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Sometimes I think it’s a wonder I don’t have a drinking problem. I come from a long paternal line of pretty impressive tipplers, which sounds odd since you don’t hear a lot about excessive Semitic imbibing. Over-eating? Sure. But tying on too many? Not as much. And yet my great-great grandfather was an alcoholic rabbi. The idea of more than one glass of kosher wine is pretty sickening to me, so I hope his drink of choice came from some of the grains or potatoes grown near Tykocin, his Polish village. Then I had a great-grandfather who on a night out on the town with his fellow Russian cavalrymen ate such a hot pepper that he tried cooling off his burning tongue by downing a giant glass of vodka. The booze only made things worse so he ran outside into the wintry streets of Kiev and shoved a handful of snow into his mouth. 
I think that’s a fantastic visual. Much later in life he lost a leg and when he moved in with my grandparents when my dad was a kid, he often spotted his grandfather's fake leg propped against the chair in his bedroom, next to the glass that held his teeth on the bedside table. When I was a child I had assumed he was one-legged while still in Russia, although I suppose that would have negatively impacted his effectiveness as a horse riding soldier. Regardless I liked the idea of his hopping out into the streets with his mouth on fire. (I’m awful, I know). But my grandfather was the only one of these men I knew and he was a legendary drinker. Not sloppy and slurry mind you, just low-grade and pretty consistent. He was of the “I’ll have what he’s having” school. Meaning he drank whatever everyone else was drinking, just a lot more of it. Thankfully he was a happy drunk because when he was sober, he was pretty unpleasant.
And then there is my father. My earliest memories are of him coming home from work and pouring himself a glass of Cutty Sark out of one of the sparkly crystal decanters that stood on the bar. The golden liquid was so pretty I begged for a taste. That tiny drop was such a shock to my palate that I couldn’t imagine why he seemed to enjoy his drink so much. He’s still a scotch man. And gin. And vodka. In addition my parents always had (and have) wine with dinner and if there’s company, a little post-prandial cognac. It's not like they lived The Days of Wine and Roses. They didn’t overindulge with any scary regularity or anything. It’s just that alcohol was served and enjoyed and no one made a big deal over it.
I was given sips of my father’s beer whenever I asked, even when I was five years old. My grandmother thought it was hilarious. What kid actually likes the taste? But I did. I also liked the taste I took from the tall-boy can of Colt 45 my 7 year-old classmate Patsy packed for our second grade picnic—it was just like Dr. Pepper! But all of this was just child’s play. Drinking never held a big mystique for me in general and because I showed no signs of an addictive personality and certainly wasn’t a risk-taker, there was no cause for parental concern. When I was a teenager the drinking age was 18 in New York and getting served when you were just a year or two shy of that birthday wasn’t an issue. I remember favoring tooth rotting concoctions I could never stomach today involving liqueurs and fruits, but I didn’t have a go-to drink that seemed “grown-up.” That put me in an incredibly uncomfortable position when I was set up with a visiting fancy 19 year-old English guy staying at the home of one of my parents’ friends. We were to meet at the friend’s apartment for a drink before going to dinner. When I got there, decked out in my favorite olive and gold Fiorucci pants (majorly pleated, tapered at the ankles and tucked into cuffed olive boots) he stood by the mirrored bar and asked me in his posh accent what I’d like to drink. I became paralyzed, although I had the presence of mind not to blurt out, "a pina colada" which was what I really wanted, and all I could think to say was, “white wine.” “Really?” he said. “Before dinner?” I’m still not sure why he found my request worthy of any sort of a comment, but the result was that I felt like the 16 year-old I actually was at the time and not the woman of the world I was pretending to be in the company of such “sophistication. “ What a jerk.
