Be Prepared Palmiers

Back when I was part of a group beach house we’d plop down on the couches after dinner and play various games—Celebrity, Pictionary etc. One night someone suggested we go around the room and each person name a physical quality about themselves that they wanted to change. The only good thing about the game was it was sure to bring a lot of reassurance since this group was a particularly supportive one. To say the responses were rapid-fire would be an understatement. “My weight!” “My male patterned baldness!” “My crooked nose!” one after the other everyone spoke up immediately. That was until it was one woman’s turn. The game came to a screeching halt as she cocked her head to one side, then slowly to the other, presumably searching through her physical attributes until she came to one she was unhappy with. After a good two minutes she finally opened her mouth and said thoughtfully, “You know, I don’t really like my knees.”
What?! Was she kidding? You mean she started at the top of her head, worked her way down and didn’t find anything objectionable until she got to her freaking knees?! I wanted to punch her. Truth be told I wanted to punch her even before the game because she had a last name as a first name and perfectly squared off eyebrows. The combination of which gave her an otherworldly and superior aura that I did not appreciate. (Isn’t it funny that someone with a last name as a first name sounds like the villain in a 1940’s movie or a soap opera titan of industry whereas someone with a first name as a last name sounds like a porn-star or a redneck? Think about it.)
I don’t necessarily think it is a bad thing to take stock of what you might like to adjust about your outer and, especially, inner self. Isn’t it good to keep changing and growing? If you’re just satisfied with the status quo, what’s the point? Now, I’m not saying you shouldn’t love yourself and be comfortable in your own skin, as flabby as that skin might be. Acceptance is a key component of happiness. But there is a fine line between acceptance and resignation.

Last week I was doing a jigsaw puzzle with Niece 1. At age two she was putting the pieces together faster than me and now at six, she doesn’t need my help at all. “Uh, I’m so bad at this,” I moaned. She put her piece down and gave me a hard stare, “Don’t say that! You are a great puzzle-doer! Just keep practicing!” She was so right and I love that she’s being raised in a way that doesn’t allow for self-flagellation, just self-improvement. Shutting up negative voices, or not giving them room to begin with, is a major goal for me.
But still, there are plenty of things I’d like to change about myself, most falling under the banner of slightly compulsive. I remember an episode of Friends where neat-freak Monica can’t fall asleep knowing there is a pair of errant shoes in her living room. If memory serves, the other five Friends have challenged her to live with it and ignore what is out of place. But she feels strongly that shoes are supposed to be in the closet of the bedroom. She’s tossing and turning and finally gives up and gives in, goes out to the living room and takes the shoes back with her to the bedroom. The "live studio audience" roared with laughter. I did not. I didn’t get the joke at all. I would have done exactly the same thing.
There are certain triggers that totally set me off. The sight of an empty tube of paper towels for example. I find it overwhelmingly depressing. Unmade bed? Same thing. Dirty dishes in the sink? Oh my god. That’s actually a big one. My kitchen is too small to allow for a full size dishwasher so I have one of those skinny, 18-inch ones which I have to run all the time. It’s also incredibly noisy so I have to time this daily running for when I don’t plan on being in ear shot, often later in the evening. The other night I had miscalculated and there was no room in the machine for my dinner dishes. Meaning my newly dirty dishes would have to wait till the full dishwasher had run. I got into bed to read and was about to drift off when I realized the cycle was probably done. So I got out of bed, went into the kitchen, put on rubber gloves to protect myself from the scorching heat of the just cleaned dishes, unloaded the dishwasher, then loaded it again with the dinner dishes and finally went to sleep. It was after 12:30am. On the one hand, I never have roaches and my kitchen would probably earn an “A” from the Department of Health. On the other hand, come on! What did I possibly think was going to happen while my dishes potentially sat in the sink between 12 and 8 AM?
The paper towel issue is really more about feeling unprepared. I hate the idea of running out of anything essential or finding myself Bounty-free should I spill a carton of milk. My Be Prepared motto (okay, I share it with the Boy Scouts) also propels me towards always having a treat at the ready in the freezer. You just never know when an unwanted guest will show up or a last minute pot-luck invite will arrive. When I thawed a pound cake for a condolence call just after I had used up some frozen cookie dough for a recent spur-of-the-moment dinner plan, I realized my freezer was bare. This wouldn’t do at all. I was still over-run with the various frozen doughs inherited after my parents’ move. What better way to use up the soon-to-succumb to freezer burn puff pastry than to bake palmiers, or elephant ears? They couldn’t be easier to make and they look so impressive and taste even better than they look. The key is that after you roll them up you can wrap the flattened log in plastic, pop it into the freezer and slice and bake whenever you need them. Or double the recipe and bake half of them off right away to enjoy immediately and save the rest for the unexpected. In the meantime I had been thinking of trying a little cognitive therapy, practicing living with dirty dishes in the sink overnight, just to see if I could sleep. But I’m not sure I’m ready for that. Maybe I’ll practice my jigsaw puzzle skills first. After I make my bed.
Be Prepared Palmiers
Adapted from Barefoot Contessa, The Food Network
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Ingredients
1 cup granulated sugar
pinch of kosher salt
1 sheet puff pastry, defrosted (I used Pepperidge Farm)

