NYCookery

Summer Haitus

nycookery@gmail.com (Erin) — Thu, 18 Jun 2009 11:35:00 +0000

Despite the facts that it been unseasonably cold, and that it has rained almost every day in June in the Big Apple, it is indeed summer. And summer means project time here at NYCookery. I'll be taking a cooking break for the next couple of months in order to build a shiny new website that will be the most bad ass of its kind. Expect more stories from all of those little corners of New York (and beyond) that you didn't even know existed (like Bay Ridge!) when I return.

See you in the fall...

End of post.

The Highest Quality

nycookery@gmail.com (Erin) — Wed, 03 Jun 2009 11:11:00 +0000

In case you didn't get enough of my webisode featuring John Payne and his WASP-style pasta sauce, you can also check it out the high quality of Vimeo by clicking here.

End of post.

WASP Pasta Sauce: The Recipe

nycookery@gmail.com (Erin) — Thu, 28 May 2009 10:38:00 +0000

Are you curious how to make this:

into this?

Wait no longer. This is the recipe for John Payne's WASP-style pasta sauce. The story behind the sauce (a webisode!) can be retrieved here and the story behind the story of making the sauce can be found here. Recipe after the jump.

John Payne's WASP-Style Pasta Sauce

Serves 6

2 tablespoons canola oil or other oil with high smoke point
1/2 sweet onion, chopped

3 cloves garlic, minced

2 cups mushrooms, sliced
1 can of Campbell's tomato soup

15 oz can peeled cherry tomatoes in juice

35 oz can of San Marzano tomatoes

1/2 cup Mediterranean olives

2 Quorn chicken cutlets

2 Veggie Burgers (Morningstar farms spicy black bean burgers are preferred by John)

1/4 cup basil, ripped
1/4 cup parsley, chopped

1 lb pasta

1/2 cup grated parmesan
Salt and pepper to taste

Heat pan over medium high heat and add oil one tablespoon oil. Add onions. Reduce flame to medium and saute until soft. Add garlic and cook until fragrant about 2 minutes. Increase heat to high and add mushrooms.

In separate skillet, heat remaining oil. Fry quorn chicken patties and veggie burgers until crispy on the outside and cooked through, about 3-4 minutes per side. Remove from heat and cut into bite-sized chunks. Set aside.

Add tomatoes, olives, and veggie meats to pot. Bring to a boil, then reduce to simmer and cover. Let cook 30 minutes. Add herbs and cook for 2-3 minutes more, or until wilted. And you saw the cooking process. Pretty standard, with the understanding that the sauce should thicken after about 30 minutes of simmering so that it becomes stew-like. Salt and pepper to taste.

After sauce has been cooking for 15 minutes, cook pasta until al dente (about 8-10 minutes).

Once sauce is thickened, and pasta cooked, spoon pasta onto plate (about one cup cooked pasta), top with sauce (to taste), and shredded cheese. Serve immediately.

WASP Pasta Sauce: The Webisode

nycookery@gmail.com (Erin) — Mon, 25 May 2009 11:25:00 +0000

Welcome to NYCookery's first webisode. John Payne generously offered to make me his WASP pasta sauce - a favorite of his growing up in New England - a famous dish of his grandmother's and one of the only he actually knows how to make. For the back story on how this video came to be, click here. Watch, learn, enjoy.

Next up: the recipe.

End of post.

WASP Pasta Sauce: The Preview

nycookery@gmail.com (Erin) — Tue, 12 May 2009 12:08:00 +0000

Mark Annotto and John Payne met in Lewiston, Maine as undergraduates at the small liberal arts school, Bates College, where together they sang in an a capella group, played ska, and bonded while toasting hot dogs in John’s Hot Diggidy Dogger. The two—sardonic and self-deprecating—have been somewhat of a creative duo ever since. After four years in New England, they formed both the Armed and Ridiculous Brooklyn Comedy Collective and the “post-geek-synth-rock” band, Puppetbox (named as such while John sat, literally, on a trunk full of puppets during a brainstorming session).

Through Armed and Ridiculous, Mark and John created sketch comedy bits that morphed onto the screen. Their inaugural short, The Underground: NYC Ping Pong, which, Mark claims, “is one of the century’s most mystifyingly un-funny [films],” was accepted to several festivals despite his modesty about its quality. The two also created a series of semi-biographical silent shorts about the trials and travails of a 27 year-old virgin (I will not share here which of the two arrived at that age as such) told through puppets—a second place winner at the 2006 MTV Labs Desktop Film Festival.

For months, John (who shares my affinity for artistic theatrics and who has studied at the London School of Puppetry and has created his own short plays for New York’s puppet slam, PUNCH) had insisted that NYCookery would be a great show and that his friend, Mark, would be perfect for shooting webisode with his “fancy camera.”

I avoided the topic. After years as an actor and doing student films, the desire to be onscreen had been completely squelched. But then one evening not too long ago, I finally met Mark and John for some beers and, over a basket of popcorn, the two talked enthusiastically about the possibility of a creating a cooking video. Their excitement about the project began to tickle my interest.

However, there was only one problem: since Mark had to do the filming, that meant John had to do the cooking. As it turns out, John does not cook (he said something along the lines of, “I know how to make a mean omelet. Well, I used to. I mean I haven’t made one for a long time, but I’m good at it. That and sandwiches.”) But he had an idea—he could make his grandma’s famous pasta sauce. "Great!" I thought. "Everyone loves a good pasta sauce!" Then he told me the secret ingredient: Campbell’s Tomato Soup. As in the stuff in the can. That orangey goo that comes out in clumps.

My eyes widened. Mark averted his gaze and stuffed his face with some popcorn. Then, sheepishly and in defiance of his Italian heritage, he told me that he had eaten it, and that it was “actually really tasty.” I looked back at John, who smelling my fear like a shark does blood in water, said, “I’m not telling you what else I put in there.”

God knows what they slipped in my drink, but I said yes.

Aspic a la Argentine: The Recipe

nycookery@gmail.com (Erin) — Mon, 27 Apr 2009 02:03:00 +0000

As we lifted our forks to enjoy our aspic, Veronica stated, "this is a great summery thing." True that, Veronica. Paired with a salad, this vegetarian take on a meaty French tradition will be a great compliment to the hot weather ahead of us. Don't let the ingredients list intimidate you; though there are many components, this aspic is actually relatively simple to prepare.

(For part one of this story click here, and for part two, here.)

