An 81, OK for a mechanical bull-riding score but not so good for a practical exam. I left class a little more glum that day, my commis hat a little slumped on my face. I know I've had a tough day when my cravat breaks free of its pristine knot.

And so for a photo above, you get a lovely image of tourned carrots, one of them cut bv the chef to check the degree of doneness. It's the only plate I've had a chance to take a shot of with my cell phone, because Foundations II is all about hustling and hurtling from station to stove. Learning on the fly. Salting wounds. Listening with our tongues.

Shaking things off at the nearest Buck.

Bread in Santa Fe

Some people seek the turquoise, others the high-end art and the funky clothing and cowboy boots. Me, I go shopping for bread when I'm in Santa Fe, the City Different. What am I doing in Santa Fe when I'm supposed to be in culinary college? I'm looking for bread, of course, examining how things get plated, tasting laminations, that sort of thing. It's summer break, n'est-ce pas?

Here are two delightful pieces from Clafoutis, a French patisserie on Guadalupe Street within walking distance of the plaza. A local told us about it, so we sailed in and waltzed out with some pain au chocolat and a croissant. Here they are, resting on a plate made by the skillful hands of porcelain gallery owner Heidi Loewen. That's how things work here. One moment you're hearing French spoken in a high, lilting voice over the bakery counter, and then you're just a few strolls down the street, watching clay become a handcrafted bowl of exquisite design.

Heidi's work looked so delicious, it felt important to give her the bread as a token of appreciation.

Our morning actually began at Sage Bakehouse on Cerrillos Road, a bakery I always try to visit when I'm in town. I love the chili cheese bread and the rustic, hearty nature of the loaves. It's good to know that Santa Fe can support both French pastry and artisanal breads - it doesn't have to be one lording it over the other.

Lunch at Restaurant Martin produced another discovery - their excellent organic bread comes from Albuquerque. I'm told that the restaurant Aqua Santa on Alameda makes its own, but we didn't quite get there.

I ended up going back to Clafoutis for breakfast and was delighted with the plating of the coconut French toast with fruit, lovingly squirted with a ripple of chocolate so you could swish your berries in the chocolate sauce. C'est mervellieux.

Here you see the happy toast, and below is a shot of co-owner Anne and her daughter, Charlotte. They'll greet you in French, which seems just so right with morning latte and sunshine in the City Different.

Fruit tart, anyone? Meringues? Eclairs? So many choices, so little time.

Eclairs, Cookies, Tarts

What you see here is harder than it looks, the result of two days of practical exams in which many hurdles had to be vaulted. On the first day of finals for the Introduction to Patisserie and Baking, we made pastry cream, which had to stretch across 6 tarts and 6 eclairs for presentation to Chef. Also made pate sucree for the tart shells and choux paste for the eclairs. The clock is on, and you do have to drag ingredients out of other students' slippery hands.

The rules of presentation to Chef are exact and finite: You give no more and no less than the Chef instructs. The reason is, giving more than is asked for is an example of throwing money away in the real world of restaurant service. Giving less than what the Chef asks for means that you are cheating the customer of what he or she is expecting. So if 6 is the number requested, you present 6 and no more, no less.

It is unforgivable to argue with a Chef during presentation. You speak when spoken to and show deference. I clasp my hands behind my back, so I can lock them and squeeze them as he's tasting and calculating his findings. You thank the Chef for the direction or criticism given, and then you go. It is very formal.

So in the photos above, you see the 6 eclairs, minus the full due of their cream. I knew before I started filling the tarts that I would not have enough pastry cream to meet my needs. Decision Time: Should I fill the eclairs first, all the way, or fill the tarts? The tarts were already at a huge disadvantage, having been toasted and roasted during the first part of the exam when I lost track of them in the top oven, where I couldn't see them.

I had to puzzle through how I would go forward with a burned batch. It seemed the best bet would be to cover them with fruit to diminish the appearance of the shells. But in order to cover them, there would need to be plenty of cream for the fruit to sit on.

So the tarts got most of the cream on hand. The eclairs got leftovers.

When my pastry partner and I went to pick up our tart shell rings, we found that other students had taken all of the available stock. There were none left (people take extras to make backups in case of failure). Chef departed to find us some rings, but we each got only 6 apiece, the exact number needed, so there was no way to do a backup plan. Merde almighty.

Nor did we realize that our rings were slightly larger than the other students', so my carefully calculated plan of fruit division across the 6 did not work out. I had to use so many blueberries to cover holes in the strawberries, which looked unsightly (both the holes and all those blueberry dots). My kiwi was undersized, so the beautiful green accent I planned to use could not happen.

Still, I finished on time, and got through the Strassburger cookies, too. I made the cream sort of stretch, and I waited for the judgment. I was called up last. The final presenter. I had to clean the kitchen cage and all its contents, waiting through all the students who went before me. You wash down 20 bottles of food coloring with dye all over your hands and see how you feel about it.

Sometimes, the breaks are bad, and sometimes they fall your way. I had a plan to use my own plates for presentation so the tarts wouldn't look so dark against white parchment paper on an aluminum sheet pan. When Chef said told the class that all the product must be presented on the sheet pans, I didn't argue, just put the plates back under the tabletop - and I think that's why he allowed me to use them after all. He gave a nod that it would be acceptable. He graciously gave me a break. To my own surprise, those roasted shells didn't look near as bad as they did unfilled and unloved. I just might live through this, maybe.