Anyway, it wasn’t until I got to college that I learned how many kids had been raised in really restrictive environments. They were thrilled by and unprepared for their new-found drinking freedom and spent much of their Thursday, Friday and Saturday nights in the bathroom. Meanwhile, my parents brought me a big bottle of Beefeater on Parents’ Weekend. So funny, I’m not even sure if I ever finished it. But what I did finish were many red Solo cups of draught beer. I think four years of those stupid plastic cups, and the keg party din of guys playing Whales Tales against the soundtrack of The English Beat, Depeche Mode and Prince, ultimately left a bad brewskie taste in my mouth for a long time.
I didn’t realize what a shame my non-beer drinking ways were until recently. And for this revelation I have to thank Margot, she of the same “Princess and the Pea” sensitivity to certain cuisines, restaurant atmospheres and table placement as me. Over a dinner of moules frites she introduced me to La Chouffe, an unfiltered blonde Belgian ale. It is fantastic! I have been denying myself a refreshing, delicious, slightly fruity, hoppy and a tiny bit spicy treat for way too long.
Actually, over the years I have stared curiously at the micro-brewed specialty beers my brother favors or the draught Hoegaarden Rich often orders. But it is the black and tan that I’ve been most intrigued by. It appears at once so dark and mysterious and also like a frothy chocolate egg cream. Maybe that’s why it seems so appealing to me? It looks like a soda fountain sweet treat!
With St. Patrick’s Day coming up this weekend I didn’t have to look far for a fitting recipe to mark the occasion. These decadent brownies from last months' Bon Appetit are made with the black of the black and tan, Guinness Stout, and they are so good! The brownie itself is insanely fudgy and rich and because most of the alcohol is cooked out, the result is just a wonderful infusion of malty earthiness. The stout also gilds the four leaf clover just enough, adding a boozy kick to the gooey dark chocolate icing. Are they for adults only? That’s up to you. I’m sure my mother would have given me one if I’d asked and I probably still would have turned out fine-ish. Even with a drunk rabbi for a great-great-grandfather. And with that let’s raise a brownie and toast, “L’chaim Erin go braugh!”
Fudgy Stout O'Brownies
From Bon Appétit February 2012
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Ingredients
1 cup Guinness stout
16 ounces good quality bittersweet chocolate, chopped and divided
2 1/4 sticks unsalted butter
1 1/2 cups sugar
3 large eggs
1 teaspoon real vanilla extract
3/4 cup all-purpose flour
1 1/2 teaspoons kosher salt, divided
Directions
Preheat oven to 350°F. Line a 9x9x2" metal baking pan with foil, leaving a 2" overhang and set aside. Bring stout to a boil in a medium saucepan; cook until reduced to 1/2 cup, about 12 minutes. Let cool. Divide the stout into two 1/4 cup portions.
Melt 12 ounces of the chocolate and 2 sticks (1 cup) of butter in a medium metal bowl set over a saucepan of just simmering water stirring occasionally until smooth.
Whisk sugar, eggs, and vanilla in a large bowl until thoroughly combined. Gradually whisk in the melted chocolate mixture, then 1/4 cup of the reduced stout.
Fold in flour and 1 1/4 teaspoons salt. Pour batter into prepared pan, spreading evenly.
Bake brownies until surface begins to crack and a tester inserted into center comes out with a few moist crumbs attached, about 35–40 minutes--do not over-bake. Transfer pan to a wire rack and let cool for at least 20 minutes.
Melt remaining 4 ounces chocolate and butter in a medium metal bowl set over a saucepan of simmering water until smooth. Remove from heat and whisk in remaining 1/4 cup reduced stout and 1/4 teaspoon salt until well blended.
Pour warm glaze over brownies. If the icing is thick, use small off-set spatula to spread evenly over surface of brownies. Let stand at room temperature until glaze is set, at least 40 minutes.
Using foil overhang, lift brownie from pan and cut into 16 squares.
Remove brownies from foil and if they seem to be sticking to the foil, an offset spatula will take care of removing them cleanly.