Leandro Carbonell's Vegetarian Aspic
2 large carrots, peeled, cut in half, and sliced into 1/3" pieces
2 tablespoons dried chives rehydrated in 2 tablespoons water, then drained
1/2 lb cottage cheese
4 oz whipped cream cheese
1 oz Roquefort cheese
2 tablespoons pecorino romano, grated
3 tablespoons chopped Italian parsley
1/2 tablespoons celery seeds, crushed
1 teaspoon olive oil
1 can heart of palm, stalks cut in half
1/2 teaspoon hung lui (optional)
2 large celery stalks, sliced thin
1/2 teaspoon lemongrass powder
4 ounces plus one teaspoon agar agar powder
7 cups water
3 slices dark German rye
Salt
Pepper

Boil 2 1/2 cups water. Once rolling, add two ounces agar agar powder. Stir well until dissolved. Add hot liquid into 9X5 metal mold or loaf pan until it reaches a depth of 1/8" or 1/4" (thickness of the jello is entirely to taste). Place in refrigerator.

While agar agar hardness, steam peeled and sliced carrots until fork tender (about 5-6 minutes). Once steamed, shock in an ice bath. Set aside.

In a bowl mix together cottage cheese, whipped cream cheese, Roquefort, and pecorino romano until smooth. Add chopped parsley, rehydrated chives, celery seeds, olive oil, hung lui (if using), and 1/2 teaspoon agar agar powder to the cheese mix. Stir well and then season with salt and pepper.

Boil 1 1/4 cups water. Add one ounce agar agar powder and stir until powder is dissolved. Add 1 cup of the liquid to the cheese mixture, mixing well. Place in refrigerator.

Once the agar agar in the mold is solidified, layer sliced carrots over it until completely covered, slicing carrots as necessary to fill the pan in one even layer (see picture).

Layer heart of palm over the carrots in one even layer.

Remove cheese mixture from refrigerator and spread over vegetables.

Cover cheese mix with two thinly-sliced celery stalks, 1/2 teaspoon lemon grass powder, and pinch of salt.

Cover the entire cheese mixture with German rye.

Ensure that the entire aspic is covered with one even layer of bread. To do this, place one slice of bread at one end of the pan and another at the other end. Cut a third piece of bread to fit in the gap between the two slices, making a snug bottom crust.

In a pot prepare 1 1/4 cups water and one ounce agar agar powder until powder is dissolved. Spoon agar agar over the bread until entirely covered by the liquid, about one cup.

Refrigerate over night. Before serving boil remaining two cups water and pour into a large baking dish. Place pan bread-side up into the boiling water and run a knife around the edge to loosen the aspic.

Cover the aspic with a platter. Hold the edges of the platter and the pan tightly and flip over. The aspic should come out whole.

Cut aspic into 1" slices and serve.

Aspic a la Argentine: Part II

nycookery@gmail.com (Erin) — Thu, 23 Apr 2009 04:33:00 +0000

This is part two of this series. For part one, click here.

We inspected the "silicon boob" that was Leandro's agar agar experiment. The disc was opalescent, silky to the touch, and shone like a jewel in the light of the setting sun. Unexpectedly, I had an intense urge to take a bite out of the pearly gelatin, but I fought it off -- soon enough I would know what it tasted like. Leandro returned the wobbly disc to its bowl, and then got to work removing the finished aspic from its metal mold (which he needed for the next aspic he was about to make).

He poured about an inch of boiling water into a large, shallow baking dish and then placed the pan into it. Then, he ran a knife along the periphery of the aspic to ensure that it would not stick to the sides. While he did this he told me about Argentinian cuisine "The point of [Argentinian] food is about...its freshness. There is no real Argentinian menu - it's pretty much a mix of European stuff: Spanish, French, German." A culinary combination that is reflective of the country’s rainbow of immigrants and settlers.

"Now we just have to find a platter that will fit this," Leandro said as he flung about tupperware, bowls, and other kitchen detritus while searching through his cabinets for the right plate. Finally, he settled on a rectangular steel tray. "Too bad this thing is so ugly, the aspic would look better on white." Leandro covered the aspic with the tray and quickly flipped it over.

It was a perfect terrine. "The more colored the food, the more visually engaging the dish," Leandro said as he placed the aspic into the freezer to firm it up. With the metal mold now free, he began to make a second dish. He started by steaming the carrots until they were soft and boiling a "finger" of water. While the water heated, Leandro rehydrated dried shallots and expertly sliced celery stalks, garlic, and heart of palm.

Once at a rolling boil, Leandro added agar agar powder to the water and stirred until it was dissolved. He then poured about 1/4" of the liquid into the metal mold, and let the gelatin firm up in the fridge. While he did this, I lifted the hot lid to check on the steaming carrots, burning my hand. "I think these are done," I told Leandro as I sucked my index finger. To comfort myself in my wounded state, I decided to pet the cat, Whootie. It immediately hissed and scratched my other hand. Typical. I retreated to a corner of the kitchen away from felines and heat sources.

Leandro checked on the carrots –- lifting the lid with no resulting injury –- and indicated that they were not cooked to his liking. "I am going to try to pair the consistency of the palm hearts to the consistency of the carrots. This thing is so delicate and I need to serve it to other people, so I'd rather not have to fight it when I cut it. Basically, I'm going to kill those carrots."

"Ah, so, basically if you had no teeth, you'd be able to chew this."

"Exactly."

He mixed together some creamed cheese and cottage cheese, then stirred in crumbled bits of stinky Roquefort. "My friend he said once that the only thing he would save from a burning house is the cheese. [Roquefort is] overwhelming, though, so we’re just going to give it a touch. Little shavings." He added pecorino romano, salt, olive oil, and seasonings (including something called hung liu) to the dairy mix. I found a spoon and dipped it into the white cheesy sauce. It was salty and fragrant. My hopes for the aspic lifted.

Meanwhile the agar agar in the fridge had solidified, so Leandro layered the carrots (which he had shocked in an ice bath after steaming) and then the palms on over it and the cheese mixture over that.

The last step was topping the whole thing off with German Rye and more agar agar.

Once that was finished, Leandro put the final product in the refrigerator, and removed the de-panned aspic from the freezer. He sliced it into perfect one-inch slices, then plated them. Veronica entered into the kitchen as we snapped pictures of the Leandro's creation.

"Oooh! That looks beautiful!" she exclaimed, "but - wait - the jello has no taste? What's the point of that?" Acting as though I actually knew something about aspic, I explained to Veronica that the dish was very popular in the late 19th century through the mid 20th century; however, this clearly was not a direct answer to her question. After some extensive research (uh, Wikipedia) I discovered, that people had been making and eating aspic since Medieval times. Like many age-old techniques aspic most likely first was eaten as a way to use up every part of the animal -- the gelatinous broth left over from boiling particularly bony pieces of meat (knuckles, heads) would be cooled and then jelled. With the help of the culinary genius of the French, aspic was clarified and used to create the type of terrine that I was about to eat.

As Leandro plated aspic for the four of us, we got into a conversation of good and gross foods. Brains, menudo, and most organs tipped the nasty scales for Veronica and I, but Leandro seems to love all of it. "Argentinians eat anything," Veronica explained, "especially if it's from a cow. I'll go there with [Leandro] and his mom will be like 'Eat this!' And I'll go 'I'm not exactly sure what this is. And why does it taste like balls?' But that's just me...no, most of the stuff she makes is really, really good."