Remember I said that I had the chance to interview a major Food Network personality on the final day of exams? This funny and wise individual told me: There's always a solution. You can cut off the bottom of a burned brownie, crumble it up and make it a chocolate trifle. You just have to discover the solution and make it work, get to it. Believe in the possible.

That same day, I found out that an orange plate can really soak up the color of a brown tart. Sure, the Chef cut into an eclair and was startled to find a big hole where the cream should have filled in. Yes, he saw the spots where I had not exactly covered the tart in all the apricot glaze it was due - but he was more than fair and absolutely generous in his findings.

I found out that maybe, just maybe, I can live to do this another day.

I have nicknamed myself  "The Brave Little Toaster."

Fruit Tart Final Exam

Above you'll find images of my plan of attack for tomorrow, the final day and the last Practical Exam in the Intro to Patisserie and Baking class. How did it go on the first day of making pate sucree for fruit tarts, pastry cream and pate a choux for chocolate eclairs - all of which get finished tomorrow? The inexplicable factor of the unpredictable whammo hammer struck again. I made a classic mistake. Never put your tarts in an oven you can't see into. Most of the deck oven has visible windows through which you can see your product and keep and eye on its well-being. When I went to place mine during the exam today, quelle horreur, all the rows in the visible spaces looked filled, so I had to shove mine into the top level. Where there is no window.

Big mistake. Out of sight, out of mine eyes. When you've got pastry cream on the cooktop and you're watching that, while baking off eclair shells, you've got to know what the tarts are up to. I was doing fine up to the point where you "blind" bake the tart shells with beans - had the beans out and was still baking in full swing. At one point, I pulled out the shells; thought they were done but went for that browning just on the edges, or so I thought. Finishing on time, I started washing everyone else's dishes, thinking I had put the tarts on the cooling rack, but as I say, out of sight, out of mind. Oh my freak.

When I went to coat the tart shells with chocolate and couldn't find them, it was then that the worst revelation hit me squarely: They were still in the oven. They are now as brown as spectator shoes - and there's no rescuing them, because even though I had extra dough, a) we had cleaned off our table b) all of the available tart shells had been snapped up and I couldn't have bought one if I HAD time to do it over. What a terrible blow, especially since I had spent the morning carefully thinking through how to cut each allotted piece of fruit to make it stretch across six tarts for the finish. Sure, I can cover the top of the crusts with filling and fruit, but once those tarts are out of their pans, there will be no hiding the evidence. Another grimace and a sinking feeling. A major grade hangs in the balance. So the images above show you how thoughtfully I worked through how to design the tarts using every available piece of fruit that are exactly rationed tomorrow. I had done everything I could at home to be ready - and had forgotten to leave the damn dishes and watch the product start to finish.

Meanwhile, in my zeal not to undercook the pastry cream this time as I did on a previous practical, I worked it and worked it extra zealously on the stove, then zoomed it into the cooler, only to quickly realize I had not added the butter and vanilla. Grabbed it and threw it back into the bowl to beat like a crazy woman, but just that little bit of loss of extra cream that clings to the plastic wrap means I will have to figure out how to fill 6 eclairs and 6 tart shells with less - can I stretch it?

This stuff is hard, folks. We don't give enough credit to what goes on behind the curtain in kitchens across America. I have burns every which way on my hands. At one point today, I noticed I was bleeding on my apron, from what injury I do not know. To top it all off, I had sworn off free-lance assignments while I'm in school, but the chance to interview a major personality tomorrow could not  be passed up. No refusing this one, or turning my apron on it.

When I accepted the assignment, it was for Friday, when school's out for one blessed week of Summer Vacation. But the highly recognizable individual's team has moved up the interview, to right before my last practical exam. I could laugh this all off. As it is, I must embrace this superb moment of serendipity - the star is in the food service industry in a big way, ya'll.

Feeling the heat and behaving badly, I remain ever mindful that someday this will all seem hilarious.

Battenburg Petit Fours

I am at a loss as I stumble into the final week of the Introduction to Patisserie and Baking class. When did baking get so how do the French say dificil? As one who has been fearless with the flour, fat and sugar over the years, how did it all slip through my sticky fingers when it was time to endure a "practical exam?"  I was struggling in this class, through the versions of meringues, the infinitesimal rolling out of marzipan (see above) and the death spiral of fondant icing. These were tests of wills that I had never incurred before.

I had crashed three cakes in the span of one week - one blown up by too much baking powder (who put that in there?) - and not one but two genoise mousseline cakes during an exam, the first one and the emergency remake version. Both flatter than my ego to this point.

I was low and down with a one-way ticket to a park bench in Pity City. This is the last week, and it is all exams, written and practical. I studied with the fervor I am known for, all weekend, took flashcards everywhere and do you know, despite the old college try, it was no use? The number of questions I didn't know could fill a book, not because I couldn't learn the information in the first place, but because the questions, many of them, were out of the blue. Zee thin air. In other words, not in the book, not in my notes, and not in the glossary at the back of the book. Wow, did I land on my asparagus on this one.

I have eaten several rounds of Battenburg petit fours like those above just to dry my tears. Battenburg cakes are of German origin and the yellow and red colors symbolize somebody's coat of arms. The ones above are wrapped in a coat of marzipan and sitting on Grandmother Daisy's good Havilland.

Let's end this post on the upswing, which would be . . . there are three more days and then a week off before we are shunted over to Foundations II and the culinary side of life. I keep thinking that when we get to breads, I'll strut my croissants but what if it's just as demanding as Intro to Patisserie?