Yield: 16 brownies
When word of Davy Jones’ death hit the internet last week it took only moments for women of a certain age to express their collective grief over the loss of one of their first crushes. Facebook was filled with RIP’s, grainy videos of Monkees’ concerts and most importantly, clips from the pint-sized heartthrob’s appearance on The Brady Bunch. Talk about a pop-culture mash-up! When I say that every woman I know remembers the episode when Marcia tried to get Davy to perform at her prom I would not be exaggerating. We all know the words to “Girl (look what you’ve done to me)” and remember when Marcia said, “I’ll never wash this cheek again!” after Davy gave her a peck. And I’m sure none of us had thought about any of this in years. How funny that all it took was the news that Davy was gone to bring it all back as if it were yesterday.
I try to stay away from too much nostalgia because it doesn’t lead you anywhere. Not that there aren’t insights to be found when we moan about the past. The problem is I find it turns my head backwards instead of forward -- a really unproductive place to be if you’re trying to attack the future. But certain triggers make memories unavoidable and it can often be comforting to take a (very) short walk down memory lane. Just make sure your path is not a slippery slope into the quicksand of reminiscence.
One questionable thing that keeps growing as we walk towards the future is the proliferation of choice. Sometimes I think you can feel as imprisoned by choice as by the lack of it. Okay, maybe that’s an overstatement. I’m sure if I asked someone serving a life sentence if they’d rather stand in front of the cookie aisle and choose just one from among the 100 varieties or opt to eat whatever gruel is slapped onto their metal tray they’d go for the trip to Stop n’ Shop. (I think I’ve seen too many movies. Do they even allow metal anything in a prison?) I’m just saying that when you are bombarded by options how do you narrow them down to one? That’s what came to my mind when I noticed how many people had the same Davy Jones memory. When I was a child we had seven channels to choose from on TV and all your friends watched and talked about the same shows. In one sense I guess there was a sort of vacuum, but in another it’s nice that a generation has shared experiences that elicit a nod and a “Yes! I was there too! I remember that!” In a way it creates a sense of community. And I wonder if that happens as much today. Did Marcia Brady and Davy Jones make such a lasting impression because they were so special or because there wasn’t much competition? With so much more cultural clutter today how does anything or anyone have a chance to become an icon?
This week marked the 100th birthday of the Oreo cookie. Between that and the fact that the Marcia and Davy prom-date occurred 40 years ago, I feel really old. I never knew Oreos were born in 1912 and I kind of get a kick out of thinking that my grandmother may have unscrewed everyone’s favorite sandwich cookie and licked the crème just as her daughter, granddaughter and great granddaughter have. I bet you sang the “Do you know exactly how to eat an Oreo?” song. I did. (And the felon serving the life sentence probably did too.) And now my nieces do. (Don't remember it? Click here and it's the 6th song on the list.) Good luck finding someone who has never eaten one. Did you know there are over 95 million Oreos sold every day in over 100 countries? How did they last for so long and how is it they too stayed so iconic?
Of course I had to buy some to see if they were still noteworthy and the fact is, they are really good. Dip one in milk and you’ll have lots of memories, I’m sure. But with high-fructose corn syrup and artificial flavors, they aren’t what I’m looking for in any cookie, even one that’s made it to 100. So I made a version myself from Joanne Chang’s Flour Bakery cookbook. They were great. The cookie itself has a really intense chocolate flavor and a gentle crumbly snap. The crème, which we can now call "cream," doesn’t leave a greasy film in your mouth because it’s made with butter and sugar, not an assortment of processed oils, and provides just the right amount of sweetness to counter the slightly bitter chocolate. But I needed my favorite six year-old to weigh in. Which version would she prefer, store-bought or home made? And what’s more fun than a blindfolded taste test?
First Number One, the home made:
Then Number Two, the Oreo:
Then the verdict:
“Number one was much better!” Taking off her bandana she reached for a second one. “Why? What about it was better?” I probed. “I don’t know. It just was.” She said with her mouth full. Considering I got the answer I was looking for I decided on no further questions.
