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I have a problem bringing anything new into my apartment. (Actually, that goes for anyone too.) Say I buy a new shirt at Club Monaco. It will stay in its shopping bag until I have fully accepted that I purchased something, when I probably shouldn’t have spent the $79 in the first place, and hang it in the closet. This process might take a few days. Sometimes I get so used to the shopping bag just sitting there on the floor that it could be a week before I realize it isn't part of my living room’s décor scheme.
But sometimes when you bring something new into your house it needs to be dealt with sooner rather than later. Like last week my appliances planned a revolt behind my back. First, my 15 year old toaster started to give off the smell of burning plastic with accompanying thick smoke. After climbing up the step ladder to disconnect the piercing smoke alarm I had to toss my smelly friend for good.
Meanwhile, the precarious health of the little TV in my bedroom (which is a big luxury considering the living room and its larger TV are on the other side of the bedroom wall) began a rapid decline. The first symptom was morphing Jay Leno into a cone-head—which kind of worked because his elongated head matched his elongated chin. Then it turned Pierce Brosnan into a double amputee (I’m not sure how he managed to walk across the stage to shake Craig Ferguson’s hand) and soon after Charlie Rose really became a talking head. But it was when the little weather box on the bottom of NY1 disappeared that I knew it was time to put circa 1991 Toshiba out of his misery.
All of this translated into having to discard, and then install, two new household items immediately. It was quite unnerving. Amazon solved the toaster problem, although I wish they would just make toaster ovens like they used to. Why are there so many dials and settings? Toast and Bake are enough, thank you. No ‘convection’, ‘broil’, ‘stay on’ or ‘bagel’ options. What’s a bagel setting anyway?
The TV proved to be more of a challenge. Because of the unnecessary aspect of the bedroom set I decided waltzing into Best Buy to procure a 19” flat screen was just not going to happen. So, I hit Craig’s List. Who knew so many people were getting rid of old TV’s? I could have even gotten one for free if I hadn’t minded going to a stranger’s house in the depths of the Bronx. An art gallery was selling several sets they’d used in an exhibit. Perfect. After emails back and forth I chose a Toshiba 14” with built in DVD for $40! Okay, it was a little 2002-ish but who cares? It was For-ty doll-ars! (Make that $52, the cab home was $12). I zipped down to Chelsea and my new TV was waiting for me in its original packaging, all ready to go. I was feeling very “I Am Woman Hear Me Roar” for the first few feet I had to walk carrying the big box to the elevator. It was the ½ block down to the avenue to try, in vain, to get a taxi that caused a spasm in my back and cuts on my hands from the cardboard handles. After trudging two more blocks, and almost getting hit by a handicapped accessible van (I know, ironic), a taxi swerved to pick me up. In two seconds, and with whiplash from flying up 10th avenue at 70 miles per hour while clinging to my new television, I was home.
I snapped into action. New TV out of box, disconnect old TV and put it in the same box, clean top of bureau where the old TV had sat for 9 years (yuck) and hook up new TV. Ta-da! It worked like a charm. I took the box and old TV into the trash room and it was like nothing had happened—except I now had this hulking thing in my bedroom that looked twice as big as its predecessor. This is what I mean about getting used to new things in my apartment. I couldn’t stop staring at it and it wasn’t even turned on. What are you doing here? I wanted to ask. I missed my old TV. New guy seemed so much bigger than the old one and was infringing on my hairdryer’s bureau space. Plus, it was cutting off part of the mirror, throwing the whole room off balance. Or was I overreacting? I think we know the answer to that question. Regardless, I decided I hated my new TV and had resigned myself to living with it until I felt flush enough to go for the flat screen. And then the winds changed. Its picture is great, the blow drying station hasn’t really been affected AND now I can watch my Mary Tyler Moore DVD’s in bed!