What if I'm crummy or worse, my bread is crummy? Excuse me while I flake off.

Fruit Tarts

I came home from class in tatters - emotionally - for having scored below a 90 on the Practical Exam for Pastry Cream. Why so glum, you might ask? If it ain't all good for the exam, then it ain't gonna work the next day when you need pastry cream for your fruit tart to present to Chef. Mais, you're thinking, couldn't you fill your tart with something else, say lemon curd? Precisely, yes, but we had made lemon curd in advance, and the school's cooler chose that time to go down over the weekend. Isn't that just like at home? We had to toss lemon curd, all eggs and milk, and completely baked cheesecakes, quelle choux.

We had time and ingredients to remake the lemon curd, but there was no room for redoing the pastry cream. (which can I just say that I had successfully executed at home, perfectly timed, but undercooked during the exam, why, WHY?)

Each of the ingredients represents money, and you can't just have a classroom full of students remaking and baking all the time - the ingredients are carefully controlled by procurement. I ended up loving the tarts I made, though I don't have enough experience yet to make the incredibly beautiful versions I saw lots of students making - their creativity was endless. Some looked like rose petals, others like geometry and works of art.

If we weren't so enslaved to the clock, I could have done much more with the beautiful green of the kiwi - my mind just couldn't whip it out on a moment's notice, and for some reason, I felt like "tourneing" the kiwi to peel it, as if it were a potato. Still, once I had some lemon curd, a few pate sucree tart shells and a little fruit, I squeezed by and finished on time.

We are now at Day 19 of Intro to Patisserie & Baking with two weeks to go, and I've learned a few important points:

It is bad etiquette to grab an induction cook top, saucepans and mixing bowls before an exam, though it's perfectly fine on other days to build your mis en place. You grab because there are not enough cook tops for every student, and working on a gas range takes much longer. You grab because there are not enough chinois strainers to go around, and you need those, too. But you must not grab.

It is tempting to follow the behavior of others, but it is not always smart. You have no idea what information they are acting on, in whatever they're making, and whether their information is any damn good. 

It is egregious to leave the room without permission or to text or take a phone call while Chef is giving a demo. Common sense, yes, but you'd be surprised.

It is downright dadgum foolish not to check the oven temperature setting before shoving in your product  during an exam.  If a chef sets the temperature - the training wheels are off and you better be sure you know what's right. We have a roomful of exam biscuits to support this statement.

It is important to respect others and to help others when possible - unless . . . TO BE CONTINUED

Creme Brulee and Flan

This week marked a new twist in my journey with patisserie and baking: I bought a blowtorch.

We were set to make creme brulee in the classroom - and handling the torch for the first time made me somewhat anxious. Of course it did. Who wouldn't find it a little unsettling to hold a can of fire? Especially when you're not sure exactly how far the flame extends - it's not visible past a certain point of blue flame, but it's out there just the same. We used the torch to kill bubbles on the surface of the brulee before it is baked - the classic caramelization that you find on your restaurant dessert happens after the baking and cooling.

It seemed the best way to get over the canned heat fear was to go buy a torch, assemble it and try it out. Technically, I'm not supposed to bring it into the classroom, but at least now I can work with it at home and amaze friends and family with the fireworks.

Creme brulee and flan, or creme caramel (or baked custard if you follow the textbook), are sisters in the custard family, so we also made flan during production. No caramelization on top of the product there, but you do need to cook a sugar syrup to a joltingly hot stage. This caramelized sugar will end up on the bottom of the flan and then present itself when unmolded and flipped upside down.

Chef boldly demonstrated a technique I had never heard of or seen. Apparently in the BCS era (before common sense), the way cooks tested the various stages of cooking sugar was to plunge their hands into a bucket of ice until numb, then gamely reach into the syrup and pull out a piece of liquid. If they could form a ball with their hand, the mixture was at a soft or hard ball stage, and on up into the high ranges like hard crack stage. Too many burns later, we got the candy thermometer.

Neither flan or brulee are difficult to make, but you must pay attention and follow directions. I don't want to say what happened to friends of mine during their first pass on brulee - but suffice it say you should not use a whip and beat your eggs, or you may end up foaming at the mouth.

Here's hoping tomorrow I torch the next exam - a written and three practical exams all in one week, c'est merveilleux. 

Thank heavens I have leftover flan and creme brulee to sweeten the cram.

A biscuit, a tasket

Nothing says come and get it like a plate of freshly made buttery biscuits.

I should know. When I was in the 5th Grade, my mother asked me what I had learned in school, and all I could recall was the day's lesson in home ec class: the art of biscuit-making. Mother was delighted and promptly assigned me to make the house biscuits every Sunday. I got the look and feel from an early age and kept up the weekly chore. Mother was insistent that I press on, telling me, "If you can make a good biscuit, you can keep a husband." Or was it "you can get a husband"? It works either way.

I've seen good versions come and go across the years - biscuits topped with grated cheese, jalapeno biscuits, biscuits slathered with bacon grease, "angel biscuits" made with yeast, and our household favorite, buttermilk biscuits. Jeanne even had me make a version for Better Homes & Gardens years ago, topped with grated red beets. They were gorgeous in the presentation.

As good as I thought my homemade biscuits were, they pale in comparison with what we rolled out in the College of Hearts and Sciences.

I watched Chef ever so carefully, making note of what he did differently from the usual course of action, and broke a few ingrained habits to do things his way, including shoving the dough into the fridge so it takes a chill.