Thankfully, this is a girl whose mother has exposed her to The Brady Bunch, Free to Be You and Me, the Muppets and other important touchstones from our youth. But will her generation ever have the kind of shared experience that comes with the sort of collective icons that mine had? Will a cookie created by a corporate food giant today last 100 years into the future? Somehow I don’t think so. So I’ll be sure to sing “Daydream Believer,” “The Last Train to Clarksville” and “I’m a Believer” and keep on baking her the "better" Oreo.
Thinking About Icons Homemade Oreos
from Flour: Spectacular Recipes from Boston's Flour Bakery & Cafe, Joanne Chang, 2010
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Ingredients-cookies
1 cup (2 sticks) unsalted butter, melted and cooled slightly
3/4 cup granulated sugar
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
1 cup semisweet chocolate chips, melted and cooled slightly
1 large egg
1 1/2 cups unbleached all-purpose flour
3/4 cup Dutch-processed cocoa powder
1 teaspoon kosher salt
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
Ingredients-filling
1/2 cup (1 stick) unsalted butter, at room temperature
1 2/3 cups confectioners’ sugar
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
1 tablespoon milk
Pinch kosher salt
Directions-cookies
In a medium bowl, whisk together the butter and granulated sugar until well combined. Whisk in the vanilla and chocolate then add the egg and whisk until thoroughly incorporated.
Turn the dough out onto a 15-inch square sheet of parchment or waxed paper. Using your hands, shape the dough into a log about 10 inches long and 2 to 2 1/2 inches in diameter. Place the log at the edge of the paper and roll the paper around the log. With the log fully encased in paper, roll it into a smoother log no more than 2 1/2 inches in diameter.
Refrigerate for at least 2 hours or until firm. The log will settle and flatten along the side that rests in the fridge. One way to avoid this is to cut an empty paper towel roll down the long side and place the log into the little cradle.
(The dough can be wrapped in plastic wrap and refrigerated for up to 1 week or frozen for up to 1 month. If the dough is frozen, thaw overnight in the refrigerator before proceeding.)
Preheat the oven to 325°F and line a baking sheet with parchment paper.
Slice the dough log into 1/4-inch-thick slices. Place the slices about 1 inch apart on the prepared baking sheet.
Bake for 20 to 25 minutes, or until the cookies are firm to the touch. After 17 minutes start checking to see if the center of the cookies are firm. Keep checking every two minutes of so and take the cookies out as soon as they feel firm. Place the baking sheet on a wire rack and let the cookies cool on the baking sheet. While they cool, make the frosting.
Directions-frosting
Using a stand mixer fitted with the paddle attachment or a handheld mixer, beat the butter on low speed for about 30 seconds, or until completely smooth.Add the confectioners’ sugar and vanilla and beat until the mixture is perfectly smooth. Add the milk and salt and beat until smooth. (The filling can be stored in an airtight container at room temperature for up to 2 days or in the refrigerator for up to 2 weeks. Bring to room temperature before using.)
Using a mini ice cream scoop or tablespoon, scoop about 1 rounded tablespoon of the filling onto the flat side of half of the cookies. Top with a second cookie, flat side down, then press the cookies together to spread the filling toward the edges.
Yield: 15 sandwich cookies
NOTE: Maybe I sliced my dough too thinly but I wound up with a lot more dough than expected. If you wind up with more than 30 or so cookies, you might want to double the frosting recipe. The frosting yields only enough for 16 sandwich cookies.
Last Thursday morning my sister called and asked if I’d read the Home section in the day’s Times. “It’s really going to annoy you but now you have your blog topic for next week.” She was right on both counts. The grey lady had done it to me again, presenting a subset of the population, of which I am a member, as living in a way to which I can’t relate. Steven Kurutz’s “One Is the Quirkiest Number” explored the pros and cons of living alone through interviewing various singletons and revealing some of the quirkier habits they felt were borne out of living solo.