We headed into the living room and sat cross-legged around the coffee table in the couple's small living room. As we lifted our forks Leandro's mother called and left a long message in Spanish -- almost as though she could sense we were about to eat the dish that she had advised Leandro how to make.

We all took a bite. The jello was flavorless and as Leandro later suggested, a little too thick on top, but the filling was totally delicious. Each of the flavors passed subtly over our palates and the distinct tastes -- hints of lemongrass, bitter celery, salty pecorino, pungent Roquefort, and briny heart of palm -- slowly emerged as I chewed.

Mao, the married pair's other cat (the one that suffers from "itchy cat syndrome" and has to be on cat anti-depressants)came over as I was eating and rubbed against my leg. "She likes everything," Veronica indicated and told me that I could give her a bite of aspic. I held out a small nibble. Mao gobbled it up, then purred, as though asking for more. Following the cat's example, I did the same.

Aspic a la Argentine: Part I

nycookery@gmail.com (Erin) — Tue, 14 Apr 2009 15:26:00 +0000

When my friend, Veronica, first sent me an email about cooking for this blog, she suggested that we do something in the spring so that we could use readily available seasonal crops. It only took us a FULL YEAR to solidify a plan. And so on a sunny, Sunday afternoon I finally found myself ringing the bell to her Caroll Gardens apartment that she shares with her husband, Leandro Carbonell.

Veronica, a PhD candidate in religious studies, had just returned from a league soccer game and left soon after I arrived to grab some sundries from the corner store. "I'll be right back! Promise. Leandro, be a good host while I'm gone," she singed and disappeared out the front door.

Leandro, a video editor and native of Buenos Aires, had taken care to be ready for me when I arrived. (Turns out that when Veronica first told me that she would like to cook for me, she really meant her husband. Veronica later indicated, "Leandro shall cook. I'll just lounge around waiting to be served, as God intended.") His dish of choice? That savory, molded jello we know as aspic.

I was dubious, but since the French have been enjoying aspic (also called cabaret, and, when mixed with cream, chaud-froid) for centuries and since they know a thing or two about cooking, I tried to keep an open mind.

Leandro decorked a bottle of wine and said in thickly-accented English, "I called my mother and asked her how to make aspic." His parents, both of whom continue to reside in Argentina, are responsible for Leandro's skills. "There was a party every weekend, my parents would cook and invite people over... They are great cooks. My father even has a first prize [from a local contest] for an asparagus mousse." Once in high school, Leandro often made family meals during the week and spent many of his spare hours experimenting and learning his way around the kitchen. Despite decades of experience, however, he continues to rely on his mom and dad for cooking tips and tricks.

"My mother gave me a lot of guidance for this dish, but really my specialties are roasted meats and stuff like that." He poured me a glass of wine and led me to the living room - dense with knick knacks, decorations, books, and other accumulated, but organized flotsam - where he sat me down in front of his computer to show me pictures of some of the meals that he had previously created. There was documentation of caramelized roasted vegetables, browned sides of meat, and roasts bubbling over with juices. And we were going to eat bread and vegetables preserved in boiled algae? Great.

We headed back into the kitchen to begin the cooking lesson. Leandro explained that he decided to make a vegetarian aspic and, since there would be no boiling of bones (cartilage and bone give meat-based aspic its gelatinous consistency), he had decided to use seaweed-derived agar agar as the congealing agent. He opened the refrigerator and showed me the finished version.

"I had to experiment with the agar agar because I wanted to make sure that it would work, so I just made a little and poured it into the bowl. I don't like that it is not totally transparent, but it will do." Leandro produced a bowl with the jellied stuff and turned it over, unloading its contents into his hand. At this moment Veronica returned. Setting down her bags she exclaimed, "Look at that! It looks like a silicone boob."

Truer words were never spoken.

For part two, click here.

Eat some food with NYCookery!

nycookery@gmail.com (Erin) — Thu, 02 Apr 2009 11:30:00 +0000

Folks, has your lifelong dream been to listen to music themed around freedom and bondage while eating edibles that have been inspired by the same?

YOU ARE IN LUCK!

Tonight, come out to the Bowery Poetry Club for Gastrophonic Stimulation - a totally sensory experience and wild party based around a timely theme. This month, Gastrophonic Stimulation will explore Passover, which means you will have the chance to rock out while you munch on some tasty ass morsels that invoke such subjects as slavery and the plagues and, uh, Moses.

For more information, read this well-put summary written up by our friends over at Metromix.

End of post.

The Gannon Family Secret: The Recipe

nycookery@gmail.com (Erin) — Thu, 02 Apr 2009 03:02:00 +0000

This recipe includes caraway seeds. Their inclusion is entirely up to you. Both John and Noemie don't like the licorice-y bite that they add to the bread, so they omit them (admittedly, the bread did not win any local contests until Aunt Nancy took them out). Though I am a huge fan this spicy cousin of cumin, I suggest leaving the seeds out if you are not a fan of their flavor.

Serve this puppy hot. And, I suggest you do as John's mom recommends: slather a slice with even more butter and accompany it with espresso, coffee, or Irish-style tea (i.e. lots of cream and sugar).

For the story of the bread, click here and here.

Aunt Nancy's Irish Buttermilk Bread
5 cups flour
1 tablespoon baking powder
1 teaspoon baking soda
2 1/2 cups raisins
2 1/2 cups buttermilk
1 cup sugar
1 1/2 tsp salt
1/2 cup butter
3 tablespoons caraway seeds (optional)
1 egg slightly beaten

Preheat oven to 350

Grease one large (12" cast iron skillet) or two smaller (7" or 8") cast iron skillets. If you do not have a cast iron, you may use two 8" round cake pans. Mix flour, sugar, baking powder, salt, and baking soda in a bowl. Cut butter into flour mixture, work butter into the mixture with your hands until it is crumbly and resembles corn flour. Add caraway seeds (if using) and raisins. Coat the seeds and raisins thoroughly with the flour.

Add buttermilk and slightly beaten eggs. Mix with spatula until dough is just wet and almost smooth. Take care not to over mix. Spread into greased pan(s). Bake for 45 min. Test with toothpick for doneness.

Remove from oven and rub butter on the top crust of the bed. Let cool 10 minutes. Remove loaf from pan and slide onto a plate. Place in a paper bag and let cool completely or overnight. Once cooled, store in ziploc bag or plastic wrap so that it stays moist.

The Gannon Family Secret: The Tasting

nycookery@gmail.com (Erin) — Tue, 31 Mar 2009 22:50:00 +0000

This is part two of this series. For part one, click here.

The buzzer sounded and Noemie removed the hot bread from the oven. As soon as the skillet was placed onto a cooling rack, she ripped open the top of a stick of butter and began to rub it over the crust. As the cold butter met the hot bread, it melted and oozed.