Directions
Preheat the oven to 450 degrees and line 2 cookie sheets with parchment paper. Set aside.

Combine the sugar and kosher salt. Pour 1/2 cup of the sugar/salt mixture on a flat surface such as wooden board or marble. Unfold sheet of puff pastry onto the sugar and pour 1/2 cup of the sugar mixture on top, spreading it evenly over the puff pastry. Don't be shy. Really use up the whole 1/2 cup. With a rolling pin, roll the dough until it's 13 by 13-inches square and the sugar is pressed into the puff pastry on top and bottom. Fold the sides of the square towards the center so they go halfway to the middle. Fold them again so the two folds meet exactly at the middle of the dough.

Then fold 1 half over the other half as though closing a book. You will have 6 layers.
At this point either wrap in plastic and freeze for future use
OR
Slice the dough into 3/8-inch slices and place the slices, cut side up, on baking sheets lined with parchment paper.Bake the cookies for 6 minutes until caramelized and brown on the bottom, then turn with a spatula and bake another 3 to 5 minutes, until caramelized on the other side. Transfer to a baking rack to cool.
Yield: 20 cookies

Bicentennial Memories Strawberry Bread

I can’t believe it’s already July 4th weekend. Where is the time going? That’s one thing I hate about getting older, the clock ticks so much more quickly. The other night I was having dinner with a friend who was basking in this time of year; the weeks when her kids are out of school and their summer programs have yet to start. The days are long and warm and more carefree than any other time of year. My own childhood memories of the beginning of summer vacation are less sepia tinged. I remember a feeling of waiting, waiting for whatever plan was set to begin, waiting for the “fun” to start.
There is one summer that was particularly filled with yearning and foot-tapping. 1976 buzzed with the anticipation of celebrating the bicentennial. It was so much a part of the national vibe that when given the chance to decorate our bedroom in the apartment we had just moved into my sister and I chose a red, white and blue bandana motif. And by motif I mean an explosion. The comforters, dust ruffles, shams, curtains, valences and bathroom wallpaper were all in either red or blue bandana. And our towels were red, white and blue! I am still shocked my mother let us have that much control over our surroundings and I really wish she hadn’t. (It was hideous and we lived with it for three years until we were finally allowed to trade bandana for a whimsical floral pattern from the Suzanne Pleshette bedding collection—I begged for it in the store. Seriously.)
The summer plan was to cobble together activities before we all went to LA where my father had to be on business for about a month. Those weeks between school and trip were endless. I had hit that age where playing with my younger siblings felt pathetic and none of my friends were around. I was starting a new school in the fall and that feeling of the unknown was looming in the distance. So I self-medicated with soap operas and People magazine while my brother and sister spent time doing New York-y activities with a babysitter.
Another memory of that summer involves my hair. I had the brilliant idea to cut it all off, you know, so I could start fresh at my new school with a new look. Inspired by Princess Caroline’s short do and of course, Dorothy Hamill’s, I sat in the chair at the BG salon at Bergdorf’s with a friend of my mother’s and asked for a similar style. In fact, I believe I brought the copy of People whose cover had been graced (oops) by the princess just to illustrate my point. Oh my God, why didn’t anyone stop me? Let’s first discuss Princess Caroline’s beauty lineage and acknowledge that she’d look gorgeous bald. My mother is stunning but she’s not Grace Kelly, and more importantly, doesn’t have Grace Kelly’s hair. And neither do I. I also don’t have Dorothy Hamill’s hair. What I did have was thick, bushy, unruly locks that I tried fruitlessly to tame with one of those rectangular hair dryers with the brush attachment. (By the time it grew out we’d changed bandana for Suzanne Pleshette. Yes, it took that long.)
Meanwhile, the big July 4th celebration was Op-Sail, a huge parade of tall ships in the Hudson, and we were invited to watch from the windows of family friends whose place had an incredible view. And this I will never forget. We walk into this Riverside Drive apartment and there on the arm of one of the male guests was the most glamorous woman my eleven year old eyes had ever seen. It was Morgan Fairchild. I had seen her on Search for Tomorrow falling through a glass sliding door (which literally looked like cardboard), sitting in a hospital bed, her whole head wrapped in gauze, with the big question hanging over the storyline: what would she look like when they took the bandages off? Would her great beauty be destroyed?! (No, it would not.) Would she go mad? (Yes, she would.) And here she was in the flesh, quite a lot of flesh actually. She was wearing a white, mini romper (like short-shorts paired with a blouson, strapless top), high white platform sandals and all that blond hair. Let’s just say she got a lot more attention than the Ye Olde Tall Ships sailing on by. What a perfect 70’s moment, right?
After this major highpoint the drudgery of the waiting was even more painful. Weekends were spent descending on some incredibly kind family friends who’d graciously invited a family of five and our terrier to their houses in the country. Even as a pre-teen I hated being a house guest. The children of all my parents’ friends were freaky and none of them matched up with me age-wise. If they were older they thought of me as a child, if they were younger I thought of me as grown-up. I wouldn’t be eleven again if you paid me.

