The Last of the Hurricane Posts

This is the third and final post about how I cooked my way through the hurricane.  While it’s been good for my blogging productivity, let’s hope there are no more natural disaster-induced motivators, hmm?

Anyway, having survived Irene basically unscathed, I found myself with far more time than I expected the day after.  So I baked, but just because I had the time doesn’t mean I had the inclination to pull out all the baking stops and do something stupidly “Thank God, we’re alive!” manic like eclairs (though I did make eclairs during the blogging hiatus, because there is, in fact, a correct time and place for stupidly manic cooking).  I just wanted something comforting, low on the effort scale, and, since I didn’t know if commuter rail was going to be back up in time for me to go to work on Monday morning, capable of keeping an extra day if necessary.  What fit that particular bill excellently was gingerbread.

As we all know, my quest for ever more obnoxiously in-your-face gingery things is a lifelong one, and in that quest, I had tried the Classic Gingerbread Cake recipe in this January’s issue of Cook’s Illustrated. Apart from the bordering-on-foolhardy quantities of both fresh and powdered ginger, the recipe had two other things going for it: the clever use of stout to deepen the flavor, and the promise of eliminating the sunken and damp middle gingerbread is so often prone to. The recipe delivered on both intense gingery flavor and structural soundness, and was particularly well-received by the coworkers, who as we’ve established are surprisingly amenable to having their palates challenged via their weekly baked goods.

The one snag was that I had no stout on hand, and because I live in a state with patently absurd liquor laws and was not going to make a special trip to the beer distributor on the day after a hurricane to buy stout by the full case, I had to substitute what I did have: a nice hard cider.  To make up the required volume and add some more depth, I spiked it with some really spectacular rum we picked up on our now-annual summer jaunt to the Berkshires with His Lordship’s community orchestra. Despite the fact that the CI people said it wasn’t worth making the recipe with anything but stout, I noticed no dumbing down of the cake once baked.  The cider, rum and very dark blackstrap molasses I had in the pantry contributed more than enough low notes to support the double-ginger assault.  Honestly, I think it’s just as good with the substitution, and since we have not much use for stout while I adore hard cider, I’ll be going with this combination from now on.

For ease of distribution, as usual with Monday treats, I converted the recipe to cupcakes, which I spread with a cream cheese and lemon curd frosting. The frosting is seriously optional, and if it were up to His Lordship there would be no question about leaving it off, since he didn’t care for the additional sourness.  For those of you who are similarly less obsessed about citrus than I am, feel free to eat them plain or with a dab of salted butter for just the merest bit of decadence.

Gingerbread Cupcakes with Lemon Curd Frosting
(Adapted from Classic Gingerbread Cake, Cook’s Illustrated, January/February 2011)
Makes 30 cupcakes

For the gingerbread:
3 cups all-purpose flour
4 tablespoons ground ginger
1 teaspoon baking powder
1 teaspoon sea salt
½ teaspoon ground cinnamon
½ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
1 bottle (11.2 ounces) hard cider plus enough dark rum to make 1 ½ cups
1 teaspoon baking soda
⅔ cup blackstrap molasses
⅔ cup honey
1 ½ cups packed light brown sugar
½ cup granulated sugar
4 large eggs
⅔ cup canola oil
2 tablespoons grated fresh ginger

For the frosting (utterly optional):
4 ounces (half a block) of cream cheese, at room temperature
4 tablespoons butter, at room temperature
½ powdered sugar
2 pinches sea salt
Half a (10.5 ounce) jar of lemon curd, or more to taste

Whisk together flour, ginger, baking powder, salt, cinnamon and black pepper in a large bowl and set aside.

Bring the cider and rum to a boil in a small pan over medium heat.  In the meantime, set the oven rack to the middle position, preheat the oven to 350 F and line 2 ½ muffin trays with cupcake liners.

Pour the hot cider and rum into a medium bowl and stir in the baking soda, which will foam up aggressively, then stir in the molasses, honey, and sugars.  Once the sugar has dissolved and the mixture is a bit cooler, whisk in the eggs, oil and grated ginger.