The piece focused on the idea that when you live alone you can let yourself loose, no one is watching and there’s freedom from structure: you can eat what you want when you want, you can sleep in whatever position you like and both retire and awaken whenever your inner clock moves you. You can wear rags, or nothing at all, let dishes pile up for days and, in one specific example, leave your bra on the kitchen table. Okay, just because you can do something doesn’t mean you should. I had a friend who could see into the apartment across from his and often witnessed his neighbor ironing her clothes topless. Sure, she lived alone so why not parade around with no shirt on? But what idiot wields a burning hot iron so close to her bare chest? That’s a sign of stupidity, not inhibition.
The use of the word “freedom” made me kind of sad. Were these people feeling so imprisoned by society’s expectations (or those of their former spouses or roommates) that they needed to show themselves who’s boss by letting their sinks fill with Ragu-smeared plates? Again, that is just stupid. Everyone knows dirty dishes attract roaches and then, guess what? They’re the boss. But the point is, if you are really comfortable in your own skin, your public and private selves should be pretty well integrated and you shouldn’t need to sit on the couch naked at 4AM eating peanut butter out of the jar with your fingers to prove anything. Put some clothes on and do the dishes! Unless of course, late-night naked eating is how you choose to live because it is in fact who you are at all times and not a symptom of “Secret Single Behavior.”
I’m taking issue with this topic because I have lived alone for the past, well, a long time, and I love it, and not because I can hide in my apartment and let my freak flag fly. Yes, I usually take my (well-balanced) dinners sitting on the couch rather than the table and I often wear tattered lounge-wear. But I’d do both of those things whether I was alone or in mixed company. Meaning, I’m always me with or without a couch-mate. I love living by myself because no one bothers me. I grew up in a noisy household with lots of activity from younger siblings and a barking terrier. When I was a teenager I remember seeing an ad in a magazine where a woman was sitting at the top of a staircase on the phone laughing. Okay, she was enjoying a smoke and wearing a lavender Shetland sweater (hey, it was 1982), but she was having the kind of day she wanted to have. And I thought, some day, that will be me, minus the cigarette. (I actually owned a sweater like that back in the day. What can you do?)
My concerns over cohabiting don’t center around all of my little ways that, at this point, seem to be set in stone. Those “quirks” (one of the newest words to make it onto the over-used list) are evident to anyone who knows me whether we’re within the private walls of my apartment or out in public. I’m more concerned with re-learning how to share. My sister and I slept in the same room for most of our childhood and on vacations into adulthood until she got married. She’s an early to bed, early to rise worm-catcher and I hated having to tip-toe around in the dark when I wanted to be up reading or talking on the phone. I’d rather not have to do that again. I’m also not a big fan of compromise. To me it’s a way to guarantee that neither party gets what he/she wants and dissatisfaction just hangs in the air. I’d prefer to completely concede to someone else’s desires so that the next time they concede to mine.
Obviously the part of the article that made me really twitchy was food related. One guy copped to living on cereal and multiple trips to the fridge throughout his day. One woman nibbles on nuts and seeds and another bristled at the idea of cooking a large meal just for one, preferring to eat whatever she happens upon in her kitchen. Her example was throwing a sweet potato into the oven and calling it dinner. I guess one woman’s freedom is another woman’s dive into a whirlpool of self-loathing. I can’t think of anything more depressing than baking a single tuber for dinner. I’d feel like I wasn’t taking care of myself, like I wasn’t a grown-up, like I wasn’t socialized. Of course we’ve all had nights where for whatever reason, a bowl of granola is all we want, but it’s my exception, not my rule.