After letting it rest for a bit, Noemie flipped over the heavy load and slid the lot onto a plate and into a large paper bag, where it would steam for a good ten to fifteen minutes.

Her movements were fluid and quick. The friends who had arrived to eat with us let out an uncontained applause. “You’re all lucky I didn’t drop that!” Noemie told us as she wiped her hands off on her jeans.

Unfortunately, I could not try Noemie’s bread with her. I had to do work work—like the kind that pays me, and I had not choice but to be on my way. However, before I left, Noemie packed a hunk of the loaf into a to-go bag for me. So, it was on the subway home that I got to try her creation.

I remember the first time I tried Irish soda bread. My mom had brought some home with her to accompany our traditional St. Patrick’s Day meal of corned beef and cabbage. She told me to be proud of golden dough—after all, it was a product of Ireland! The best country in the world! Forget the mishmash of heritages that comprise my ethnicity—the Polish, the Jewish, the Roma, the Austrian, and the English—all that mattered is that I was Irish. So, I ate up. And boy, was I in love.

That said, my expectations were high. On the walk to the train, I decided that I would not try Noemie’s bread until I reached my apartment. But, on the half-empty G train, the smell and warmth of the just-baked bread got to me, and I could not wait any longer. I broke into the ziplock back and ripped off a huge, tender, and steamy bite. Expectations met.

The Gannon Family Secret: The Baking

nycookery@gmail.com (Erin) — Sat, 28 Mar 2009 19:20:00 +0000

In a less confessional and older world, the key to particularly good dishes often was hoarded. They were the legacy that mothers left to their daughters, and cooks to their apprentices—golden prizes made of salt and flour and secret ingredients. Yes, there were cooking clubs, women's magazines, and recipe exchanges, but when your neighbor gave you the instructions for his babka or her jerk chicken, there was always that possibility that an ingredient or two would be missing. That tablespoon of butter? Whoops! Actually, it should be a teaspoon of vegetable oil. That habañero pepper? Mea culpa! It was really supposed to be an egg white.

And so it went with Margie Slater, John Ardolino's mother, and her sister Nancy's Irish soda bread. Weeks before I headed over to John and Noemi Lemasson's apartment, John told me that yes, there would be bread, but no, I could not have the recipe. There was "no way" that John’s mom, a “stickler” whose sister had perfected the Irish tradition for competitions and school bake sales, would just hand over the family recipe. For a blog. For everyone to read. Absolutely no way.

Well, at least that is what John assumed and had reiterated to me in a series of email conversations. However, when he told his mom about his feature on NYCookery, she happily gave over her treasure, indicating that it could only be printed as long as the loaf was named “The Gannon Family Secret: Aunt Nancy’s Irish Soda Bread.” As you wish, Margie, and a big thank you from my readers and me.

When it came time for Noemie to show me her stuff, she had placed the components that would eventually become soda bread in brightly colored bowls of various sizes. There were raisins plumping in water, flour, salt, baking soda, sugar, and the biggest cast iron skillet I had ever seen, buttered and ready to go. With The Clash as our soundtrack, Noemie, dressed in very feminine apron shirt that showed off her intricate tattoos, began to gracefully assemble the rather simple recipe. She pinched cubes of cold butter between her fingers, cutting it fully into the flour.

Noemie’s French father, also a professionally trained chef, had nurtured that her love of food. Growing up, she told me, meals were central to family life. John chimed in and talked passionately about the culinary pleasures that awaited visitors at the Lemasson household. They seemed meant for each other.

“So, wait, how did you all meet?” I asked. “Well, Noemie used to come in the bar where I worked with her boyfriend. And then I didn’t see her for awhile and then one time she came in by herself, so I asked her out and then we went on a date. And it was was the best date EVER.” Noemie smiled as she added buttermilk, “And now were getting married. And that's the story.” Her heart-shaped ring glinted.

Noemie turned the finish batter into the buttered skillet. "This thing is fucking heavy," as she lifted the enormous pan from the counter. “It’s a skillet bread! I guess. Wait it cooks in the oven, so, uh never mind,” John chimed in as he popped open a Guinness. “My mother halved the recipe and put it into two small cast irons, but the original is to put it into the big one. My aunt would always cook it and cut it in half and give people big halves of Irish bread. I like that style. You’re doing the right thing. Big pans. Better.” Noemie thanked John for the support and closed the oven door.

As the bread baked, we talked about local restaurants and the perfect, but simple macerated prune and mascarpone dessert served at Frankie’s 457. John, unclear on exactly what a macerated prune is, asked me to explain.

“Uh, you know, they’re macerated in wine. Liked soaked in the shit. I think that’s what macerated means. Now I’m doubting myself. It’s when you soak it in an acidic substance, right? Actually, now I’m not sure. I just use the word. Apparently everything I say is bullshit.”

“Yea, I macerate things, too,” John teased as he verified the term in Joy of Baking, “this is my meatloaf, I macerated it. I’m going to say it all the time. At work I say, ‘macerate that document, see how it comes out.’” We verified my assumption (I was right, of course) and moved to the couple’s kitschy dining room, where we drank coffee and talked about Paula Dean’s affinity for fats (I swear I saw that women drink melted butter once) while batter and oven bonded...

Click here for part two.

St. Paddy's Beef: How To

nycookery@gmail.com (Erin) — Fri, 20 Mar 2009 11:25:00 +0000

John Ardolino, though he received inspiration from the Internet for his brining solution, added some personal touches to the process. I can't speak enough about how good this homemade corned beef is. Try it at home, and, like John said, let it marinate for the full seven days. You won't be disappointed!

Do you have a favorite brining recipe? Let me know about it by leaving a comment!

(Thanks to John for all of the pictures of this process!)

John Ardolino's Home Brine for Corned Beef

Ingredients
1 (8-10 lb) beef brisket
4 garlic cloves, peeled and cut in thirds

The Brine
2 quarts water
1 cup kosher salt
1/2 cup white vinegar
4 tablespoons sugar
3 bay leaves
1 teaspoon peppercorn
1/2 teaspoon mustard seeds
1 pinch ground cloves

The Simmering Liquid
Water
1 teaspoon peppercorn
1/2 teaspoon mustard seeds
1/2 teaspoon whole allspice
1/4 teaspoon whole cloves
4 garlic cloves, sliced
1 bottle Harp or lager of your choice

The Vegetables
10-12 large carrots, scrubbed and cut into thirds
10-12 medium-sized russet potatoes, peeled and halved
2 large cabbages, quartered

Combine the brining ingredients in a large pot. Bring to a boil, then cool completely.

Place the beef brisket, the cooled brine, and 4 garlic cloves in a huge plastic roasting bag. Do not use a garbage bag. Plastic roasting bags can be purchased from your local grocer or butcher.

