Don't Feel Old Blueberry Corn Muffins

Ed Asner made me feel so old last week. It wasn’t his fault. He didn’t set out to remind me of my age but he just put it into a perspective I really didn’t need. I was watching Mary Tyler Moore, oh—before I go on I need to let everyone know about MeTV. I stumbled on it while traveling up my cable offerings. On Time Warner in New York it’s on channel 144 and let me tell you it is video pablum. Along with MTM there are evening airings of Dick Van Dyke and Bob Newhart. I know! Spending 22 minutes in the company of those geniuses will cure whatever ails you.

Anyway, so I was watching Mary and Rhoda and they were having some discussion with Phyllis wherein Phyl made a snide remark about their singleton statuses. (Stati?) They were both “almost 30” and gasp, single! As Cloris Leachman babbled on I found myself floating to my computer, calling up IMDB and checking on the ages of Mary and Valerie Harper at the time the show aired. In fact, they were both over 30 (double gasp), Mary being 34 and Valerie 31. That was the first hurdle I had to get over. They both seemed so “old” when I watched the show as a kid. They were ladies; Mare getting ready for a date in a little black dress, hair up in a twist, fastening a hoop earring while Rhoda munched on popcorn sitting on the velvet pull-out sofa cracking wise about whatever dork was about to pick her friend up. Ok, that wasn’t particularly “lady-like” but they appeared to be grown-ups and here I am learning they were waaay younger than I am today. Not to mention that their slight embarrassment over being single at 30 is just beyond ridiculous.

But that isn’t what got me as much as what I learned when my eyes rested on the website’s tiny thumbnail picture of Ed Asner as Lou Grant. Take a minute and think about Lou. He was irascible, grumpy, worn, a big drinker and seemed to carry the weight of the world on his bulky shoulders. And now wait for this: the first season of the show “Mr. Grant”, or Mr. Asner, was 41 years old. Let’s put this in perspective. Jon Hamm is 41. Mark Wahlberg is 41. And Matt Damon is 42. Huh? It just doesn’t compute. But most importantly, I am not 41. How am I older than “Mr. Grant?”

With Ed hovering in the back of my mind I was chatting with two of my pod-mates at work when one of them asked what it was like growing up in New York. These two are quite a bit younger than I and one of them said she thought I was probably 35. And for that I will always love her. But as we talked about the nightlife of a teenager in the asphalt jungle I had to catch myself before I mistakenly showed my (non-driver ID) card. They were discussing the need for fake ID’s while they were in college and I was about to reveal that back in my day the drinking age was 18, not 21. It wouldn’t have taken but a second to do the math (thanks a lot Wikipedia) and frankly, I work with so many more twentysomethings than fortysomethings that I just didn’t need to be looked at like an odd curiosity with a dash of what would surely be pity.

Then I went to the movies. I was sitting in the crowded theater before the 7:45 screening of Looper (if anyone has seen it and can explain it, please let me know) and a dad and his teenage son sat next to me. As always, the theater was playing commercials before the previews before the feature and there was some deafening (I really am o.l.d.) ad about scoring tickets to upcoming Led Zeppelin concerts. While “Hey, hey, mama, said the way you move…” was blasting from the screen the 15-year-old kid leaned over to his dad and yelled, “Is Led Zeppelin a guy or a girl?” Okay, game over. I guess it’s safe to assume that 8th grade boys are no longer groping their dance partners to the strains of “Stairway to Heaven.”

Speaking of concerts, recently I was at a dinner party and one woman was bemoaning the fact that her daughter’s first concert would most likely be along the lines of Justin Bieber. “How can I let that happen?” she sighed. That led to us going around the table and reminiscing about our firsts. Mine was Billy Joel at Madison Square Garden—The Stranger tour if I’m not mistaken. I went with three friends, one of whom stole a cigarette from her sister’s bedroom which the four of us shared. We were 12. Someone else remembered seeing The Go-Go’s which sounded like fun and then the host said, “Mine was Janis Joplin.” Whoa! That changed everything. Here I was feeling 100 and he was old enough to see someone who had been dead so long she was never part of my consciousness at all.