Et voila! The biscuits were impressively stacked, richly golden and Texas-sized. I couldn't wait to get them home for everyone to try - and to my astonishment - try them they did, for there was only one half piece to be found this morning. Somewhere in the night, people had feasted with reckless abandon.

Some of the differences:
using a mix of pastry and bread flour
adding sugar
using only very cold butter
using milk (I suspect it was not 2%)
chilling the dough at least half an hour
rolling out to one-half inch, and using a wide cutter
brushing with a beaten yolk to brown the top

The actual recipe belongs to the textbook Professional Baking by Wayne Gisslen so you understand, I can't reprint the biscuit recipe here without permission. Just go hands on and do what I did as a young girl, work it, work it, work it.

Brownies and Chips Off the Old Block

It's a new semester and a brand new beginning in the baking and pastry program at the College of Hearts and Sciences. With help from my class partner, today we shoveled together brownies iced with chocolate ganache and white chocolate ganache, and chocolate chip cookies. Have you ever wondered why the Toll House beauties you've made for years turn out differently from time to time, even when you follow the classic yellow bag's directions to the last chip?

We learned about the properties of "spread" - properly mixed dough and its ability to either hold its form in baking or flatten out and run for the pan corners. Some spread is good if that's what you want, but for a uniform cookie every time, it's important to understand the chemistry between fats and sugar in the creaming stage, how moisture affects spread, the amount of sugar, the type of flour, the precise measurement of ingredients.

Did you know that if you split the butter the recipe calls for and do a 50-50 with shortening, you can impact spread in a way that brings joy? Shortening melts at a higher point than butter, but shortening tastes like Dippity Do for hair styling, so you need that butter to add flavor. The shortening helps the cookie set its shape before melting, so butter and shortening together can make for a fine, shapely outcome.

Our strategy was to make sure we didn't overmix the dough nor undermix it, not bake it too long in the convection oven (which dries out cookie dough) and have a good shape to show when we presented our board to Chef. We've only just begun to ponder the chemistry of sugar molecules and their hygroscopic quality, how coagulation and caramelization happen, bicarbonate this and ammonia that.

Hard corpus callosum work like this deserves a treat, and we just happened to have a full tray of brownies and cookies at the finish line. Here you have the shape of things to come.

Knife Cuts, the Final

Once again there is flour all over my arms and my dance pants. It's been a whole semester since I rolled out croissants in Singing Wheat Kitchen, and I've missed them more than I expected. With final exams over now at the premier cooking college, I can play with dough until next week, when the introduction to baking and pastry class begins. Here is a photo of the partial board in my final exam effort - a "citrus supreme" with half of the orange zest required, just to the right, so Chef could count the number of strips; also a mince of shallot and of parsley, and a "concasse" of tomato.

There were carrots cut into circles (rondele) and potatoes cut into 1/4 inch logs, plus varying sizes of diced spuds and a few "tourne" of new potatoes. I cut as well as I had ever done it. Was it a perfect effort? Well no, not by Foundations 1 standards of judging (never be the first to be judged, just like in ice skating). It was, though, the best I had ever done, and of that I feel a sense of elan.

Almost near the end of the exam, a woman who's a gracious lady exclaimed "Oh no! I just cut off my finger!" If this were France she would have yelled "au secours!" I'm amazed she didn't scream "merde" or worse. Chef talked with her and watched her bandage up, telling her the hospital wouldn't be able to do anything about the tip. I've talked with a surgeon and another chef since, and they agree that this is true; they can't do anything much in that situation. Well, she wrapped it herself and returned to finish the knife work. Can you imagine the courage to pick up the knife? The whole moment presented one of life's dilemmas when something goes very wrong: Do you stop and render aid, or do you keep going to finish your work?

As it was, Chef was there and in command, so the rest of us just kept going, feeling terrible all the while.

That lady is a champion. I would have vaulted to the floor in a dead faint.

Mind if I just depart here and roll out a few croissants? There's no cutting involved.

Final Exams

Practiced the knife cuts all weekend, as if entering Med School. Here is the simple yet surprisingly hard Citrus Supreme. Please don't grade me on the plating; I'm still trying to get all the white pith off.

Tomorrow is the spice test - identifying 100 spices and fresh herbs. A pinch of this and that. The two most likely to trip me up? Ground marjoram versus ground oregano. Not to mention ground thyme and ground basil.

How's this effort for mincing around? There used to be parsley stems on this board. Tomorrow is the final in Sanitation, with the spices/herbs drill in the afternoon. Tuesday is the national certification exam for ServSafe - and the knife cuts practical. Wednesday brings the final in Foundations 1 and in the career portfolio class. I am fresh out of funny words. My head is full of numbers for the proper concentration of chlorine bleach and the exact steps for producing clam chowder.

My pat answer for anything I don't know: Add butter.

Clarified Butter

Today in Singing Wheat Kitchen I have made a golden clarified butter. Why, you say? Who wants to stand over the stove, eyeball to the pan, carefully skimming the surface of whey and watching for the quintessential moment between carefully loved butter-watching and a toss everything brownout?

Chef has been making beautiful sauces lately - and you can't get there if you don't start with strong foundations. Clarified butter is one of those devices that make a noticeable difference in how stable the flour cooks when introduced to the butter in the pan for a roux, or how quickly the butter burns when you tear off the paper of your butter stick and lop it into the hot pan. It makes a world of difference. And so I try it, keeping my other eyeball to left, on the pot of chicken stock burbling in its own rhythm. When I finally get these two together, it will be in veloute, a marvelous white sauce.