Ensure that all of the meat is covered completely by the brine (cutting the brisket in pieces if you need to), tie off the bag tightly, and then bag it a again OR place in a pot large enough to hold it. Refrigerate for 7 days, turning occasionally.

After 7 days, remove brisket from the brine. Discard the brine.

Rinse the meat thoroughly, then place in a Dutch oven or large pot. Add enough water to come up cover the meat 2/3 or 3/4 the way. Add the simmering liquid ingredients, and bring to a boil. Remove any scum that rises to the surface. Add bottle of Harp or lager of your choice.

Reduce heat to a low simmer and cook, covered, for at least 3 - 4 hours. One hour before the meat is done cooking, add the carrots, potatoes, and cabbage.

Remove meat from simmering liquid and let rest for 10-15 minutes. Serve sliced into 1-1.5" pieces and with vegetables. Great for sandwiches, too.

St Paddy's Beef: Part II

nycookery@gmail.com (Erin) — Wed, 18 Mar 2009 03:58:00 +0000

This is Part II of this series. For Part I, click here.

Because the meat was going to take so long to cook, I had come prepared to do some work at a coffee shop during that time. Of course, as soon as I went searching for a place to perch, I ended up shopping instead. The recession has it's bonuses, most markedly the vast amount of sales that dot the retail landscape. However, except for some horseradish mustard and Grey Poupon, I went back to Noemie and John's empty handed. Just cuz stuff's cheap don't mean it's pretty.

While I was out stimulating the economy, the future husband and wife were doing the same. Apparently, after I left, they had a real "urge" to play Sorry. So they trekked in light rain to several neighborhood stores before finding a board at a local Rite Aid. Something about a pair of adults walking the streets of Brooklyn to track down a game meant for seven-year-olds warmed my heart.

When I returned, wafts of allspice, cloves, and peppercorns permeated the house. It smelled heavenly. But it wasn't time to eat yet; first, Noemi was going to make me some Irish soda bread (the subject of my next post). So we did what came naturally - we talked and drank enough coffee to give me the shakes for days. Several times in the middle of our conversation, John added a staccato "I'm hungry" and "I want that corned beef!" Noemie responded by looking longingly at the boiling pot.

It was just about 6:30pm, a good four hours after we had begun, when John started looking at his watch. Three friends of theirs had been invited to partake in the corned beef experiment. They were late, and the minutes passed painfully.

Unable to wait, John put a small potato on a cutting board and cut it into bits. The tuber was saltly from the brine, and juicy and oily from that meat. My mouth watered. Noemie gave John a high five, "Good job, baby! I think that beer really added good flavor." John tipped his glass of Guinness at her in reply, then removed all of the meat from the pot and laid it out on a cutting board. He let it rest for a good 15 minutes; in that time the couple's friends arrived with bread and brews to share.

"Ok, so I'm putting a curfew on our hanging out. 10pm. That's it. This daylight savings time is messing me up." John announced as he sliced the meat into generous portions, plattered the cabbage, and spooned up the spuds. I wondered if we could actually eat our way through the glistening and steaming piles of food in such a short amount of time (we would eat all of it goddamit!). "You guys hungry?" We responded with a slow, Homer Simpson-eque "mmmmm." Kevin, one of the friends there to dine, watched John closely. "So, this is like a one pot meal, huh? Do you brine it? Like, in salt water?" he asked. John explained the process. Later, Kevin told us that despite being a first-generation American from a family of Irishmen, his mother pooh poohed traditional Irish fare, so, despite his heritage, he was unfamiliar with the meat's preparation.

Hoping to prompt everyone to sit and eat, I anxiously took a seat in the dining room ahead of the rest of the group. The sooner we were at the table, the sooner my stomach would be satisfied. I could barely contain my excitement. Finally, John began bringing in the dishes from the kitchen and, after he set his iPod to play some traditional Irish fiddlin' tunes, we dug in.

The corned beef was brown on the outside and only slightly pink in the middle, not the traditional deep rose color due to the lack of sodium nitrates. It was tender, fatty, and deeply flavorful. The exact way the meat should be. The vegetables - carrots, cabbage, and potatoes - had absorbed the tastes of the pungent allspice, bay, and clove. I helped myself to three plates of the stuff. It rarely gets better than this.

The group of us laughed and ate and laughed and ate until our cheeks and stomachs hurt. When it came time to leave, John and Noemie presented me with an amazing gift - a doggy bag filled generously with the night's treats. While I rode the subway home in a food-induced coma, I congratulated John with a mental high five.

St Paddy's Beef: Part I

nycookery@gmail.com (Erin) — Mon, 16 Mar 2009 23:01:00 +0000

Where I'm from, St. Patrick's Day is like Christmas. In Chicago, ole Paddy is revered by many Irish and non-Irish who, on his day, venture to the South Side by the droves wearing their pleated khaki pants, kelly green collared polos, and shamrock headbands to celebrate the bastard. They pound beer after dyed-green-beer and shoot Irish car bombs, until they can no longer remember the words to "When Irish Eyes Are Smiling." Not that they ever really knew them.

I hated the holiday.

But here in the Big Apple St. Paddy is more Eugene Mirman than George Carlin - an appreciated, but subdued figure in the minds of New Yorkers - and so when John Ardolino - a terrific actor and puppeteer that I met through the fantastic company, Drama of Works - asked me over to taste his home-brined corned beef (one of my favorite foods), I realized that maybe his day could be enjoyed. I decided to drop my grudge and to get into the spirit.

As I walked up the stairs to John Ardolino and Noemie (no-ee-mee) Lemasson’s large Carroll Gardens brownstone apartment, I was greeted by cardboard cutouts of leprechauns that adorned the walls outside their door.

Inside, the two had decorated their apartment with green crepe paper, though the abode seemed rather perma-festy: one wall was lined with a collection of snow globes, a plastic skeleton from some unknown high school class sat in a chair in their dining room, a well-loved but not-functional-looking 1950s radio stood in a corner, and knickknacks abounded.

The cooking had begun much before I stepped out of a gypsy cab on that drizzly day. Five nights earlier, John had begun brining brisket – coaxing it to metamorphose into corned beef by means of a salty and spicy bath. He had debated on and off whether or not to make the Irish culinary tradition from scratch, and finally had decided for it. I was happy about the decision. For the purposes of this blog, boiling already cured corned beef with a packet of packaged spices seemed like cheating.

We started soon after I arrived. John removed the meat from the turkey roasting bags it was stored in, and rinsed it under cold water. Because John had decided not to use the preservative saltpeter in the brining process, it had turned a dull gray from oxidation. The color of, you know, rot.

After debating for quite sometime the opaque recipe directions to fill the pot with water "three-quarters to the meat," John put the giant metal vessel on the stove and wiped his hands together. "All right, well, see ya later! I've got some plans."