Add the wet mixture into the dry ingredients a third at a time, whisking vigorously between additions until completely smooth before adding the next third.  (For once, you need not be afraid of over-mixing.)  The batter will be quite liquid after the final addition, so use a ladle to divide it evenly among the lined muffin cups.

Tap the filled muffin trays gently against the counter a couple of times to release any air bubbles, and bake 25-30 minutes, until the tops are firm to the touch and a tester comes out mostly clean.  Cool briefly in their tins before lifting out by the liners onto a wire rack and cooling completely.

While the cupcakes are cooling, beat the cream cheese, butter, powdered sugar and salt together in a mixer fitted with the paddle attachment until light.  Beat in the lemon curd and taste, adding more if you want a more pronounced lemon flavor.  Spread the frosting thinly over the cooled cupcakes.

Unfrosted cupcakes will keep for several days at room temperature in an airtight container.  Once frosted, they really should be refrigerated, though you should bring them back to room temperature before serving since the chill will blunt some of the spicy kick.

Notes:

I could have stretched the batter among three full muffin tins, yielding 36 cupcakes, but they would have been slightly smaller than I wanted.  If you prefer that many, start checking them at 20 minutes for doneness. If you want to make a large sheet cake instead, pour the batter into a 9×13 pan, greased and floured, and bake 35-45 minutes.  Cool completely in the pan before frosting and slicing.

The quantity of frosting here is just enough to thinly cover the full batch of cupcakes.  If you want to be much more generous or to pipe designs with it, double the quantities.

Read Full Post »

I’m Still Here

I know it’s been forever, and I will detail some of the reasons why at the end of this post.  Those reasons having come to a satisfactory conclusion about a month ago, I’d basically been dithering about for a few weeks, looking for the right theme and recipe for finally breaking the silence, and then the East Coast experienced an epically ridiculous confluence of events (an earthquake AND a hurricane in the same week?  Seriously, Universe? Seriously?) that presented me with the perfect solution.

I mean, once all the flashlight batteries have been replaced, the patio furniture has been brought inside, and the hatches have been battened as far down as they’re going to go, there’s really only one thing you can do, right?

Make jam.

Now, stay with me here: Jam is shelf-stable, so it doesn’t matter if the power goes out.  It uses up fruit that would just speed up its sitting-around-getting-squishy process without refrigeration. It goes excellently with all the classic natural disaster foods: ice cream that needs to be consumed immediately, peanut butter sandwiches eaten by candlelight, and, of course, French toast the next morning.  Not to mention, it keeps your mind off the impending doom, and gives you the sense that at least one thing is under your control despite the increasingly hysterical news coverage.

See?  It makes total sense.

Since plums were the fruit preparing to give up the ghost in my crisper, that’s the kind of jam I made.  Plums are an excellent jam candidate, since the skins are often too acidic and leathery while the interior flesh can be squishy in texture and unexciting in flavor.  Cook them down with a few spices, though, and they make really stunning amethyst-colored jam the likes of which you can’t find in a store for less than $8 a jar, so you shouldn’t actually need meteorological insanity to nudge you to try this recipe.

I also made a huge pot of black bean soup to pass the time waiting for the basement to flood, and I will write that up next. As for what’s been occupying me for the past six months and kept me off the blogosphere until Irene gave me the kick in the pants….

Well, just after the holidays I taught my first seminar, which was an amazingly rewarding experience but also one of the most intellectually and physically tiring things I’ve ever done.  NaNoWriMo is a walk in the park compared to that, let me tell you.  I don’t think I enjoyed a full night’s sleep until Easter, and I needed about a month to get my energy back afterward.

I didn’t get it, though, because — and this is of more pressing relevance to you all — at the same time, His Lordship and I were in the process of shopping for a house.  It was a confusing, stressful, nerve-wracking time, but we did finally end our long reign of renting at the beginning of the summer, and now have a proper Chez Disdain.  The new manse needs a fair amount of work, so I may well be grumbling about contractors and repair people for some time to come, but the one thing I can’t really complain about is the kitchen, which is fab.  I’ll provide more details and some pictures along with the black bean soup recipe, but for now, here’s just a wee bit of a tease:

Know what that is, my little chickadees?  Need a close-up (kindly overlooking the obvious need to clean, if you would)?