All this to say, the other day I bought rhubarb despite not knowing what I was going to make with it. It looked so pretty in the market. And I reacted to it in the same way as I did with the shopping bag, the toaster and the TV. Who let this big, red, stalky interloper into my house and what was I supposed to do with it? Realizing that unlike the inanimate objects I had at first rejected before embracing, this rhubarb was perishable and I didn’t have the luxury of ignoring it until I was ready to accept it. Although I love strawberry-rhubarb pie I really like to wait for the local berries to hit the market before making it so I scratched that off my list. Rhubarb compote is always a pleasure but I still had the stewed prunes of a few weeks back on my brain. I decided to go with a crumb cake that was so good last summer. I love fruit in my crumb cake because it distracts me from all the butter I know I put into it. Plus, it breaks up the richness of the cake with a little something tart.
And for my next trick I’m taking a piece of cake and a glass of milk to bed with me tonight, along with Dick Van Dyke, Season One.
Welcome Home Rhubarb Crumb Cake
Martha Stewart Everyday Food
Printer friendly version
Ingredients-Streusel
6 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted, plus room-temperature butter for pan
1 cup all-purpose flour (spooned and leveled), plus more for pan
1/2 cup packed light-brown sugar
1/4 teaspoon salt
Ingredients-Cake
1/2 pound rhubarb, cut into 1/2-inch pieces
1 tablespoon light-brown sugar
1 cup all-purpose flour (spooned and leveled), divided
1/2 teaspoon baking powder
1/4 teaspoon salt
1/2 cup (1 stick) unsalted butter, room temperature
1 cup confectioners' sugar
2 large eggs
1/2 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
Directions
Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Butter an 8-inch square baking pan. Line with parchment paper, leaving a 2-inch overhang on two sides. Butter and flour parchment and pan, tapping out excess flour.
Make streusel
Whisk together butter, brown sugar, and salt.
Add flour and mix with a fork until large crumbs form. Refrigerate until ready to use.
Make cake
In a medium bowl, combine rhubarb, brown sugar, and 1/4 cup flour.
In another medium bowl, whisk 3/4 cup flour, baking powder, and salt.
In bowl of an electric mixer, beat butter and confectioners' sugar until light and fluffy. Beat in eggs, one at a time.
With mixer on low, beat in vanilla, then flour mixture.
Spread batter in prepared pan. Sprinkle with rhubarb and top with streusel.
Bake cake until golden and a toothpick inserted in center comes out with moist crumbs attached, 45 to 50 minutes. Let cool completely in pan.
Using paper overhang, lift cake from pan.
Cut into 16 bars. Note: If you are not going to consume immediately store the cake in the refrigerator. The moistness of the fruit will accelerate spoilage.
I am in the midst of an 80’s flashback and I’m trying my best to get back to 2010. It all started when I saw a documentary at The New Directors New Films festival about Bill Cunningham, an eccentric photographer who has chronicled the fashionable and the social at the New York Times for over 30 years. The film is surprisingly moving and in revealing bits of a specific, rather unconventional life it also captures the spirit of New York over decades. For me, I was sent back to the fall of 1980. Before or after a Rosh Hashanah or Yom Kippur service I was with my brother, sister and mother outside of Temple Emanu-el. We were coming or going when a strange little man came up to us waving frantically. Being 15 years old (an age few people look good in) I was mortified and tried to warn my mother of an impending creepy person attack when, rather than shielding her children, she returned his greeting with, “Hello Bill!” and the smiling, skinny man began snapping pictures of us. I wanted to die (see ‘an age few people look good in’ above) and to this day I thank the good Lord (maybe he listened to me on that High Holy day?) for the fact that the shots did not pass muster at the Times and never appeared anywhere but in a photo album secured in an undisclosed location.
After taking several days to regain my composure I was struck by another attack of the 80’s: the death of John Forsythe. I can’t begin to explain my complete devotion to “Dynasty,” that perfect video chronicle of the era of greed. I’m also not too proud to admit that I actually wanted my hair to look like Linda Evans’ winged banged do. Unfortunately, with dark, curly brown locks and blow-drying skills yet to be perfected, I did not achieve my goal until recently—25 years too late in so many ways.
