Get Me Out of the 80's Blondies

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
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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.”

Not Your Grandfather's Prunes

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
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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

Look to the Chocolate Dipped Coconut Macaroon

I am a terrible person. Maybe not 100% terrible but certainly there are times when I call my ‘goodness’ into question. The other evening I was waiting for the elevator in my building’s lobby when I overheard a conversation between two women I know…let’s call them “Fran” and “Lenore.” Fran, late 40’s and sort of the First Lady of the building, asks Lenore, late 80’s and sort of the First Kvetch of the building, what she is doing for Passover. Lenore responds, “Well, the first night I may go to my cousin’s but she lives a few blocks away and the second I may go to a friend’s but she hasn’t been feeling well so, God willing, I will be somewhere.” I should add that her response took a manipulative two minutes while Fran was waiting breathlessly. “You have to come to us on the first night! Don’t go to your cousin!” Fran offers giddily. “Oh, that would be nice…” And then, as if she had just scored an endorsement from Oprah in her run for office, Fran squeals, “Yay!” and, turning to her husband, “I got her! She’ll be with us!”
In a million years I wouldn’t have 1) asked Lenore what she was doing for Passover 2) upon learning what she was doing ask her to forgo her potential plan and come to me if in fact I was hosting a Seder or 3) be excited if she said “yes.” That is not very nice of me. She is an old woman who lives alone, walks very slowly with a cane and eats dinner every single night at the City Grill restaurant around my corner. (In fact, she is such a good customer she is often escorted back to the building by one of the young waiters.) It’s a good thing Jews don’t believe in a Heaven vs. Hell afterlife situation because I know I’d never be looking at the pearly gates.
My reaction to her probably comes from two places. I’ve had guilt inflicting relationships with several older women in my day and know what never calling enough, never cheering them up enough, never visiting enough feels and sounds like. The slow, thick, syrupy voice of disappointment is one you don’t easily forget.

Then again this Lenore is not an altogether sympathetic person. For awhile we both served on a building committee, the purpose of which was to meet prospective residents, and there were several occasions when this woman said inappropriate things a little too loudly. There was a comment about how helpful the building staff is, especially the "fat, colored" fellow. I know. I wanted to crawl under the couch. There was the time when, after meeting with a very financially stable Asian-American man, she said, "Chinamen are very good with numbers." You know, as I’m writing this, I’m thinking I’m really not so terrible because who wants a racist at their Passover (or any dinner) table?

And this is where it gets kind of complicated. I don’t know anything about her but who knows how she was raised or what life path led her to be living alone at her age in a small apartment on the Upper West Side. Is she racist or ignorant? Is one worse than the other? And that is not to excuse either. I had a grandfather who lost his filter after he suffered from a stroke. When we took him to dinner for his 90th birthday he said (audibly), when the youngest and most attractive group of customers walked into the Morton’s in West Palm Beach, “Look at that, they let the coloreds in!” His wife, a bigger bigot than he, covered for him with an “oh, he doesn’t know what he’s saying!” But in fact, didn’t he? Hadn’t he been stripped of civility’s veneer by the short circuiting in his brain and wasn’t what he was saying expressing what he truly felt?
It is so awful that there was a time when views like theirs were easily and acceptably expressed among their like minded friends. Why was that remotely okay? Didn’t most of us come here (even if we have to go back a few generations) from somewhere else because of attitudes just like theirs? And that’s not even taking into consideration that some of us are here because our ancestors were ripped from their African homeland as recently as 150 years ago. And here it is coming on Passover—the time Jews mark their own freedom from slavery. The irony is just incredible.

There is that great Seinfeld episode when Jerry and Elaine are at a bakery and Jerry buys a black and white cookie. Using the cookie as a metaphor for racial harmony he says:

“Uhm, The thing about eating the black and white cookie, Elaine, is you want to get some black and some white in each bite. Nothing mixes better than vanilla and chocolate. And yet somehow racial harmony eludes us. If people would only look to the cookie all our problems would be solved.”
And of course because it is Seinfeld he winds up getting an upset stomach and literally tossing his cookie.
Jerry’s nausea to one side, I like to look to these macaroons as my own contribution to racial harmony. The orange zest cuts through the cloying sweetness coconut macaroons often succumb to and the dark chocolate just make them that much better. The cookies are great for Passover since they are flour-free but are yummy anytime. I can’t influence Lenore (I don’t think she’s noticed she is no longer invited to serve on the committee) but I know our Passover table will honor all those whose enslavement and persecution allowed us to be free. Okay, I’m not so bad. Thanks for reading while I figured that out. But now I can't stop humming “Ebony and Ivory."
Look to the Chocolate Dipped Coconut Macaroons
Adapted from Barefoot Contessa Family Style by Ina Garten, 2002
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Ingredients
14 ounces sweetened shredded coconut
14 ounce can of sweetened condensed milk
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
Zest of 2 small (or 1 large) oranges
2 extra-large egg whites, at room temperature
1/4 teaspoon kosher salt
1 cup Ghiradelli 60% Cacao Chocolate Chips

Directions
Preheat oven to 325. Line two cookie sheets with parchment paper.
Combine the coconut, condensed milk, vanilla, and orange zest in a large bowl.In bowl of electric mixer with whisk attachment, whip egg whites and salt on high speed until medium-firm peak.Gently fold egg whites into coconut mixture until fully incorporated.Using 2 teaspoon ice cream scoop (1 3/4 " diameter) or 2 teaspoons drop batter onto cookie sheets.Bake 25-30 minutes until golden brown.
Cool completely.
Place chocolate chips in microwave safe bowl. Nuke for 30 second intervals, stirring between blasts until chocolate is completed melted.

Dip bottom of macaroons into melted chocolate and place top down on rack or wax paper lined cookie sheet. Allow to set and serve.
Yield: 4 dozen cookies