The foundation of French classical cuisine - stocks and sauces - isn't something that jumps off the page of a recipe in a cookbook. It takes practice in patience to acquire the feel. Chef has told me another secret that I am applying to my work on the knife skills: It's important to work in peace.

And so I watch, and try, and feel my way.

Peace be with you, buttercup.

Cutting Potatoes, Part Deux

Chef looked at my board and was very quiet as he lifted pieces of potato, examined them, turned them and rolled them in his hand. "The batonnets are getting better. Work on the smaller cuts." As he he walked away, I heard him say, "We'll get there." I wanted to shout in reply, "I'll make it, Chef!" But I only dropped my head and gave him a demure "merci, Chef."

I live with the hope.

I had stolen into the Foundations 1 lab two hours before class and had hoisted a few potatoes from the walk-in. Alone in my endeavors, I had cut and cut and cut shapes, without anyone looking, but progress just wouldn't come. Then later in class, Chef unexpectedly told us we'd have a little drill today - several cuts in various sizes, a specific number of product for each cut - and only two potatoes. Mon dieu, I would need to think about waste and save scraps.

I could feel everyone's tension and tried to breathe as I whittled away, and then Chef did something interesting. He turned on music. That seemed to drop a few shoulders down below the ears. I managed to finish on time, and then we gathered near the stove to see Chef finish a chicken fricassee in white sauce.

Can I describe the moment at the stove? I was admiring the white sauce as he stirred it in the pan, smelling the aroma and listening to the music. In a flash, I realized the symphonic addition was from "Close Encounters of the Third Kind," the moment when Richard Dreyfus walks into the alien ship, in a total state of awe. I heard those five "tones" they played to talk with the aliens, bum bee bum, ba buuummmm. And then I was weeping.

I quietly pulled out my Grandmother Daisy's dusty rose handkerchief I carry for moments like this and dabbed away. You see, I've never felt this emotional connection - sort of a powerful intersecting moment when smell and sound and sight all blend harmoniously - in a workplace cubicle before. And in that moment when tears came, I was grateful, so grateful.

Grateful to be standing at the intersection.

Cutting Potatoes

.

Number of 10-pound bags to get this tourneed potato, two batonnets and one Julienne: THREE.

Off to class. More tonight. Practice makes - practice.

Culinary School: The Beginning

The Band-Aid count is: Are we counting by Band-Aids or different fingers? Perhaps number of fingers is best. So the count stands at 3 different fingers I've wrapped during practice on knife skills for culinary school. Is that average? Do we count nicks or slices only? When I stand in the daily lineup for inspection, does it count for me that I have wrapped fingers, showing that yes, practice at home is going on and yes, I know basic sanitary care, or does it count against me as clearly a simpleton who can't hold a potato without it "sauteing" into the air. You know that "saute" means to "jump" in French, oui? Mais . . . 

Today is Day 15, and I am still standing at culinary school. You won't find bashing of any Chef Instructors or other students here - because that's not the experience I'm having, which is good to say. So far I've learned much more about myself - my view of my own math skills, my ability to push through fatigue - than I've learned about any individual. After all, everyone looks just like me when we're all wearing kitchen whites (save for the Chef Instructors, whose hats must stick out of their sunroofs when they drive home).

If you're asking, "is it fun? I've always wanted to do that", I'd reply that it's important that you be open to understanding like this: You don't know much, less than you think you do, and you need to start from scratch, in all likelihood, if you want to do cooking the French way (and naturellement I do). You aren't paying all that lettuce to go tell somebody how much you already know. The way I figure it, if you can pull an A in the basic foundations class, what are you in there for?

The aspect of fun is the self-discovery that happens - and for some people that wouldn't fit the "fun" category. For me, it's work, but it's the work of discovery and yes, I'm enjoying the effort required.

When Jeanne and I were at the Roger Smith Writers Conference in New York over Valentines Weekend, we heard from Kathleen Flinn, who wrote a book called The Sharper Your Knives, the Less You Cry about attending the world's most famous culinary school. Think Audrey Hepburn in Sabrina. At that point, I had no idea I'd be going myself, but the title of her book fascinated me, so I dove into it. I had a wrong idea about the book based on the title: I thought it would be about the sort of boot camp humiliation that surely would be doled out to hapless students like me. But that's not the case. Read it, enjoy it as I am, because you'll get a great sense of how it feels, tastes, smells and looks when you go to culinary school.

This morning I've been through 3 Band-Aids on the same finger. I've stopped cutting, because once you sense that it isn't working, you're tired or there isn't enough light, just stop, stop it now. Safety first.

That's one of the first lessons you'll ever hear in culinary school. Excuse me now, I have to go iron my hat.

Red Tulips

Where have I been the last few weeks? Inside a culinary school looking around, and if truth be told, I've decided to take up the banneton. A new baking and pastry program has just been introduced at the school, so it's a marvelous time to sprinkle the flour in a new location outside of Singing Wheat Kitchen, which gets more than its share of the annual average per square inch.

If running away to join the circus is no longer in the cards, then surely learning the culinary arts will be just as high-wire glorious and I do see some similarities - working with flames, juggling objects, certain costumes, the knife work, secrets of the candy apple.

How much baking I'll do on the side is anyone's guess, but I do consider it homework and research. Let's all cheer for new insights that give my skills fuller flair and broader personality.