That’s right, a Viking range.  SCORE!

Oh, and in case it wasn’t self-evident from my reappearance, His Lordship, the Monster and I made it through the eye of the hurricane with minimal trauma; just a bit of basement flooding that was dispatched with a few rounds of wet/dry vacuuming and mopping. Now, on to the jam!

Hurricane Preparedness Plum Jam
Makes 3 cups

1 1/2 pounds plums, halved and pitted
Zest and juice of 2 clementines or 1 orange
2/3 cup water
1 vanilla bean, split
2 large slices candied ginger
1/2 small cinnamon stick
1 1/2 cups granulated sugar
Juice of half a lemon

Place the plums in a heavy medium pan with the clementine zest and juice, water, vanilla, ginger and cinnamon stick and bring to a boil over medium heat.  Cover, lower the heat to a simmer, and cook until the plums are very soft and starting to break up, about 20 minutes.  Cool to room temperature.

While the plums are cooling, clean and sterilize about half a dozen 4-ounce jam jars with their rings and lids, along with any other equipment you feel you need for the preserving process (e.g. a ladle, a wide-mouthed funnel and long-handled tongs).

Remove the cinnamon stick, vanilla bean and ginger slices from the fruit.  Run the plums through a food mill or push it through a sieve into a large measuring cup.

Return the pureed plums to the pot, along with the sugar and lemon juice. Stir over medium-low heat until the sugar dissolves, then increase the heat to medium to bring the jam to a boil.  Continue cooking at a low boil, stirring frequently, until it’s thickened and holds its shape when spooned onto a chilled plate, 20-25 minutes.

Transfer the jam into the prepared jars, then seal using the boiling water method.  Refrigerate any jars that don’t seal properly.

Notes:

I used about half a dozen varieties of plums from the farmers market in this batch: yellow-fleshed ones with mottled skins, giant plain red ones, purple ovoid Italian ones, and little unassuming ones with hearts the color of blood. Mixing your plums will give you a more complex and interesting jam, but any variety should be delicious.

This jam is tart and rich enough for savory applications too.  It made a lovely post-hurricane lunch with Manchego on whole wheat for me, and slow-cooked pork loin for His Lordship. I strongly suspect it’d also be smashing with turkey instead of or mixed into cranberry sauce in a couple of months, if you want to get a jump on your holiday prep.

Read Full Post »

I Only Love You for Your Looks

I adore persimmons, although to be honest my passion for them is more for their aesthetics than their flavor. I love their bold orange color, their curvy shapes, and especially their swirly baroque calyxes so much that I once designed a whole bathroom decorating scheme around them. I have also been known to buy them just to let them sit in a bowl on my dining room table, with no serious intent of ever eating them.

I don’t feel particularly guilty about such waste, because the truth about persimmons is that they are stunning to look at, but they’re considerably iffier to eat. An underripe persimmon is a nightmare of astringent, soapy tannins that will turn you off the fruit forever if you’re unlucky and uneducated enough to try one before its time. The acorn-shaped Hachiya variety, while more beautiful than the squat Fuyu, is particularly fraught with risk, because it must be alarmingly ripe before you even think of eating it. If it’s not as uniformly squishy as a water balloon –basically a pulpy gel barely held inside a thin membrane of waxy peel — you shouldn’t even bother with it.

While we were back on the West Coast for the holidays, though, His Lordship’s parents presented him with a huge bag of homegrown Fuyus, which then had to be used up before we went home. There was no time to let them sit and get fully ripe, which meant that I had to get a little bit creative. I was originally going to dice them up and stir them into a simple olive oil cake, until I remembered that I’ve salvaged many an underripe pear by poaching it, so why not these persimmons?