He was kidding of course, but there was not much to see - this first part really was just an opportunity for me to snap photos. Noemie and I sipped strong coffee and John drank a Guinness while we chatted and chopped up the cabbage, potatoes, and carrots that would be added once the scum was scraped from the water.

"Shit," John said, interrupting conversation guided by random thoughts that ranged from subjects such as Brooklyn blogs, the couple's courtship and recent engagement, and our native lands (John and Noemie are from Connecticut and New Jersey respectively), "I wanted to add some beer to this." Noemie assured him that it wasn't too late, so he poured in the contents of a bottle of Harp.

After all, it would be three hours, at minimum, before we ate.

Click here for Part II.

The Puppet Men Cometh

nycookery@gmail.com (Erin) — Thu, 26 Feb 2009 11:50:00 +0000

In the next few weeks, I'll be cooking with people that I connected with over puppets.

Yes. Puppets.

One of my weird creative hobbies, I cut my stage teeth at the visual-arts focused company, Redmoon Theater in Chicago. Through shadow-, papier-mache-, rod-, hand-, found-, toy-, and even stuff-animal puppets, I have bonded with some of my closest friends, expanded my social network, and found a new community in New York. And, I swear, these people are some of the most inventive and normal I know. Well... maybe the latter is a bit of an overstatement.

So, what should you expect? Corned beef by John Ardolino, Drama of Works associate director, and a soup-based sauce by John Payne (and the subject of my first webisode - to be filmed by his bud and Puppetbox bandmate, Mark Annotto), former student of the London School of Puppetry. Surprises, I am sure, will abound.

Raisin the Bar with Kugel: The Recipe

nycookery@gmail.com (Erin) — Sun, 22 Feb 2009 17:39:00 +0000

The best part about kugel is that it is served at dinner, but really tastes just like dessert. Just in time for Passover, too.

Ali Hart's Raisin Kugel
1 lb egg noodles
1/2 stick melted butter
3 large eggs
1 cup sugar
1 tsp cinnamon
1 cup raisins
2 tsp vanilla
2 tsp salt
4 tbsp orange juice
1/2 tsp nutmeg

Set oven to 350 and grease a 9X13 baking dish.

Cook noodles according to package directions, drain in a colander. Run cold water over hot noodles to make sure they stop cooking. In a mixing bowl, whisk remaining ingredients (it will be runny). Pour mixture into prepared pan and bake for 45 minutes to one hour, or until top is just browned.

Raisin the Bar with Kugel: The Finish

nycookery@gmail.com (Erin) — Fri, 20 Feb 2009 00:48:00 +0000

This is part two of Raisin the Bar with Kugel. For part one, click here.

While we relaxed between videos and in between conversations about relationships and exes that I could not possibly include here, Ali said "I'm trying to think about what I can tell you about this that would be interesting...Well I am Jewish, this is my one Jewish dish, and also my one dish." We laughed. Then, when I realized that that was the extent of her story, we laughed even more. "Man, I think I'm just really out of it!" Ali got up to check on the water. "What else can I tell you? Um, I like to buy the Pennsylvania Dutch egg noodles... for no reason." Maybe because of the doves on the logo? Ali's love for the Amish? Who can tell. Who can tell.

Ali picked up the lid. "The package says bring to a rapid boil. What's the difference between boiling and rapid boiling? I don't even know how to cook pasta, apparently." I peaked into the pot and assured her that it was time.

We gossiped some more and after a few minutes I asked, "So how long do you boil this for?" which induced a little bickering between us. Being old friends is just like being an old married couple.

"It doesn't say. I think just until they're ready." Ali told me.

"I don't think you'd want to boil them all the way they're totally ready. Because they'd get like mush."

"Wait, it says 'cook as directed.'"

"But I don't think you do that. You cook them until they're almost done."

"Well... then they'll get too crispy."

"They'll definitely become mush if you do it all the way."

"Uh uh!"

"All right. Well, we'll do it your way."

"If it says to do it as they they're supposed to be cooked. That's how you do it."

Boop, boop, boop. Saved by the cell.

Ali pulled out an extremely long, funny-looking pot holder that had two hand pockets on each end to use to pick up the large and steaming metal vessel.

"Everyone always makes fun of me for this, but it's my grandma's mitt. And also this is my giant grandma pot. Everything is grandma. Even the Jewish part." After she dumped the noodles into a colander, Ali turned on the water to ensure that they stopped cooking and then set the oven temperature to 350 degrees.

Ali tested the noodles with her hand to make sure that they were cool, then returned them to the pot. She added the egg mixture that she had blended earlier and stirred the ingredients together.

Once everything was well mixed, she dumped everything into the prepared baking dish...

...and placed it in the hot oven.

Yes, the baking pan was cool to the touch at this point, but apparently Ali uses every opportunity to utilize the grandma mitt.

The kugel had to bake for 45 minutes, so we checked out more videos, watched Saturday Night Live snippets, and messed around on Facebook. Finally, the oven alarm chimed and Ali went to the kitchen to remove her creation. "Make sure you bake the kugel on the middle rack, because if it's too high up or too low, the kugel will get too crispy," she said as she removed the pudding and placed it on the counter. Typically, one should eat kugel at room temperature, but I wanted some right then, so Ali cut off a generous piece for me.

Now, admittedly, I am a die-hard kugel lover, but Ali's kugel is particularly good. The texture created by the golden brown top and the moist center satisfied my desire for chewy and crunchy, while the rich, eggy, buttery custard that acts as a glue to hold the dish together was perfectly accented by a soupcon of cinnamon and nicely punctuated by juicy bursts of raisin sweetness. Simply delicious.

After we had had first and second helpings of the noodle delight, Ali packed me a tupperware of leftovers. It was gone by midnight.

Raisin the Bar with Kugel: The Beginning

nycookery@gmail.com (Erin) — Thu, 19 Feb 2009 11:53:00 +0000

When I arrived to Ali Hart's Prospect Heights apartment, her door was ajar in anticipation of my entrance. Inside, her shared third-floor walk-up felt tropic due to an overactive radiator system. Ali, dressed in a thin T-shirt and jeans, was furiously texting as I crossed the threshold, and gave me a nasal "Hiiii" without looking up from her mid-1990s-sized phone (she insists she likes its bulk). Ali, a student of the Presidio School of Management and looking to one day enter into the world of sustainable (read "green") business development, is not much of a cook. Like she had both feet firmly planted in adulthood when she first learned how to boil pasta kind of a cook. Though, admittedly, she has come a long long way since I first met her when we were college freshman; back then she subsisted almost entirely on pizza and burgers. In fact, her food journey has been so well-traveled that she is now a vegetarian with a much expanded palate (though it still annoys me that she does not eat runny eggs. I mean come on! That's they way they should be done!).