The red tulips are to remind me that everything can open up beautifully with a little faith, courage and a frisson of sunshine. Why not embrace the springtime as a time of growth and reach? Think of the new friendships, the new connections. Think of hollandaise, think of all the mother sauces, imagine tempering chocolate and bending it to your will. More abundant daily bread.

It's all so richly glorious!

"Cup" Cake Challenge

I did, indeed, issue a challenge to my co-blogger to test a 5-minute chocolate cake.It is not my recipe, however. It came from a Facebook page.

As a baker, I tend to be skeptical of things "baked" in the microwave oven. But fans of this quickie cake in a cup were eating it up.

So I had to find out what the buzz was about. So, I baked mine in a little bowl, thinking it would be more shapelier than a tall thin mug-cake. And it was. Except for the lopsided, wavy top caused by the fact that it didn't rise evenly in the microwave oven. When I released mine after "baking," the cake was full of tiny craters. Texture was tough. Kind of like biting into tuggy French bread. That's NOT quite the texture I like in my cakes.

Maybe the egg added to the rubbery tugginess: think scrambled egg overcooked in the microwave with the addition of flour, sugar, and cocoa.

The taste? Well, horrid. Perhaps, as Michelle, err, Mama Mia suggested, the cake flavor might be improved by dark chocolate chunks, mint, orange peel, something....anything. I tried to boost the flavor of mine by adding a new chocolate-vanilla extract from Mexico, but it didn't help. Still too dry (maybe "baked" too long?) and texture challenged.

On the positive side? It was quick. Whipped it up in a coupla minutes. Baked 3 minutes. I sprinkled it with chocolate chips and vanilla chips (which I hate, but thought they would break up the darkness on the plate).

I didn't like it. Not one bit. Except for the gooey chocolate chips melting on top of the warm so-called cake. Michelle didn't talk much about the flavor. She probably was being polite since she thought it was my recipe. But it's not. So, Mama Mia Michelle. Did you actually taste it? And what did you think?

5 MINUTE CHOCOLATE MUG CAKE

4 tablespoons flour
4 tablespoons sugar
2 tablespoons cocoa
1 egg
3 tablespoons milk
3 tablespoons oil
3 tablespoons chocolate chips (optional)
A small splash of vanilla extract
1 large coffee mug

Add dry ingredients to mug, and mix well. Add the egg and mix thoroughly.

Pour in the milk and oil and mix well.

Add the chocolate chips (if using) and vanilla extract, and mix again.

Put your mug in the microwave and cook for 3 minutes at 1000 watts (high). The cake will rise over the top of the mug, but don't be alarmed! Allow to cool a little, and tip out onto a plate if desired.

5 Minute Chocolate Mug Cake

Jeanne slipped me an interesting challenge. Make a mug cake in five minutes. The sweeter the research, the better, so I followed the recipe on a Sunday afternoon, as daffodils popped their leaves in a gentle rain.

Know what? Her recipe works. From stirring batter in a mug to a final spin in the microwave, the whole creative process took five minutes. This opens up entirely new territory in the "I've got a craving and no place to go" category. If you've got flour, sugar, some cocoa and an egg, you're on your way to the fastest fixer upper I've ever tasted.

The recipe suggests adding semisweet chocolate bits, but now that I've made it, I sense a longing for a deeper chocolate experience.

Don't misunderstand: The version as given below works quite well. But if you want to fling it up a notch, fiddle around with some of the flavored dark chocolates, instead of the semisweet versions. Try adding a little orange peel, a splash of orange liqueur, or a chocolate liqueur such as Kahlua. You might even give it a splash of Kirschwasser - a nudge with the cherry brandy.

I'm thinking a splash of mint flavor, too. Now that I know it really bakes up in 5 minutes, I feel like playing around a little with the same devotion I would give the tango - hand to the heart, head to the floor.


5 MINUTE CHOCOLATE MUG CAKE

4 tablespoons flour
4 tablespoons sugar
2 tablespoons cocoa
1 egg
3 tablespoons milk
3 tablespoons oil
3 tablespoons chocolate chips (optional)
A small splash of vanilla extract
1 large coffee mug

Add dry ingredients to mug, and mix well. Add the egg and mix 
thoroughly.

Pour in the milk and oil and mix well.

Add the chocolate chips (if using) and vanilla extract, and mix again.

Put your mug in the microwave and cook for 3 minutes at 1000 watts (high). The cake will rise over the top of the mug, but don't be alarmed! Allow to cool a little, and tip out onto a plate if desired.

EAT! (this can serve 2 if you want to feel slightly more virtuous). And why is this the most dangerous cake recipe in the world? Because now we are all only 5 minutes away from chocolate cake at any time of the day or night!

(photo featuring a commemorative plate of the Marine Transportation Building, New York World's Fair 1939.)

Wine Biscuits

Do you ever slip into one of those moods where you just have to try something different in the same vein as kids who come up with science experiments the day of science fair? I once had an assignment due for a Humanities Class. The subject was architecture. I blanked on it until the night before, when I found myself making a high school out of pumpkin bread (and aced it).

But appallingly, I digress.

The fact is, I came across a recipe for wine biscuits and had never seen, heard, sampled or baked anything of the sort before. What is their purpose, other than as a peppery vessel to hold up your cheese? The recipe calls for cabernet sauvignon and I only had pinot noir on hand, so the wine essence was not as deeply soulful as I would have longed for. But the pepper announces itself after you've tasted the sweetness of the biscuit - well, not a biscuit but more like a cookie with a hole in it.