In keeping with their Asian origins, I spiced the syrup for the wedged persimmons with ginger, cinnamon, and tangerine peel and juice. I also added a little bit of honey to the poaching liquid for complexity. The poached slices were buttery soft and sweet, and went quite nicely over instead of inside the cake. I also think they’d be a gorgeous garnish for rice pudding, especially one made with jasmine rice and coconut milk.

I’m not going to promise to stop using them primarily as objets d’ art, but any persimmons I buy from now on will be more likely to go through an eating step between the dining table and the trash can.

Persimmons Poached with Ginger, Cinnamon and Tangerine Peel
Serves 6

3 cups water
1 cup granulated sugar
2 tablespoons honey
1 thumb-sized piece of ginger, peeled and sliced
1 cinnamon stick
2 long strips tangerine peel
6 Fuyu persimmons
Juice of two tangerines

In a large saucepan, combine the water, sugar, honey, ginger, cinnamon and tangerine peel. Bring to a boil, then reduce heat and simmer for 5 minutes.

While the syrup is simmering, remove the stems and, if necessary, the cores from the persimmons and slice into 4-8 wedges, depending on how ripe the fruit is. If they are underripe, err on the side of smaller wedges. Very ripe fruit should be quartered or even halved to prevent it falling apart once poached.

Add the persimmon wedges to the syrup, return to a simmer, and continue cooking just until the fruit is tender but still intact. Immediately transfer to a large serving bowl, and stir in the tangerine juice.

Let the persimmons cool to room temperature, then remove the ginger, cinnamon stick, and tangerine peel. Also fish out any of the persimmon wedges that are falling apart, and reserve for eating for breakfast with yogurt or oatmeal.

Serve the more-presentable intact persimmon wedges over a plain cake or spoon over rice pudding.

Notes:

Really, seriously, for the love of your tastebuds, do not think of trying this recipe with Hachiyas. If they’re ripe enough to eat, they’ll just turn into soup the minute they hit the poaching liquid, and if they’re not ripe, I shudder to think of the nasty, bitter mess you’ll get.

On a less cautionary note, I’m currently thinking that this syrup would also be a good match for underripe peaches, when they first start appearing in late spring.

Read Full Post »

Two for the Price of One

Speaking of ginger — and with me, you pretty much always are — I’d like to share one of my favorite fall desserts and/or breakfasts: poached pears.

A perfectly ripe pear is an autumnal joy all by itself, but when the pears are not quite ripe or are a little on the grainy side, poaching them erases all sins. Using a plain light syrup gives you a soft, unpretentious result reminiscent of the canned pears we probably all loved as kids, but adding grown-up flavorings to the liquid or using wine or juice instead of water elevates the simple fruit to heights of sophistication.

Naturally, ginger is one of my favorite additions to the poaching syrup, but that’s just the start. Although I once thought nothing could supplant allspice in my “where have you been all my life?” affections, lately I can’t keep my hands off the jar of Szechuan peppercorns. These little pink gems look like miniature red popcorn kernels, smell like a cross between citrus and roses, and add just the right hint of delicious mystery. To play supporting alto to their trilling soprano, I add an equal amount of black peppercorns, rendering a subtly challenging syrup that makes both the pears and your tastebuds go “hmmm”.

As a bonus, any syrup left after you’ve fished out the last of the pears can be mixed with fizzy water to yield a subtly spicy pear-and-ginger soda, or stirred into unsweetened iced tea for a flavor Snapple only wishes they’d thought up.

Pears Poached with Ginger and Szechuan Peppercorns
Serves 4-6, not counting leftover syrup for beverages

1 cup granulated sugar
1 thumb-sized piece of ginger, peeled and sliced
1/4 teaspoon each Szechuan and black peppercorns
3 cups water
1 quart Seckel pears or 6-8 full-sized pears

In a large saucepan, combine the sugar, ginger, peppercorns and water. Bring to a boil, then reduce heat and simmer for 5 minutes.

Meanwhile, peel the pears, cut in half, and remove the cores with a melon baller. If using full-sized pears, cut into eighths. Seckels can be left in halves.

Tip the pears into the syrup, return to a simmer, and continue cooking until the tip of a sharp knife easily pierces the pears all the way through. Let the pears cool to room temperature, then fish out the peppercorns and ginger.