Ali, a consummate texter, and also one of my dearest friends, spent our first minute or two together focused on her phone. Since we talk about every five minutes and since she knows just about everything I do from the breakfast that I have eaten to the subject of my recurring dreams when I was a kid (Steve Martin inviting me to his birthday party, if you want to know), I knew that Ali was capable of multitasking phone and kugel, so the "bloop bloop bloop" that sirened every so often to let her know that it was her turn in the conversation was hardly a distraction.

"So, Ali, what are you going to make me?" She set her phone down and walked over to the ingredients that she had splayed on her counter top. "I'm making you raisin Kugel!" Ali explained that she had been making the dish for about five years. "Is this your only specialty dish?" Ali laughingly responded, "Uh, yea. It's the only dish that I've tweaked to make better... I added orange juice to it, more raisins, and I think I may have added nutmeg or something..." Bloop, bloop, bloop.

After a quick text, she continued. "Sorry," Ali said as she set down her cell. "So, I put orange juice in because I was cooking from health books that had different kinds of sweeteners and that's why I tried orange juice." Bloop bloop bloop. Another interruption. "Do you want me to grease the pan while..." Bloop bloop bloop "...you're texting?" I asked, and picked up a stick of butter and began to rub the fat in a large Pyrex baking dish.

Ali cracked an egg into a small bowl, then dumped the gooey rawness into a larger mixing bowl and repeated the process three times. She told me that she learned the technique from her 6th grade home economics teacher, Mrs. Schmucker - just in case there was something "gross" inside the shell, one is saved from ruining a whole recipe. A good trick. Beating the eggs with a fork she said, "I also learned to make a scrunchi, and a jewelry box out of fabric... Wait." She stopped what she was doing. "I don't know why I'm doing this. You don't need to beat the eggs yet." (Later Ali told me that she "usually only make[s] scrambled eggs, so when I crack them, [beating them] is my MO") . Then she measured out sugar and spices added them to the bowl. On the stove she melted a 1/2 stick of butter.

"I didn't buy the organic raisins because they were too expensive, but don't say that on the blog because I'm supposed to be 'green' and all." Oh, whoops. I hope they don't fire her from green school for that one. As she measured and dumped the dried brown bits into the beaten eggs, Ali looked at me and asked, "So, the original recipe only called for, like, a third of a cup. It's raisin kugel! Why would you only put that little in it?"

Ali finished off the egg mixture with orange juice and vanilla, and then proclaimed that she was almost done.

"You don't have to boil the noodles before you put everything together? Wow!" I said. Ali looked at me and then let out an embarrassed giggle. "Oh shit. Fuck. I forgot about that. Ahhh! I'm so mad." We laughed. "Well, Ali, at least this will make for good blogging material."

After filling a large metal pot with water, we drank seltzer and watched some YouTubes while we waited for the water to boil.

Click here for part two of this story.

I'm baaaack

nycookery@gmail.com (Erin) — Tue, 17 Feb 2009 11:42:00 +0000

After a torrid time at the ole office (there's a recession you know) that has forced me into longer hours (oh, the calamity!), things have normalized and posting will, once again, be a regular thing here at NYCookery. Expect to hear about kugel, corned beef, and more in the coming weeks!

Kugel Prep

nycookery@gmail.com (Erin) — Mon, 12 Jan 2009 12:35:00 +0000

As Ali Hart was making me her famous kugel yesterday, the strange yet toothsome combination of ingredients that mark this sweet pudding got me thinking about the Jewish cooking genius who must have invented it - how did that chef come to the conclusion that eggs, noodles, raisins, and sugar would make for a good foodstuff? Why did he or she make it? Was it for a special event like a wedding or birthday? Or for something religious like Rosh Hashanah or a Sabbath?

The inventor of the dish may remain nameless and the occasion for which it was first made a mystery, but kugel will always hold a special place in my stomach and heart. Though a secular and definitively non-Jewish Austro-Hungarian gastronomy dominated the culture of my family’s table growing up, I remember the excitement I felt at the prospect of digging into a sweet noodle kugel at a shared Passover dinner with family friends. The dish’s crispy top and gooey, eggy center has always been a favorite treat.

My fond memories and my inquisitiveness lead me to search out more information about this Jewish casserole on the Internet. Of course, a simple Google search produced thousands of results. Now, I might be motivated enough to type the word kugel into a search engine, but there is no way that I’m spending hours figuring out what is worthwhile/true/interesting, so I turned to a trusted source: the food section of the New York Times. A search there produced two interesting articles on the food - one about kugel's recent evolution and another by Melissa Clark - owner of Brooklyn's Sweet Melissa Patisserie - on her personal experience with the dish and with an accompanying recipe. Read up, and come back later this week to learn how to make it yourself!

A New Year, A New Format

nycookery@gmail.com (Erin) — Tue, 06 Jan 2009 00:19:00 +0000

Happy New Year! I've been a little MIA for awhile traveling and baking cookies for various friends and holiday parties, but now that it's 2009, expect all sorts of delicious stories from NYCookery.

When I began this blog a number of months ago, my plan was to take a year cooking in each borough; however, I have received so many requests from other place (like Queens and Manhattan) that I have deemed it unfair to make all those cooks wait for me to get to them.

So, that said, NYCookery has spread like softened butter on a crispy baguette to the other areas of New York. I'll even be doing some field trips to other parts of the country to learn more regional recipes and tricks. Expect a bigger, better, and even more entertaining (is it possible?!) blog in the new year.

To ring in 2009 appropriately and to prepare for the next post (kugel), I've decided to provide you with a link to the best babka recipe ever known to man. Enjoy!

End of post.

Cookies for You (and for the Vegans in Your Life), The Recipe

nycookery@gmail.com (Erin) — Fri, 12 Dec 2008 13:35:00 +0000

Savory and sweet, these cookies are a nothing to feel guilty about. Sarah says that "These are good hot, better cool, and even better the next day!" Enjoy!

Sarah Warner's Vegan Pistachio and Chocolate Chip Cookies

Preheat oven to 350.

Combine in a food processor and grind into a coarse/fine meal:
1 cup raw, shelled, unsalted pistachios
4 T arrowroot
1/2 t cardamom
1 t cinnamon
pinch of cloves
1 t baking soda
1/2 t sea salt

Add:
4 T coconut oil
2 T agave nectar
1 t vanilla
8 large, pitted dates
and continue to grind until the mixture holds together like a dough

Remove the dough to a small bowl and stir in:
1/4 cup roughly chopped pistachios
as many chocolate chips as the dough will hold (about 1/2 cup)

Form into one inch spheres, then flatten these spheres to discs approximately two inches in diameter. (A little coconut oil on your hands will keep this from being such a sticky proposition.)

Place on a cookie sheet greased with coconut oil and bake for about ten minutes, until lightly browned on the outside.

Allow to cool briefly before transferring to a wire cooling rack.

Cookies for You (and for the Vegans in Your Life), Part II

nycookery@gmail.com (Erin) — Fri, 12 Dec 2008 00:38:00 +0000

This is Part II of this series. For Part I, click here.