Then, with only a mere 24 hours to grieve for “Blake Carrington,” I was confronted by another bit of iconic 80’s pop-culture, the news that the sequel to The Official Preppy Handbook is due out in September. You must be kidding. Do preppy people still exist? Where are they? I haven’t seen them in at least two decades. Maybe that’s because I live on New York’s West Side and no longer attend an all-girls private school. And now I’m reflecting upon my very fetching high school look—LL Bean meets a pitiful attempt at “Crystal Carrington.”
My time travel would not be complete without reminiscing over the era’s most emblematic sweets. What a treat it was when someone would bestow a David’s cookie upon me. The way the cookie bent under the weight of those Lindt chocolate slabs, so warm and melty. No wonder Chef David weighed 300 pounds! Oh, and Dove ice cream bars! The hotdog vendors fought to keep their corners while premium ice cream men tried to elbow them off their turf. There were way too many summer job lunch hours when a coffee or vanilla bar replaced my 'regular' of a Coke and a slice. But it was Mrs. Fields to whom I turned when I was feeling like I had some spare change burning a hole in the pocket of my zippered ankle Guess jeans. The chocolate chip were de-lish but the more exotic white chocolate macadamia nut usually claimed my dough (sorry, I couldn’t resist). Doesn’t the whole idea of white chocolate seem so 80’s? It’s so tacky in its over the top too-too sweetness.
With white chocolate on my brain I did something I am totally ashamed of…I bought a pre-packaged, single wrapped Mrs. Fields White Chocolate Chunk Macadamia Nut cookie at the deli on my corner. I know. I was pathetic and weak. Debbi Fields sold her company years ago and quality control, or taste, does not seem to be in the corporate interest. It was truly foul: rancid nuts, greasy chunks of what seemed to be white wax, and a fake vanilla taste that took two glasses of water to leave my palate. I took one bite, spit it into the trash and hurled the rest of the cookie and my stupidity in after it.
You’d think the experience would turn me off of the idea forever, but rather, white chocolate lingered on my brain. I knew there was a way I could erase this bad food memory so I dove into my files until I found this recipe for blondies I’d clipped from the Times magazine a year and a half ago. I am so glad I did... they're chewy, a bit crunchy from the cashews, a little salty from the Skor, with a deeper flavor that happily surprised me.
A few notes: As insurance against the above mentioned white wax threat I thought I'd use a chopped premium white chocolate bar. Who knew they all included 'artificial flavor'? Ghiradelli chips are all natural (they should be paying me something with all the props I give them, hmmn) and easier to deal with anyway. I also broke my no-nuts-in-cookies-or-brownies rule—I figured a little distraction from the super sweet combo of the “chocolate” and the Heath/Skor bar merited a loosening of my policy. The recipe called for pecans but I went with cashews since they are a dreamy combo with white chocolate. Also, you can indeed taste a hint of molasses. If that is not appealing to you just leave it out. And cross your fingers. No, I'm kidding, I'm sure they'll be fine.
These bars are just enough of an homage to the decade of excess without losing themselves completely. I’m trying to do the same but first I need to see “Hot Tub Time Machine.” Anyone want to join me? I promise to leave my shoulder pads at home.
Get Me Out of the 80's Blondies
Adapted from the New York Times, November 2, 2008
Printer friendly version
Ingredients
1 stick unsalted butter, plus more for greasing pan
1 1/3 cups flour
1/4 teaspoon baking powder
1/4 teaspoon baking soda
Pinch of salt
3/4 cup plus 2 Tablespoons sugar
1 Tablespoon molasses
1 egg, lightly beaten
2/3 cup Ghiradelli White Chocolate Chips
1 Heath or Skor bar (the regular size 1.4 ounce bar), coarsely chopped (1/4 cup)
1/2 cup cashews or pecans or macadamia nuts, coarsely chopped.