Cover and refrigerate until ready to serve in your prettiest bowls, with or without ice cream, for dessert, or with yogurt and granola for breakfast. Use any leftover syrup in your favorite beverage application.

Notes:

I am a fiend for the tiny, cute Seckel variety, which make for a particularly elegant presentation, but pretty much any variety will work. In this batch, I mixed Seckels and big red Bartletts with no ill effects. Very firm varieties like Boscs will hold together really well, although you will sacrifice some of the creaminess that makes a poached pear so soothing.

You can bump up the quantity of ginger or black peppercorns to your heart’s content. Whatever you do, though, don’t add more Szechuan peppercorns unless you like your desserts with a side of Novocaine. The same compounds in Szechuan peppercorns that give them their addictively floral fragrance also make them a topical anaesthetic in larger quantities. Any more than I’ve indicated here will numb your tongue for hours.

If you can’t get Szechuan peppercorns, you could get a similar, if less dramatic, effect with a couple of star anise or a cinnamon stick plus half a vanilla bean in addition to the black peppercorns.

Read Full Post »

What Have We Here?

Swamp water? Toxic waste?

Whatever it is, it doesn’t look very appetizing, doesn’t it?

Well, this is another of those cases where looks are inversely proportional to yumminess. It’s an infused syrup for homemade ginger ale, and if you’re as ginger-obsessed as I am, it’s beauty incarnate. This syrup makes a turbo-charged version of ginger ale, a bubbly drink so intensely spicy and punchy that your head will reel in the best possible way. It’s simultaneously refreshing and electrifying, with a deeply addictive slow, sweet burn.

I love ginger so much that I make this summery cooler year-round, but it recently occurred to me that its bilgey appearance and diabolical bite couldn’t be more perfect for your Halloween party. Depending on the size of your bash, I’d double or triple the batch, and serve it out of a glass vessel suitable for a mad scientist’s lab. If your party is of the strictly grown-ups variety, you could mix in some rum for the aptly-named Dark and Stormy.

Ginger Ale Syrup
(Originally from Jean Georges Vongerichten, but see below)
Makes around 2 cups syrup, enough to serve 6-8 (assuming I feel like sharing)

1/2 pound fresh ginger, peeled
Inner parts of bottom third of 2 stalks lemongrass
1-2 dried Tien tsin peppers or other small infernal chiles, left whole
3/4 cup sugar, preferably raw (demerara or turbinado)
Seltzer or fizzy mineral water

Chop the ginger into half-inch chunks, and thinly slice the lemongrass stalks. Place both in a food processor and pulse until very fine, but not pureed.

In a small saucepan, combine the ginger mixture, chiles, sugar, and 2 cups of water. Bring to a boil, then lower heat and simmer vigorously for 15 minutes.

Let cool to room temperature, then strain through a fine-meshed strainer. The syrup will theoretically keep in the fridge for days, but it’s highly unlikely it will last longer than 48 hours once you’ve tried your first sip.

To serve, pour 4-5 tablespoons of syrup into a large ice-filled glass, and top off slowly with the seltzer or mineral water. Stir gently with a chopstick or long spoon to distribute the syrup.

Notes:

The original recipe came from Jean Georges Vongerichten, but I found it some time ago after following so convoluted a trail of hyperlinks that I’m really not sure how authentic it was even before I started tweaking.

If you don’t have access to a food processor, as I didn’t when I first tried this, grate the ginger and mince the lemongrass instead.

Read Full Post »

More Holiday Cookies

This is the gingerbread recipe I’ve been making since I can’t even remember when, probably college or just after.  Its origin is in a long-gone December issue of Vegetarian Times, but I’ve made so many changes along the way that at this point I think it’s fair to call it mine.

Although there are a lot of spices, the quantities are such that these are just nicely spicy instead of obnoxious.  The addition of the orange zest and ground almonds further mellows things out and sets them a step above your average gingerbread people.