...I put the raw batter to my mouth and let it sit on my tongue for just a minute before chewing. There was nothing offensive about the dough - in fact, it tasted really only tasted nutty and spicy, but heavy and grainy. Not shocking.

Sarah transferred the mixture to a bowl, chopped up more pistachios and added them into it along with some vegan chocolate chips (she prefers Tropical Source).

"I could use a spoon," Sarah said looking at the thick and somewhat impenitrable-looking clump, "but hands are just easier." So using what God gave her, she mixed everything together.

"What your left with is a nice, slippery dough. Also, I like to oil the pan with my hands because then you're left with nonstick skin to shape the cookies." Sarah talked to me as she rolled the dough into 2" rounds and placed them on the greased pan.

The dough darkened a little from the chocolate, which was beginning to slightly melt from being handled. It turned from a greenish-brown to a more cookie-looking chocolate brown. I could smell the blend of cinnamon and cloves from my perch about five feet from Sarah was working and found myself salivating. I actually felt excited about eating those vegan cookies.

With the palm of her hand, Sarah pressed the little spheres flat.

"I think I might have put a little too much oil in these. I'll adjust the written recipe for you blog." She frowned showing me her greased hands.

"Wait, you're not going to put this on the blog are you? 'This is my friend, Sarah, she is a hack cook.'" Whoops. There it is.

She placed the pan of cookies in a preheated oven, washed her hands, and sat down to chat as they baked. After a little lull in our conversation (probably something about boys), Sarah looked at me and her eyes brightened. "Erin, you could write about my nice kitchenware on the blog!" She explained and then got up to open her cabinets. "I have some pretty cool stuff." Indeed her shelves were stocked with handmade ceramics and kitchenware that various artist friends had given her over time, but more notable was her heavy-bottomed crystal highball glasses.

"What's that?" I asked. "Oh," Sarah replied removing a glass from the cabinet, "That's my Christofle barware." I looked at her blankly. That was some expensive stuff. I asked her how she came about it. "Well, I was working at a department store in Releigh, and I was helping people make their gift registry and it was right after college, and working with all these brides was making me pretty down, because, ya know, it was right after I graduated and these women seemed to have their shit together..." Ah, yes, I knew the feeling well.

"Anyway," she continued, "I realized I wasn't so much jealous of those ladies, but of the gifts they got. So I made myself my own registry called 'married to me.' I realized that I didn't need the husband - just the line of credit. So I got one, bought myself a bunch of expensive stuff, and took the next year paying it off." I laughed. Sarah, who I met at Penland School of Craft a number of years ago, with her sweet looking smile, light eyes, and bubbly laugh continues to suprise me with her unsuspecting behavior.

Right when Sarah finished her story, the alarm went off, signifying that it was time for some vegan treats. She removed them from the oven and, with a spatula, scooped the sweet discs from pan to cooling rack.

After a few minutes, the cookies had cooled sufficiently to eat. Without asking, I took one from the wire rack and stuffed it in my mouth. It was fucking good. The baked little discs were not too sweet - nutty, chocolatey, and spiced well. I told Sarah that I imagined them as perfect breakfast treats. She agreed as she chewed on her own treat. As I dug into my second and then third cookie, I realized that I completely had forgotten about my headache and nausea and thanked Sarah for curing me of my malaise. With a knowing smirk, she nodded, and then grabbed another cookie.

Cookies for You (and for the Vegans in Your Life), Part I

nycookery@gmail.com (Erin) — Thu, 11 Dec 2008 00:07:00 +0000

A few weeks ago, I awoke to a drizzly and unseasonably warm Sunday and also to an unprecedented hang over. It was the day after my 29th birthday and my friends had plied me with drink the night before, rendering me completely useless the next day. The only thing that could feed my painful alcohol-induced headache, I thought, was a quiet day on the couch, but I was scheduled to learn how to make vegan cookies… about the last thing I wanted to do. Sarah Warner, my teacher, called a few hours before I was to arrive and made the deal stomachable by offering me a pre-cooking lesson lunch. It was just enough to get me out of the house.

Because I was slightly nauseous, I decided to splurge on a car to travel the mile and a half to Sarah’s house. Of course, I arrived late, but, due to a mishap involving water and a hot glass baking dish, Sarah was also a little behind and happy for my tardy behavior. While we ate baked chicken, sautéed leeks, and corn muffins, and drank black coffee, I slowly began to revive.

Sarah Warner, a professional jeweler and artist, embraced cooking a little later than most, but has taken to it like she has craftwork– she is a deliberate and creative home cook. While we ate lunch she told me about her growth in the kitchen and, as she saved the bones of the chicken leg that I had just devoured, pointed out that she was also a thrifty cook. “In fact, I even have had the same bag of chicken feet in my fridge for over a year – I moved them with me hear from Richmond. Want to see ‘em?” Of course I did. Sarah opened her freezer and produced a large plastic bag of the feet and then pulled one out of their housing.

“See? They really add to chicken stock – ya know they give it a thicker, more gelatinous viscosity.” The severed claw looked a little gross, and I was happy that it was not to be featured in the cookies.

Sarah returned the appendages and went to the counter to prepare the lesson. A very self-conscious cook who suffers from several food allergies, Sarah took several months to come up with a recipe for this blog, and as she prepared for the lesson she told me that the dish was still experimental.

I pointed out that Sarah had tested the dish about a million times she responded, “I know, but I might make some final tweaks… I even compared and contrasted recipes last week.” She frowned and looked at the ingredients that sat precariously piled on a stool in her rather nice-sized, but counter-lacking Park Slope kitchen, “I just wish I had used cheaper ingredients.”

The raw pistachios, she indicated, were probably the costliest item, but also what gave the cookies their extra-nutty flavor. Roasted were acceptable, too, she told me, but the less-shelf stable raw were superior. “I’m not a big believer in veganism, but since I’ve got this dairy, gluten-free thing going, I thought I’d leave out the egg and make it more accessible to everyone.” She loaded the nuts, arrowroot powder (for binding), ground cardamom, cinnamon, and cloves into the bowl of a food processor and let her rip.

“So, this is kind of a Middle-Eastern inspired spice cookie, isn’t it?” Sarah nodded, “Yea, those were exactly the flavors that were inspiring me when I thought of this.” She turned the machine off and showed the grit-like mixture to me.

“Everything just goes into the food processor, so it’s really easy,” she continued adding coconut oil, dates, agave nectar, and vanilla to the mix.

She turned the processor on again and, when everything looked completely ground and the batter balled together, and taste-tested some of her creation. She smiled widely and offered me the same opportunity. With some hesitance, I touched the dough, well, I more poked at it. It looked greasy and unlike a normal cookie. I picked off a chunk of uncooked cookie and brought it to my lips, put it in my mouth, chewed, and swallowed...