Directions
Preheat oven to 325 degrees. Butter an 8-inch square pan and set aside.
In a medium bowl, combine the flour, baking powder, baking soda and salt.
In a medium saucepan, melt the butter. Stir in sugar and molasses and transfer to a large bowl to cool.
When cool, whisk in the egg until slightly fluffy.
Mix in the flour mixture until just combined.
Fold in the white chocolate chunks, Heath/Skor Bar and nuts.
Scrape into pan.
Bake until golden, about 30-35 minutes and a few crumbs stick to toothpick or tester inserted into the middle.
Cool pan completely on rack before cutting into squares.
Yield: 16 blondies. Adapted from “Cynthia Barcomi’s Backbuch.”
For a city as large as New York it’s kind of ironic that nothing stays undiscovered for very long. Somehow the whiff of something new makes its way into the air and those with sensitive noses follow the aroma until they are part of it too. Like restaurants. Years ago I stumbled across a mention of a new place in Brooklyn that seemed to warrant a field trip from Manhattan. The thing about Brooklyn is that the people who live there always insist it is closer than it is. Okay, if you live near Wall Street I suppose it is close but for Upper West siders it is a 45 minute trip and don’t believe anyone who tells you it’s not.
When Frankies 457 Spuntino (‘little snack’ in Italian) first opened in the fall of 2004 the seven block walk from the subway through the sleepy, residential old-school Italian neighborhood was silent and dark. The restaurant is on the first floor of a sweet, little building and has a garden and what was once a stable out back with additional seating. Back then you were greeted with a warm welcome by someone decidedly new school, hip, but nice, and even if there was a bit of a wait there was always room at the bar. Well, a lot can happen in 5 ½ years. Now the explosion of restaurants and wine bars has added a buzzy soundtrack to the area. So, when Rich recently decided to celebrate his birthday at a spot he considered worthy of a East River crossing on the F train (even though a Frankies had since come to Manhattan) I was up for it, but a little concerned.
I had reason to be. I got to the restaurant first and I’d like someone to tell me if, along with banning trans-fats and alerting the sodium police, Mayor Bloomberg has issued a proclamation that every Brooklyn restaurant manager has to wear the same uniform.
Pseudo intellectual meets hipster-nerd: dark, heavy framed glasses, crewneck (or sometimes V-neck) sweater atop a wrinkled oxford shirt and, the most important part of the outfit, a blasé, too-cool-for-school attitude.
When I approached the man who wishes he was Elvis Costello and said, very nicely, that we’d be five people for dinner he consulted his tattered, spiral notebook and slowly responded, “Yeah. That’s going to be a bit of a longer wait for five? (Why did his sentence end in a question?) I’d say about two hours?”
Two hours?! Yes, the tables were full, as was the bar, but there wasn’t a Manhattan-like crowd of people waiting on the sidewalk. No one was pushing or shoving to get in. What was going on? (By the way, they don’t take reservations for parties fewer than eight.)
“Are you going to leave a name?” Mr. Surly said.
I did, as well as my cell number in case things opened up a bit earlier, although my intention was to come up with a plan B and eat someplace else. When the birthday boy arrived 25 minutes late he was not happy to hear he wouldn’t be dining for quite some time. Having not eaten since breakfast he was in a hunger induced stupor and unable to think or apparently speak coherently (there was some muttering I couldn’t decipher). The rest of his band of merry men was full of “I don’t really know the area” and “whatever you want.” Clearly someone needed to take control. Wonder who it was?