The dough is supple and easy to roll and decorate, if you’re so inclined, but it makes perfectly good plain slice-and-bake cookies as well.  It also freezes beautifully and makes a ton, so if you’d like to stockpile for later use, it’s a great choice.

Read Full Post »

You Can Go Your Own Way

People tend to get touchy about any foods deeply tied to holiday tradition, and the humble cranberry sauce is no exception.  What seems like a simple matter of fruit and sugar has the potential to set off firestorms of difference of opinion.

My mother, for example, is a purist.  She insists on the absolute bare basics: berries, sugar, orange juice.  That’s it; no spices, no weird additions, and do not even think about chutney-izing it.  His Lordship is a fan of the congealed kind that plops out of a can in one tubular, sliceable mass — much to my initial horror, although I’ve since come to accept that we all have our food quirks and you can’t fight them.  You, for all I know, might be of the cabernet and cloves persuasion, or one of those people who blitzes raw berries and whole oranges in the food processor to create a salsa, and that’s okay too.

Me, I’m of a kitchen-sink bent.  I have been known to do all manner of messing with my Thanksgiving condimentation.  For a few years, I was determined to figure out exactly how much of my spice cabinet I could cram into there. (In case you’re curious, allspice and cranberries get along quite nicely together).  Since then, the mania has dampened and I’ve settled on a variant that is neither Mom-simple nor out-of-control wacky, one that is bright and interesting and seasonal and undoubtedly mine.

More than that, it’s me.  In this one ruby concoction is a snapshot of who I am.  Each component offers a fragment of my story and a hint about my experiences and my tastes:  cranberries for the bog obsession I developed in my New England years and quinces for my childhood, orange for my citrus addiction, ginger for all the Asian influences in my California upbringing and adult life, and vanilla bean for my food snobbery.  It all works together and, unlike my earlier spicy pyrotechnics, won’t clash with your turkey.  It’s also versatile enough to spoon over ice cream or use in my favorite post-Thanksgiving leftover application: grilled cheese sandwiches with cranberry sauce.

You’re welcome to try my story, or stick with your own.  Either way, I wish you a rich and vibrant start to your holiday season.

(Unless you’re Canadian, in which case keep up the good work!)

Cranberry Sauce with Quince, Pear and Vanilla
Makes 4 cups

One 12-ounce bag cranberries
2 fresh quinces, peeled, cored and diced OR 1/2 cup quince jam
2 ripe pears, peeled, cored and diced
1 cup granulated sugar
Grated zest of one orange
Juice of one orange, plus enough water to make 1 cup
1 pinkie-sized knob of ginger, grated (approximately 2 teaspoons)
1/2 vanilla bean, split
Pinch of salt

Pick over the cranberries and remove any squishy ones.

If using quince jam, set aside for later addition.  Combine all (remaining) ingredients in a saucepan.

Bring to a boil, then lower heat and simmer until the cranberries have popped and the quinces and pears are tender.  Remove from heat and let cool. If using quince jam, stir into the sauce as soon as it comes off the heat.

Cover and refrigerate or freeze until needed.

Notes:

Dumping the cranberries into a large bowl of cold water will help you sort them, since the really squishy ones will sink to the bottom while the good or mostly-good ones will float on the surface.  I then scoop small handfuls of the floating berries and run them between my fingers to catch the partially-squishy ones.

If you can find fresh quinces, they are absolutely worth buying, but some waste is inevitable because of the toughness of the peel and core.  If necessary, use a paring knife instead of a peeler, and slice as close as you can to the core without cutting into it to get as much of the fruit as possible.

If you can’t find fresh quinces, quince jam or paste can frequently be found at Latin American, Indian, Pakistani, Greek and Middle Eastern groceries.

Since this makes a large amount of sauce and we’re a small household even with holiday guests, I usually freeze half the batch for Christmas.  It will keep perfectly well for even longer than that month in the freezer, and that’s one less thing to do when you’re up to your eyeballs in holiday cookie baking and gift wrapping.