The purpose of the hole? It's beyond me. Try the recipe without the hole and report back. There must be something we can do about the color of the finished product, but if you're topping this biscuit with cheese, it won't matter much.

Were I to make the wine biscuits again, I'd wait for another rainy day. I'd use a better grade of pepper, freshly ground, and a fuller-bodied wine. The recipe suggests 4-6 tablespoons of sugar. You might think of skipping that last tablespoon, but I wouldn't. I tried it and ended up dusting the top of each cookie with superfine sugar. The dough was just too savory without it.

A wine biscuit is not a sweet confection; it's a savory item that would go well with spreadable cheeses and fruity beverages such as sangria, in the manner suggested by King Arthur Flour.

I think an herb such as chopped rosemary could help lift this biscuit to another level. Something more is what I want. Something with kick that turns a wine biscuit into a sweet memory.




(photo featuring wine biscuits and a World War II era handkerchief from Hawaii, sent by a Marine to my mother, Rosie)

Chocolate Chip Cookies

 

Jeanne has a birthday today!

What better way to salute her than to dig out two outre Barbies in their tutus and puffy galore coats, and let them share an exceedingly rich chocolate chip cookie in Jeanne's honor? You're never too old to play with the possibilities. 

I must say I forgot how you have to pull Miss Barbie's arms behind her back to get her coat on. And what's with that thumb, so far apart from the other fingers that I had to pull a few strings to get her hands through. A doll's life. . . 

Jeanne, for your special day, we have a crackling fire going here at Singing Wheat Kitchen and a batch of chocolate chip cookies tinged by the addition of vinegar, which is said to trim the sweetness. It also reacts with the sodium bicarbonate in the leavening to get a shapelier result.

This is one playful cookie.

Cheers, doll.

Red Velvet Cupcakes

When did red velvet cupcakes take over New York City? They seemed all the rage when Jeanne and I were there for a food writers' conference. As we glided down Bleecker Street, we asked locals for directions to a great cupcake. They sent us to a nearby bakery, where the smiling wait staff claimed their best seller is the red velvet cupcake. I expressed deep concern. I thought red velvet was a Southern confection, but stories abound that the Waldorf has a signature version.

At the bakery, we had high hopes as we toasted each other in a bottom's up sort of way. We bit in to the creamy white icing, and to our dismay, it tasted like it had been made with Crisco. It had a slick texture and it wasn't sweet enough. We tossed it and vowed to find a better one.

You can read up on red velvet history in The New York Times, which had this to say on Valentine's Day in 2007:  "More than 20 bakeries now sell red velvet cake or cupcakes, threatening to end the long reign of the city’s traditional favorites, cheese cake and dark chocolate blackout." Oh my goodness, how did it do that? (And what is a dark chocolate blackout?)

The Times article mentions two bakeries, both of which we happened to visit. It's probably not big-hearted of me to say which one had the regrettable icing. Maybe we hit the place on a day when they needed an "extender" to ensure they had enough icing for all their cupcakes. I don't know.

Bethenny Frankel has a tasty version in her new book SkinnyGirl Dish. She uses beet juice in replacement for food coloring, but keep in mind you will not get that fabulous red color without a dye job. I made a batch so I could inform Jeanne of this new discovery in the cupcake quest.

You may have noticed that I placed my cupcake on top of an antique bulldog doorstop. Why, you ask? Are you looking for meaning or for folk art?

Hey, I just make up this life as it comes to me. It happens one delicious moment at a time.

Onion Bialys

When two kitchen ceiling fans are whirling and I am madly swinging one of those big round strainers to help shove the smoke out the window, you know I'm having a fabulous time in Singing Wheat Kitchen. Kosher salt is falling into the stove burner, onions are sweating in the pan and the fire alarm should go off any second, but if nobody sees all this action a la Charlie Chaplin as the baker, then it's not a bad milieu.

If you crank up your oven to 500 degrees, there's a good chance you'll make a roomful of smoke if anything has landed on the bottom of the oven, like tomato sauce or feta cheese that crept over the pizza dough and rolled off the baking stone a while back. These are the incidents that give your kitchen elan.

It was Nell Newman who got me thinking about onion bialys and how she used to get them at Oscar's Deli in Westport. The flavor, the sensation of sweet carmelized onions against the cracked pepper and soft dough, the density of the crumb, sheer heaven.

I had some onions on hand and it looked like snow, so I dug in and started a batch. I used a recipe from the big book "Baking With Julia," but if you don't have that one (and I wish you did), you can check out the online recipe from King Arthur Flour, which is the brand of flour I like to mess with.

I think it cost me a job selling bread at a major fancy market when the head baker did not share my preference. Stuck on tradition if you ask me. That's another story.

If you use the KAF recipe, please don't use dehydrated onions for the top of the bread. Just add about 2 tablespoons of oil to the frying pan, mince at least a cup of fresh onion and then saute it for about 3-5 minutes. There's your topping and it will be better.

You can make great bialys in one day - and notice, I didn't use poppy seeds, owing to not having them on hand and refusing to flee the scene of all that smoke.

Smoke's a flavor enhancer, isn't it?

Snow job

You go, Mama Mia. You put me to shame with your active postings. Will I ever catch up? Daughter Lindsey and beau are coming tonite so just about to brave yet another blizzard to finally get groceries. About 5 inches of snow. More on Sunday.

Last two of my precious homegrown butternut squash will be roasted for an attempt at butternut squash lasagna. Wish me luck. Ground turkey and local Italian sausage plucked from the freezer for chili. Cooking up for hungry family coming home for the weekend. Weather permitting.