After finishing the piece I was motivated to treat myself well even more than usual and after tossing together pasta with crab meat, chili and mint I decided to do something special for dessert. I made myself an individual orange soufflé. There are few things as satisfying as watching a soufflé blossom in the oven. People seem scared of them for some reason and they are actually very easy to make. Just make sure you grease and sugar your ramekin or dish thoroughly and don’t open and slam shut the oven door in the middle of its growth spurt. The saddest part is watching your creation deflate with that first spoonful, but the taste is heavenly. Somehow it’s both light and decadent and a sign that you value yourself very much. The best thing? I adapted the recipe to go from making two to making just one, something I can easily reverse should the opportunity present itself. I’ll be the one in the ripped pajamas.
Orange Soufflé for You or TwoAdapted from Real Simple, Feb 2002
Printer Friendly Version
Ingredients
1 1/2 tablespoons butter
2 tablespoons sugar
1 teaspoons flour
2 Tablespoons milk
1 Tablespoons orange liqueur, such as Grand Marnier or Triple Sec
2 teaspoons grated orange zest
1 egg yolk
1 egg white
scant pinch salt
scant pinch cream of tartar
Directions
Heat oven to 375° F. Grease one 8-ounce ramekin with the 1/2 Tablespoon butter until thoroughly greased (you won't need all of it). Coat with 1 Tablespoon sugar, then tap out the excess. Set aside.
Melt 1 Tablespoon of butter in a medium saucepan over medium heat and whisk in the flour. Blend in the milk and cook, stirring constantly, until the sauce boils, less than a minute. Remove from heat. Blend in the liqueur and zest. Whisk in the egg yolk. Set aside. (Recipe can be made to this point up to 1 day ahead. Cover and refrigerate.)
Beat the egg white, salt, cream of tartar, and remaining tablespoon of sugar until stiff (but not dry) peaks form.
Pour the sauce into the whites; gently fold together. Spoon into ramekin. Bake until puffed and browned, about 20 minutes.
Eat immediately. If you want to gild the lily, melt a little vanilla ice cream or dark chocolate and pour into center of soufflé. I like mine pure and orangey.
Yield: One individual soufflé. For the recipe for two, click here
Sometimes I think it’s a wonder I don’t have a drinking problem. I come from a long paternal line of pretty impressive tipplers, which sounds odd since you don’t hear a lot about excessive Semitic imbibing. Over-eating? Sure. But tying on too many? Not as much. And yet my great-great grandfather was an alcoholic rabbi. The idea of more than one glass of kosher wine is pretty sickening to me, so I hope his drink of choice came from some of the grains or potatoes grown near Tykocin, his Polish village. Then I had a great-grandfather who on a night out on the town with his fellow Russian cavalrymen ate such a hot pepper that he tried cooling off his burning tongue by downing a giant glass of vodka. The booze only made things worse so he ran outside into the wintry streets of Kiev and shoved a handful of snow into his mouth. 
I think that’s a fantastic visual. Much later in life he lost a leg and when he moved in with my grandparents when my dad was a kid, he often spotted his grandfather's fake leg propped against the chair in his bedroom, next to the glass that held his teeth on the bedside table. When I was a child I had assumed he was one-legged while still in Russia, although I suppose that would have negatively impacted his effectiveness as a horse riding soldier. Regardless I liked the idea of his hopping out into the streets with his mouth on fire. (I’m awful, I know). But my grandfather was the only one of these men I knew and he was a legendary drinker. Not sloppy and slurry mind you, just low-grade and pretty consistent. He was of the “I’ll have what he’s having” school. Meaning he drank whatever everyone else was drinking, just a lot more of it. Thankfully he was a happy drunk because when he was sober, he was pretty unpleasant.
And then there is my father. My earliest memories are of him coming home from work and pouring himself a glass of Cutty Sark out of one of the sparkly crystal decanters that stood on the bar. The golden liquid was so pretty I begged for a taste. That tiny drop was such a shock to my palate that I couldn’t imagine why he seemed to enjoy his drink so much. He’s still a scotch man. And gin. And vodka. In addition my parents always had (and have) wine with dinner and if there’s company, a little post-prandial cognac. It's not like they lived The Days of Wine and Roses. They didn’t overindulge with any scary regularity or anything. It’s just that alcohol was served and enjoyed and no one made a big deal over it.