But like so many band-aids, the healing properties of this comforting piece of information were short lived. All it took was one pass by the fluorescent lighted mirror in my office ladies room and all I could think of was another friend’s husband. He’s a dermatologist and has a stash of Botox in their apartment refrigerator for when she needs a little perking up – the youthful genie in a bottle waiting to be released in their own Sub-Zero! That is one fridge I’d like to raid. Oh don’t judge! And don’t knock it till you try it.

Unfortunately injectables are not in my foreseeable financial portfolio and so I slather on creams, balms and gels and try not to frown too much or suck on straws too much. I exercise, drink plenty of water and then I heard terrible news; studies show refined sugars speed along the aging process. Are you kidding me?! The one thing that is guaranteed to give me pleasure? I had always focused on caloric damage, not tissue destruction!

And so to the cupboard I went. And I made a recipe with the number one anti-aging fruit (blueberries!), which was also low in sugar, high in whole grains and low in fat. These muffins are surprisingly good considering I usually take mine with three times as much butter and twice as much sugar. But the crunch from the corn meal is really nice and they are totally satisfying. Is that code for dense? Well, a tiny bit but not in a bad way, truly. I liked the chew and they are filled with juicy fruit.

So I made myself a cup of anti-oxidant dense green tea, toasted a muffin and while I waited for the glow of my 35 year old skin to return, I clicked on Facebook to be greeted by several suggestions of “People You May Know.” And there he was. Ed Asner. Think I should friend him?

Don't Feel Old Blueberry-Cornmeal Muffins
adapted from Martha Stewart Living, August 2003
Printer friendly version
Ingredients
3/4 cup all-purpose flour
3/4 cup whole wheat pastry flour
3/4 cup cornmeal
1/2 cup granulated sugar
1 1/2 teaspoons baking powder
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1/4 teaspoon salt
2 teaspoons finely grated lemon zest
1 1/4 cups yogurt
2 large eggs, separated
2 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted
1 1/2 cups blueberries, fresh or frozen (do not thaw)
Nonstick cooking spray

Directions
Preheat oven to 400 degrees, with rack in center. Lightly coat a standard muffin tin with cooking spray. In a medium bowl, whisk together flours, cornmeal, granulated sugar, baking powder, baking soda, cinnamon, salt, and lemon zest.

In a small bowl, whisk together yogurt, egg yolks and butter. Stir yogurt mixture into flour mixture until just blended. In a mixing bowl, whisk the egg whites until just stiff. Gently fold whites and blueberries into the batter until just combined.

Spoon batter into prepared muffin tin, filling each cup three-quarters full.

Bake 20 minutes until tops are golden and a cake tester inserted in a muffin center comes out clean. Let muffins cool slightly, about 10 minutes, before turning out of tin.

Yield: 12 muffins

I Missed You New Chocolate Chip Cookies

Did you miss me?  Well, even if you didn’t, I missed you.  It’s just that it took me awhile to realize it and the way my blog-sickness revealed itself was kind of interesting.  It all started with the subway. 

The biggest hurdle I’ve had to face with this full-time job thing (aside from the reduction in my personal writing time) is the daily commute.  Back in the day when I was working elsewhere, I lived close enough to my office to at least have the option of hoofing it in the morning or evening, or both.  A brisk walk is such a great way to ease into the work day or shake it off after a long one.  Well, my new gig is a hike and not a particularly scenic one.  So, I’ve been a slave to the C train for five months and if you’re familiar with the Straphangers’ Report, it’s one of the lowest rated on the subway system.  Meaning, it’s not the cleanest or the most reliable.   But that’s not really the thing that’s getting to me.  It’s the people.