Read Full Post »

Sunday Night Sweets Blogging: Honey Gingerbread with Apple-Quince Compote

I am woefully behind on the blogging, and I’m afraid I still don’t have the time or energy right now to do this anywhere near as well as I’d like to, but something is better than nothing, right? Anyway, in a (probably futile) attempt to catch up, here is the Sunday project from two weeks ago: Honey Gingerbread, served with a compote of apples and quinces and topped with a generous dollop of sweetened mascarpone. While I love ordinary gingerbread, using honey instead of molasses gentles the cake, letting the spices warm and soothe you instead of being overwhelming, and serving it with the sweet fruit and the creamy cheese turns a humble snack cake into an unpretentious but still elegant dessert that could unapologetically round out a fancy meal.

Since the accompaniments are so simple (just add quinces to your favorite applesauce recipe, and stir a spoonful or two of sugar into a container of mascarpone), I will only give the recipe for the gingerbread. I will, however, encourage you to consider serving it with the garnishes, since the combination of textures and flavors is fabulous. If you don’t have access to quinces, you could use a combination of tart and sweet apples instead, but quinces add such a wonderful, exotic floral note to any fruit dessert that they are absolutely worth paying the extortionate prices whenever you can find them.

Honey Gingerbread
Serves 8-12

1/2 cup plus 2 tablespoons unsalted butter
1/2 cup plus 2 tablespoons brown sugar
1 1/2 cups honey
1 cup plus 2 tablespoons milk
2 large eggs
1 teaspoon baking soda, dissolved in 2 tablespoons warm water
2 cups all-purpose flour
1 tablespoon cinnamon
1 teaspoon powdered ginger
Pinch of salt

Preheat the oven to 325 F. Grease a 13 x 9 x 2 inch baking pan and line with parchment paper.

In a large bowl, whisk together the flour, spices and salt.

In a saucepan over medium-low heat, melt together the butter, sugar, and honey. Remove from the heat and allow to cool slightly, then mix in the milk, eggs and dissolved baking soda.

Pour the liquid ingredients into the dry ingredients and mix well. Pour into the pan and bake until firm but springy when touched, 45-60 minutes. Remove from oven and allow to cool completely in the pan before cutting into squares.

Notes: This gingerbread, like any gingery, cinnamony cake or cookie, will only improve if you give it a bit of time to sit. While it’s wonderful fresh from the oven, it will be even spicier and more flavorful for breakfast the next day.

Read Full Post »

Sunday Night Cookie Blogging: Multigrain Anzac Biscuits

I’ve been intrigued by Anzac biscuits for some time, because of their somewhat romantic history and their position as the pseudo-national cookie of Australia and New Zealand, and also because the combination of oats and coconut is always appealing to me. Despite the fascination in principle, I’d never actually tried one, so I decided to give it a go for this week’s Sunday cookie blogging. It was only after tracking down what seemed to be the most-cited recipe on the web that I realized I did not have any plain rolled oats left, after using them up on last week’s rhubarb bars. I did have a multigrain rolled cereal instead – comprising oats, wheat, rye, and barley – which His Lordship likes to have for breakfast on occasion. What the hell, I thought, and decided to give them a try. I also opted to add some ginger.

The recipe was very quick to prepare and left a minimal mess in my kitchen, since you don’t use the mixer, making it a good candidate for Sunday-night baking. The cookies turned out rather darker brown than I’d expected, but are very crisp and pleasant-tasting. I’m not sure if you really notice the fact that it’s multigrain, but in this context, I think that’s probably a good thing. You might be able to sneak some whole grains into your kid’s diet this way.

Next time, just to see if I can tell the difference, I think I’ll try it with plain oats, use light brown sugar instead of dark, leave out the ginger, and add macadamia nuts, based on one of the other variations I found on my Google trek.

Multigrain Anzac Biscuits
Makes 3 1/2 dozen

1 cup all-purpose flour
1 cup mixed-grain rolled cereal (or rolled oats)
1 cup dried unsweetened coconut
1 cup brown sugar
1 tsp ground ginger
1/2 cup unsalted butter
2 tbsp Lyle’s Golden Syrup
1 tsp baking soda
2 tbsp boiling water
Preheat oven to 350 F. Line baking sheets with parchment paper.