I was given sips of my father’s beer whenever I asked, even when I was five years old. My grandmother thought it was hilarious. What kid actually likes the taste? But I did. I also liked the taste I took from the tall-boy can of Colt 45 my 7 year-old classmate Patsy packed for our second grade picnic—it was just like Dr. Pepper! But all of this was just child’s play. Drinking never held a big mystique for me in general and because I showed no signs of an addictive personality and certainly wasn’t a risk-taker, there was no cause for parental concern. When I was a teenager the drinking age was 18 in New York and getting served when you were just a year or two shy of that birthday wasn’t an issue. I remember favoring tooth rotting concoctions I could never stomach today involving liqueurs and fruits, but I didn’t have a go-to drink that seemed “grown-up.” That put me in an incredibly uncomfortable position when I was set up with a visiting fancy 19 year-old English guy staying at the home of one of my parents’ friends. We were to meet at the friend’s apartment for a drink before going to dinner. When I got there, decked out in my favorite olive and gold Fiorucci pants (majorly pleated, tapered at the ankles and tucked into cuffed olive boots) he stood by the mirrored bar and asked me in his posh accent what I’d like to drink. I became paralyzed, although I had the presence of mind not to blurt out, "a pina colada" which was what I really wanted, and all I could think to say was, “white wine.” “Really?” he said. “Before dinner?” I’m still not sure why he found my request worthy of any sort of a comment, but the result was that I felt like the 16 year-old I actually was at the time and not the woman of the world I was pretending to be in the company of such “sophistication. “ What a jerk.
Anyway, it wasn’t until I got to college that I learned how many kids had been raised in really restrictive environments. They were thrilled by and unprepared for their new-found drinking freedom and spent much of their Thursday, Friday and Saturday nights in the bathroom. Meanwhile, my parents brought me a big bottle of Beefeater on Parents’ Weekend. So funny, I’m not even sure if I ever finished it. But what I did finish were many red Solo cups of draught beer. I think four years of those stupid plastic cups, and the keg party din of guys playing Whales Tales against the soundtrack of The English Beat, Depeche Mode and Prince, ultimately left a bad brewskie taste in my mouth for a long time.
I didn’t realize what a shame my non-beer drinking ways were until recently. And for this revelation I have to thank Margot, she of the same “Princess and the Pea” sensitivity to certain cuisines, restaurant atmospheres and table placement as me. Over a dinner of moules frites she introduced me to La Chouffe, an unfiltered blonde Belgian ale. It is fantastic! I have been denying myself a refreshing, delicious, slightly fruity, hoppy and a tiny bit spicy treat for way too long.
Actually, over the years I have stared curiously at the micro-brewed specialty beers my brother favors or the draught Hoegaarden Rich often orders. But it is the black and tan that I’ve been most intrigued by. It appears at once so dark and mysterious and also like a frothy chocolate egg cream. Maybe that’s why it seems so appealing to me? It looks like a soda fountain sweet treat!
With St. Patrick’s Day coming up this weekend I didn’t have to look far for a fitting recipe to mark the occasion. These decadent brownies from last months' Bon Appetit are made with the black of the black and tan, Guinness Stout, and they are so good! The brownie itself is insanely fudgy and rich and because most of the alcohol is cooked out, the result is just a wonderful infusion of malty earthiness. The stout also gilds the four leaf clover just enough, adding a boozy kick to the gooey dark chocolate icing. Are they for adults only? That’s up to you. I’m sure my mother would have given me one if I’d asked and I probably still would have turned out fine-ish. Even with a drunk rabbi for a great-great-grandfather. And with that let’s raise a brownie and toast, “L’chaim Erin go braugh!”
Fudgy Stout O'Brownies
Remove brownies from foil and if they seem to be sticking to the foil, an offset spatula will take care of removing them cleanly.
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