Spaghetti for Popeye

I was reclining in the back seat of a cab in New York City, staring at the small TV screen with the canned content. We weren't taking the nostalgic route that goes by the UN, so rather than look at the architecture, I just let the drone of the message pull me in. The subject was: You can cook meals at home by pulling things out of your fridge, freezer or pantry. It's a journey of discovery.

Um, really? Isn't that how it gets done in much of the country?  

At my house, you open the fridge, see that you have some baby spinach and go from there. Grab some leftover basil leaves, some garlic, a little Parmesan, tomatoes, olive oil, and you're en route to spaghetti sauce. 

Inspired by an early Moosewood Restaurant recipe called "Mondo Bizarro Sauce," I arrived  at this version:

Popeye's Spaghetti Sauce

In a blender, puree the following:

5 cloves garlic
10 leaves fresh basil or 2 Tablespoons dried basil
2 cups tomato puree
1/2 pound fresh baby spinach, stems removed
1/2 cup fresh parsley, stems removed
1/3 cup olive oil
3/4 cup fresh grated Parmesan or Romano
1/2 can tomato paste
salt and pepper to taste

After mixture has been blended, heat gently, then toss with hot pasta.

The green color from the spinach and red from the tomatoes make a muddy color for the sauce, but when you're hungry and in no mood for mincing around, this sauce goes together quicker than a cab ride from the UN to the Waldorf.

What to Read When Hungry (and need a recipe)

There's a book coming out in April called Spoon Fed: How Eight Cooks Saved My Life by New York Times food writer Kim Severson.

She has her cooks; I have my Bon Appetit magazines, more than eight of them, tilting toward the sun on a  surface just above the ancient General Electric double-sided oven in Singing Wheat Kitchen.

Severson got me thinking about why this magazine has a natural place in my soul.

Take my all-time favorite issue (see above). I bought it off the rack because it had a great cover - the cheerful image of Archie and Betty, a sizzling hamburger, a simple headline, "The Good Old Summertime." Ever notice how many magazines are peppered with blurbs so thick you can't see a glimmer of trout through all that type?

Inside this issue, you find a piece on swizzle sticks. It's wonderful and nostalgic, especially since we rarely see a good stick anymore. Next page, there's a story on ice cream parlors, not just any story but a reference guide on where to find them from Hollywood to Houston.

I like the olive-basil sauce in the column "Honey, I Forgot the Guests." This is the sauce that goes on my pain l'ancienne.

In the "Desserts for Summer" spread is one of the best pies I've ever enjoyed making and finishing off, a raspberry pie. I'm also a repeat offender on the Sweet-and-Sour Pork, Wyoming Style, the Chocolate Caramel Oat Squares (which I've mentioned before) and the Baked Chili Cheese Corn from the "Rollin' on the River" spread.

You'll find flour, cumin, garlicky papers and oily finger marks all over the Cooking Class pages that describe how to make Spicy Fried Chicken - which is now the only way I make it in Singing Wheat Kitchen.

In fact, my "Summertime" issue is so caked with traces of ingredients, so dog-eared, so tattered, it should be hidden where I keep Daisy's card table linens with the embroidered Oriental lanterns. But that's the hitch, isn't it? I use it too much to hide it. I have a similar affection for the December 1999 issue with the gorgeous cranberry tart on the cover, the September 1999 issue on "The American Century in Food" and the March "Comfort Food 2000" issues with the chocolate-toffee cookies. Oh, Bon Appetit has my number, they really do. And just perhaps, here's why.

Barbara Fairchild, the Editor in Chief, explained the magazine's raison d'etre at the Roger Smith Food Writers' Conference over Valentine's Day Weekend in New York.

The magazine's credo? Classic recipes with a sophisticated twist and "approachable, approachable, approachable," accessibility, she told her audience. That means there are recipes you can handle while learning, seeing and maybe trying something new, expanding your tasteful horizons. You'll never see a recipe that's two or more pages; you will see recipes that, well let me just say, I'm staring at the chocolate-toffee cookies right now and feeling transported, just by the sight of these fudgey clusters. I can smell them baking without even trying, I think I may need to exit here and go make a batch.

At no other point in our U.S. history has food, especially good food, been so much a part of the cultural conversation as much as it is in France, Italy, Spain and Asia, Fairchild says. Many more Americans are engaged with food at all different levels, whether it's worrying about childhood obesity, getting a healthful and delicious meal on the table every night or deciding what to make when your friends gather.

This magazine provides escape and entertainment as rich as Betty's milkshake.

And from where I stir, the ingredients for a tasteful life.

What to Read When Hungry

Jeanne and I have just returned from the Roger Smith Food Writers' Conference in New York City with a list for you. The category is "Turning Your Life and Food Into a Best Seller," and if you've already consumed Under the Tuscan Sun and A Year in Provence, here's what successful subject matter experts like Mimi Sheraton, Kathleen Flinn, Betty Fussell and Monica Bhide suggest:

Between Meals: An Appetite for Paris by A.J. Liebling

Letters to a Young Chef (Art of Mentoring) by Daniel Boulud

Mediterranean Summer by David Shalleck

An Embarrassment of Mangoes: A Caribbean Interlude by Ann Vanderhoof

A Pig in Provence: Good Food and Simple Pleasures in the South of France by Georgeanne Brennan

Sheraton, Flinn, Fussell and Bhide also have numerous works to their credit, so follow the links on their names above.

Feed your spirit!