Combine the flour, cereal, coconut, sugar and ginger in a medium-sized bowl.

In a Pyrex liquid measuring cup, melt the butter and Golden Syrup together in the microwave. Mix the baking soda with the water and add to the butter mixture, then pour the mixture into the dry ingredients and stir until combined.

Scoop tablespoon-sized balls of dough onto the baking sheet, leaving two inches between cookies. Bake for 15 minutes, or until golden brown and firm.

Cool completely on a wire rack, and store in an airtight container.

Read Full Post »

Sunday Night Cookie Blogging: Tinkering with a favorite

It’s been a while since the last round of Sunday night cookie blogging, and since I was nowhere near energetic enough to attempt any confectionary pursuits tonight, I decided to revert to one of my favorite cookies, the molasses spice cookie. Soft, chewy, warm with cinnamon and sharp with ginger, this cookie seems to please nearly everyone, and as an added bonus, the recipe I use most often is a snap to put together at the last minute because you melt rather than soften the butter.

The original recipe, from The Village Baker’s Wife, is fabulous on its own, but that doesn’t mean I can be trusted to leave well enough alone. I’ve been tinkering with it in various ways since the second batch, when I added crystallized ginger bits, and this time, I decided to push it even further. A while ago, I wondered what would happen if I added Chinese five spice powder to ginger cookies, and was pleased enough with the results to increase the amount this time from a very conservative 1/4 teaspoon to a full 1/2 teaspoon. I was also intrigued by a recipe for Joe Froggers, which added rum to the dough. I was reaching for the rum when I spotted the bottle of bourbon sitting next to it, and suddenly thought that would work even better with the five spice, since it’s more assertive.

The product of all this tinkering was an even better molasses cookie, with an exotic complexity from the additional spices and a lovely aroma from the bourbon, which does play exceptionally well with the ginger and star anise. Next time, I will probably add even more ginger, of both the powdered and the crystallized variety, because nothing is ever gingery enough for me, but I think the five spice/bourbon combo is a keeper.

Five-Spice Molasses Cookies
Makes approx. four dozen

3/4 cup (1 1/2 sticks) butter
1 cup granulated sugar
1/4 cup molasses
1 large egg
1 tablespoon bourbon
2 teaspoons baking soda
2 cups all-purpose flour
1/2 teaspoon Chinese five spice powder
1/2 teaspoon ground ginger
1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/4 cup crystallized ginger bits

1/4-1/2 cup raw or turbinado sugar, for coating

Preheat the oven to 375 F, and line several baking sheets with parchment paper.

Sift together the flour, baking soda, spices and salt.

Melt the butter and place in a large mixing bowl, allowing it to cool to room temperature. Once cool, add the granulated sugar, molasses, egg, and bourbon, and mix well. Add the sifted dry ingredients and stir until barely blended, then stir in the crystallized ginger. Cover the bowl and chill for at least 15 minutes.

Place the raw sugar in a small bowl or plate. Scoop out the cookie with a tablespoon-sized scoop and roll into one-inch balls, coating each ball with the raw sugar. Place the coated balls two inches apart on the cookie sheets. Bake 9-10 minutes, allowing the cookies to cool on the sheets for several minutes before removing them to a rack.

Notes: I would think that you’d want a good-quality bourbon here, with enough spicy undertones to compliment the spices in the cookie. Since His Lordship is picky about his bourbon, we keep the top-shelf stuff around anyway.

I keep the Ginger People’s crystallized ginger baking bits around for cookies and the like, since it’s easier than chopping bigger chunks of ginger, which tend to try to glom back into a mass rather than distributing evenly into the cookie batter. If you can’t find the baking bits or don’t want to bother with an additional product (and I’d hardly blame you), it would be a good idea to finely chop the larger chunks and then toss them in a bit of extra sugar so they’ll separate into discrete bits.

If you don’t have raw or turbinado sugar, you can use an additional amount of granulated sugar for dredging, but the bigger crystals add a really lovely glittery quality to the finished cookies, as well as a hint of crunch.

Read Full Post »