And now our hike up (or was it down?) Smith Street began. What were the odds we were going to be able to find a table for five, without a reservation, on the first gorgeous, warm night in months on one of Brooklyn’s most popular dining corridors? Not high at all. The vagueness of our group was starting to drive me crazy as I marched with purpose leading the pack of meanderers. It had been a good hour with lots of “that looks okay but let’s walk a little more this way?” and “there’s a good vegan restaurant!” (No thanks) and “what about this tapas place? Oh it’s a little pricey.” And then, at last, we found a bistro where I thought we would drop anchor. I approached the maitres d’ and just as she was telling me it would only be a five minute wait my cell phone rang. Yup, my favorite charmless manager said, “Yeah, your table will be ready in 20 minutes?”
“We’ll be there!” I promised. Rallying the troops proved easier than anticipated since hunger was now a major motivator and the promise of bread and wine put a spring, or sprint, in our steps. Still, arriving at Frankie’s sweaty, thirsty and starving wasn’t the most elegant way to begin a birthday dinner. No matter. My troubles floated away with each glug of Barbera D’Alba and bite of Tagliatelle Bolognese. Everyone seemed happy with his selections and my favorite part of the meal was yet to come!
I’ve talked about my anthropomorphic feeling about prunes before. I really do feel sorry for the little cuties. They get a bum rap when they are just so good. These red wine stewed jewels are like spicy, jammy surprises. The sauce is thick and sweet and the contrast with the tang of the mascarpone (or yogurt or ricotta) wakes up the palate with a just a loud enough ‘hello!’ And for those of you keeping the Passover dietary rules, you will thank me for this fiber packed treat. And that’s all I’ll say on the matter. Next time I think I’ll push for Frankies 17 Clinton Street Spuntino. Yes, we’ll still have to take the F train but we’ll be in Manhattan and maybe the manager will be friendlier(?) Doubtful. I think I'll save a swipe of my Metrocard and make these prunes myself!
Not Your Grandfather’s Stewed Prunes
Adapted from Frank Castronovo and Frank Falcinelli
from the New York Times, May 31, 2006
Printer Friendly Version
Ingredients
1 pound pitted prunes
1 ¼ cups granulated sugar
2 sticks cinnamon
2 ½ cups dry red wine
2 eight ounce containers mascarpone or Greek yogurt or fresh ricotta or even 2 pints of vanilla ice cream
Directions
In a medium saucepan combine prunes, sugar, cinnamon and wine and cook over medium-high heat until mixture comes to a boil.
Lower heat to simmer and cook 45 minutes until liquid is syrupy.
Remove from heat and let cool 15 minutes.Place a nice helping of mascarpone, yogurt, ricotta or even vanilla ice cream in a bowl and top with 5-6 prunes per person, drizzle with extra sauce and enjoy.
Yield: 6 servings
I have a problem bringing anything new into my apartment. (Actually, that goes for anyone too.) Say I buy a new shirt at Club Monaco. It will stay in its shopping bag until I have fully accepted that I purchased something, when I probably shouldn’t have spent the $79 in the first place, and hang it in the closet. This process might take a few days. Sometimes I get so used to the shopping bag just sitting there on the floor that it could be a week before I realize it isn't part of my living room’s décor scheme.
But sometimes when you bring something new into your house it needs to be dealt with sooner rather than later. Like last week my appliances planned a revolt behind my back. First, my 15 year old toaster started to give off the smell of burning plastic with accompanying thick smoke. After climbing up the step ladder to disconnect the piercing smoke alarm I had to toss my smelly friend for good.
Meanwhile, the precarious health of the little TV in my bedroom (which is a big luxury considering the living room and its larger TV are on the other side of the bedroom wall) began a rapid decline. The first symptom was morphing Jay Leno into a cone-head—which kind of worked because his elongated head matched his elongated chin. Then it turned Pierce Brosnan into a double amputee (I’m not sure how he managed to walk across the stage to shake Craig Ferguson’s hand) and soon after Charlie Rose really became a talking head. But it was when the little weather box on the bottom of NY1 disappeared that I knew it was time to put circa 1991 Toshiba out of his misery.