Under the best of circumstances, I don’t really enjoy crowds of strangers.  Add the specific insult to the senses you get when you’re on a subway car packed with people whose idea of hygiene varies from unwashed to grooming themselves in public and you have yourself an unpleasant situation.  We’ve all seen women attempting to apply mascara in their rear view mirror when they’re driving to work and are stopped at a red light. Not the safest of ideas but at least they aren’t moving.  What about spackling yourself with a full face of make-up – foundation, concealer, blush, eyeliner, eye shadow, lip liner, lipstick and face powder – while on a train that’s flying 60 miles an hour?  Well, if the look you’re after is Baby Jane meets Divine, then this method of “putting on your face” will work for you! 

Bette Davis as Baby Jane Hudson

But that’s minor compared to the morning I heard an unmistakable sound and knew what I was going to confront when I looked to my left.  A woman, clipping her fingernails, sending tiny shards of what were surely filthy bits flying about the train.  Putting to good use the sneer passed down from my grandmother to my father to me, I glared right at her.  And of course she didn’t even look up.  In fact, nobody sitting near her seemed to realize their neighbor was mid-manicure.  Why was I the only one bothered by this?

Yup, I took a photo of the nail clipper

And speaking of manicures, recently I was getting one myself (not on the C train mind you, at Zen Nails on 72nd Street) when the girl sitting at the table next to mine began to dig at her head.  (Don’t worry, her nails weren’t wet, she was waiting for an available aesthetician).  I thought she must have lice and while I was trying to figure out how I could politely (or not) move away from her, I heard a little snap.  She dug around some more and there was another click.  And then I realized what was happening; she was fastening her hair extensions into her scalp.  OMG!  And again, no one noticed but me.

I often feel this way, like I am some kind of public nuisance hall monitor.  Some of you may remember that when Bobby Brady was given the coveted H.M. position at Fillmore Junior High, he lost most of his friends by being so uptight.  I don’t want to be that person!  But then I’m confronted by such heinous acts I’m incapable of ignoring them.  Like a few weeks ago in Penn Station.

I was using the ladies room before taking the train out of town for the weekend.  Okay, you might be surprised that I actually enter the bathroom at Penn but honestly, it’s not that bad and it’s like Buckingham Palace (or what I’d assume a palace loo would be like) compared to the facilities on the LIRR itself.  Anyway, as I was washing my hands I saw something truly shocking happening at the sink next to me.  A perfectly normal looking thirtysomething woman in a sleeveless shift dress had her left arm up in the air, as if she was waiting for the teacher to call on her, and in her right hand was a pink disposable Daisy razor.  Yes friends, she was shaving her underarms over the sink!  I was so appalled my mouth literally fell open and I gasped audibly.  But did Miss Armpit flinch? No.  (Actually, that would’ve been dangerous since she was holding a sharp).

But my point is that all of these affronts provoked reactions in me that far exceeded their importance.  As I said, everyone else seemed to be going about their business.  Now, maybe that’s because they are as uncivilized as these untamed women, or maybe it’s because they have such busy lives they don’t have the time to pay attention to anything else.  Or, maybe they have an inner calm that allows them to breathe through the unpleasantness that surrounds them and move on.  I do not have an inner or an outer calm, which is why I have always sought serenity through the measuring, mixing and baking of a sweet treat.  I mean, there’s a reason what you are reading is called In Sweet Treatment.  And there is a reason I have felt off-kilter for weeks: I haven’t been baking! 

So here I am, back where I started.  As soon as I realized the true source of my irritable, hall-monitoriness, I knew I was on the path towards salvation.  And luckily for me, I had recently torn out the below recipe from Bon Appetit.  Jim Lahey, of no-knead bread making fame, offered up this twist on a Toll House cookie which I was instantly curious to try.  For those of you who know the recipe on the back of the Nestle’s chocolate chips bag by heart, you will note a striking difference here.  There is way more brown sugar than white and he uses baking powder and not soda.  What was going to happen?  I had to find out.  

Basically what you get is a cookie that puffs up while it bakes (left) and then sinks upon cooling (right) to become a crispy around the outside, chewy in the middle, bite of buttery, toffee-flavored deliciousness.  I urge you to give it a go.  It couldn’t be easier to make and there really is a difference in flavor, all for the butter, I mean better.  And even more importantly, the act of baking them brought me back from the edge where I was teetering very close to vigilante justice.  So the next time you don’t hear from me for awhile, check Riker’s Island.  Or remind me to put on my apron.

A snack always makes the blank page easier to face

I Missed You New Chocolate Chip Cookies
from Bon Appetit, March 2012
Printer friendly version
Ingredients 
1 cup plus 2 tablespoons all-purpose flour
3/4 teaspoon kosher salt
1/2 teaspoon baking powder
3/4 cup (1 1/2 sticks) unsalted butter, room temperature
3/4 cup (packed) light brown sugar
1/4 cup sugar
1 large egg, room temperature
1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract
1 cup semisweet or bittersweet chocolate chips

Directions
Arrange racks in upper and lower thirds of oven; preheat to 425°. Line 2 baking sheets with parchment paper. Whisk flour, salt, and baking powder in a small bowl. Using an electric mixer on medium-high speed, beat butter and both sugars in a large bowl until well combined, 2–3 minutes. 

Add egg and vanilla; beat on medium-high speed until mixture is light and fluffy, 2–3 minutes. 

Add dry ingredients, reduce speed to low, and mix just to blend. Fold in chocolate chips.  

Spoon heaping tablespoonfuls of dough onto prepared baking sheets, spacing 1 1/2" apart. 

Bake, rotating pans halfway through, until edges are golden brown, 6–8 minutes. Transfer to wire racks and let cool.

Yield: 30 cookies

Family Togetherness Blackberry Buttermilk Cake

Last week there was a piece in the Times that sent shivers up my spine and made my heart pound a little too quickly.  No, it wasn’t about the various mad men somehow allowed to carry guns in our country—I react with rage and indignation to those news items.  It was about the tradition of families who make the annual pilgrimage to the Neshoba County Fair in Philadelphia, Mississippi and stay in their circa 1900’s ancestral cottages.  There’s nothing wrong with that idea, in fact it seems rather nice and as we know, I’m all for spending time with family.  The cottages are two-stories and about 1000 square feet with a kitchen, common room and open porch on the first floor and a group bedroom on the second. OK, sounds cute.  But wait.  Here’s what almost caused my panic attack.  That group bedroom? 

Yeah, it sleeps 41 people, aged 90 to 17 months in double bunk beds stacked three high.

What?! 

Let’s put fire hazard to one side and think about what this really means.  We’re not talking about individual cots set up by the Red Cross in a school gym after a home wrecking flood.  Frankly, that seems like the Four Seasons compared to this nightmare.  What if you’re in the top bunk and have to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night? Oh, and by “the” bathroom I mean the one or maybe two.  Do the math and it adds up to “yuck.”  I’d have to wear a Purell suit to get through an overnight stay. 

Years ago I used to worry about meeting a guy who might ask me to go to St. Bart’s.  What would I do?  I don’t have St. Bart’s clothes!  Since I never met him, and probably never will, I now have a new fear—what will I do if I wind up married to a man whose family has a cabin at the fair?!

I suppose that’s what a pre-nup is for.  Just like my grandmother sent my mother to sleep-away camp with a letter stating, “My daughter does not have to eat spinach,” I’d have my lawyer say, “My client does not have to share one bathroom with 40 other people.”

In many ways I wish I were the kind of person who thinks communal living, strike that, communal anything, is fun.  But I’m not.  And it’s no secret.  Speaking of sleep-away camp, when my sister and I were kids we went to the same one, only she loved it and I did not.  She was all about the group dynamic and togetherness.  In addition to swimming in a cold lake in the rain and trying unsuccessfully to catch a softball, I hated sharing two bathrooms with 9 other girls and two counselors. 

But the perfect thing is that every year my sister and her family return to the idyll of Maine where they rent a cabin on the water.  There they go kayaking, hike, swim, pick berries and do arts and crafts on rainy days.  To fellow overnight campers, does this activity roster sound familiar?  Not a coincidence, I’m sure. 