All of this translated into having to discard, and then install, two new household items immediately. It was quite unnerving. Amazon solved the toaster problem, although I wish they would just make toaster ovens like they used to. Why are there so many dials and settings? Toast and Bake are enough, thank you. No ‘convection’, ‘broil’, ‘stay on’ or ‘bagel’ options. What’s a bagel setting anyway?
The TV proved to be more of a challenge. Because of the unnecessary aspect of the bedroom set I decided waltzing into Best Buy to procure a 19” flat screen was just not going to happen. So, I hit Craig’s List. Who knew so many people were getting rid of old TV’s? I could have even gotten one for free if I hadn’t minded going to a stranger’s house in the depths of the Bronx. An art gallery was selling several sets they’d used in an exhibit. Perfect. After emails back and forth I chose a Toshiba 14” with built in DVD for $40! Okay, it was a little 2002-ish but who cares? It was For-ty doll-ars! (Make that $52, the cab home was $12). I zipped down to Chelsea and my new TV was waiting for me in its original packaging, all ready to go. I was feeling very “I Am Woman Hear Me Roar” for the first few feet I had to walk carrying the big box to the elevator. It was the ½ block down to the avenue to try, in vain, to get a taxi that caused a spasm in my back and cuts on my hands from the cardboard handles. After trudging two more blocks, and almost getting hit by a handicapped accessible van (I know, ironic), a taxi swerved to pick me up. In two seconds, and with whiplash from flying up 10th avenue at 70 miles per hour while clinging to my new television, I was home.
I snapped into action. New TV out of box, disconnect old TV and put it in the same box, clean top of bureau where the old TV had sat for 9 years (yuck) and hook up new TV. Ta-da! It worked like a charm. I took the box and old TV into the trash room and it was like nothing had happened—except I now had this hulking thing in my bedroom that looked twice as big as its predecessor. This is what I mean about getting used to new things in my apartment. I couldn’t stop staring at it and it wasn’t even turned on. What are you doing here? I wanted to ask. I missed my old TV. New guy seemed so much bigger than the old one and was infringing on my hairdryer’s bureau space. Plus, it was cutting off part of the mirror, throwing the whole room off balance. Or was I overreacting? I think we know the answer to that question. Regardless, I decided I hated my new TV and had resigned myself to living with it until I felt flush enough to go for the flat screen. And then the winds changed. Its picture is great, the blow drying station hasn’t really been affected AND now I can watch my Mary Tyler Moore DVD’s in bed!
All this to say, the other day I bought rhubarb despite not knowing what I was going to make with it. It looked so pretty in the market. And I reacted to it in the same way as I did with the shopping bag, the toaster and the TV. Who let this big, red, stalky interloper into my house and what was I supposed to do with it? Realizing that unlike the inanimate objects I had at first rejected before embracing, this rhubarb was perishable and I didn’t have the luxury of ignoring it until I was ready to accept it. Although I love strawberry-rhubarb pie I really like to wait for the local berries to hit the market before making it so I scratched that off my list. Rhubarb compote is always a pleasure but I still had the stewed prunes of a few weeks back on my brain. I decided to go with a crumb cake that was so good last summer. I love fruit in my crumb cake because it distracts me from all the butter I know I put into it. Plus, it breaks up the richness of the cake with a little something tart.
And for my next trick I’m taking a piece of cake and a glass of milk to bed with me tonight, along with Dick Van Dyke, Season One.
Welcome Home Rhubarb Crumb Cake
Add flour and mix with a fork until large crumbs form. Refrigerate until ready to use.
Make cake
In another medium bowl, whisk 3/4 cup flour, baking powder, and salt.
With mixer on low, beat in vanilla, then flour mixture.
Bake cake until golden and a toothpick inserted in center comes out with moist crumbs attached, 45 to 50 minutes. Let cool completely in pan.
Cut into 16 bars. Note: If you are not going to consume immediately store the cake in the refrigerator. The moistness of the fruit will accelerate spoilage.
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