But since every summer I have to do without Niece One and Niece Two for longer than I’d like, people ask me if I plan on visiting them.  (This year a trip north isn’t an option because of my new job, but in summers past I was free as a bird.)  Yet my answer was always, “Nope.” 

Part of the reason is that I think it’s nice for my sister and brother-in-law to have some time with just their immediate family.  But then there is the other part; the there’s-only-one-bathroom part.  As I said, my “stuff” is no secret and that became super clear when last summer in Maine Niece One shook her head laughing and said to her mother about her aunt, “I don’t think she’d like it here.”

On the one hand I loved it that she knows me so well.  On the other, hey, wait a minute!  I can be a good sport! But maybe not so much.  Even though I know I’m missing out on a lot.  Look how pretty it is!  And I also didn’t get to witness Niece One’s maiden solo kayak voyage, a milestone that cannot be recreated in the chlorinated waters of my parents’ pool where I will next see her. 

Luckily my sister emails lots of photos allowing me to get a two-dimensional sense of the time they are having.  Among the pix of adorableness was this one of some of the roadside local bounty.  And by roadside I don’t mean a farm stand.  I mean grab a bucket and start picking along the side of the dirt road.  Very Blueberries for Sal except they’re blackberries. 

After seeing that picture I knew the next thing I baked would have to include that bursting, pebbled indigo fruit.  My mother was having people to dinner last weekend and at my request, picked up a few cartons of blackberries.  Granted, she often buys fruit at a place called Meat Farms (don’t ask) but still, they were really ripe and juicy and since I didn’t personally pluck the plastic box off the shelf of a store chilly enough to keep so many cuts of beef cold, I was able to fool myself into thinking they were as fresh as my sister’s family-picked bounty.

I was in the midst of making this buttermilk blackberry cake, measuring my flour and creaming my butter in the Kitchen Aid Professional when my sister shot me this photo of a crumble she’d thrown together by hand in her cabin’s kitchen.  

And really, could the metaphor be more obvious?  Her easy, breezy dessert resulted in this kind of reaction.  

 

Plus, how beautiful is it?  Not just the crumble but the setting!

And here is my tidy cake in the process of being divided into perfectly equal wedges, topped with perfectly whipped cream and garnished with an even number of perfect berries.

In all fairness to me (and August’s Food and Wine where I found the recipe), it was light and fruity, tart and sweet with a wonderful fluffy crumb.  A big hit for sure.  But for some reason I think my little sister had more fun making her dessert.

It may be time to revisit my one bathroom hesitation.  Sharing with four others is a piece of cake compared to 40.  Right?

Family Togetherness Blackberry Buttermilk Cake
from Food and Wine, August 2012
Printer friendly Version
Ingredients
1 cup all-purpose flour
1/2 teaspoon baking powder
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
1/4 teaspoon salt
4 tablespoons unsalted butter, softened
2/3 cup plus 1 1/2 tablespoons sugar
1 large egg, at room temperature
1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
1/2 cup buttermilk, at room temperature
1 1/4 cups blackberries, plus more for serving
Sweetened whipped cream, for serving


Directions
Preheat the oven to 400°. Butter a 9-inch-round cake pan and line the bottom with parchment paper. Butter the paper.
   
In a small bowl, whisk the flour, baking powder, baking soda and salt. In a large bowl, using a mixer, beat the butter with the 2/3 cup of sugar at medium-high speed until fluffy, 3 minutes. Beat in the egg and vanilla. 

At low speed, beat in the buttermilk and dry ingredients in 3 alternating batches, ending with the dry ingredients; do not over-beat. Gently fold the batter just until blended, then scrape into the pan and smooth the top.

Scatter the 1 1/4 cups of blackberries over the batter; lightly press them in. Sprinkle the remaining 1 1/2 tablespoons of sugar over the cake. 

Bake for about 30 minutes, until a cake tester inserted in the center comes out clean.

Transfer the cake to a rack to cool for 10 minutes. Turn out the cake and remove the paper. 

 

Turn the cake right side up and let cool completely. Serve with whipped cream and more blackberries.

Yield: 8 servings