But then we got to LA and things, of course, brightened. Since we were going to be there for awhile, we stayed at an apartment hotel. In the afternoons the pool was full, toys strewn around, lots of splashing. And among the kids was a little toddler named Aisha whose mother would help her walk around the patio. They were staying in the apartment below ours and every day we heard her father playing the piano. One day her mother waved us in and we watched him play in the living room. It was Stevie Wonder. Have you ever? I still can’t believe it and I’m sure I didn’t appreciate the magnificence of the moment at the time. Like most things that happen to you when you’re young, you don’t appreciate them until you’re old.
I’m not sure how in the world 35 years have passed. And in fact if you saw Morgan Fairchild today you might not think that it had. She looks exactly the same! But I am glad that I appreciate my summers since I know they’ll be over in a flash. And I am even happier that I’m not a house guest having to endure other people’s freaky off-spring. But with a holiday weekend coming up I do feel obliged to share a recipe that is really nice to have on hand in the morning for those of you unfortunate enough to be saddled with overnight guests. This strawberry bread makes great use of all the local berries in the stores right now and it smells heavenly as it bakes. It doesn’t have as much butter as a lot of quick breads do but is still super moist from the juicy berries. It’s great with cream cheese and if you want to throw in some blueberries feel free. I plan on lining my serving basket with a bandana or two. And there is your red, white and blue.
Bicentennial Memories Strawberry Bread
From Debbie Cascio-van Hees via Everyday Food, July/August 2004
Ingredients
5 tablespoons plus 1 teaspoon unsalted butter, softened, plus more for pan
1 pint strawberries, rinsed, hulled, quartered, and mashed with a fork
1 3/4 cups all-purpose flour
1 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1/4 teaspoon baking powder
1/4 teaspoon salt
1 cup sugar
2 large eggs

Directions
Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Butter an 8-by-4-inch loaf pan. In a small saucepan, bring strawberries to a boil over medium heat. Cook, stirring, 1 minute. Set aside.
In a medium bowl, whisk together flour, baking soda, cinnamon, baking powder, and salt; set aside. With an electric mixer, cream butter, sugar, and eggs in a mixing bowl until light and fluffy. Add flour mixture alternately with 1/3 cup water, beginning and ending with flour.

Fold in reserved strawberries.

Scrape batter into prepared pan, smoothing top. Bake until a toothpick inserted in center comes out clean, definitely 1 hour, maybe a few minutes more (tent with foil after 45 minutes if top is getting too dark).
Cool in pan 10 minutes. Run a knife around edges; invert onto a rack. Reinvert; cool completely.

No Birthday Expectations Strawberry-Rhubarb Galette

So, last week was my birthday and I was determined not to get cranky about it. That was kind of asking a lot of myself because I get cranky every year as the calendar approaches June 17th. I know it’s pathetic to still have any birthday expectations at my ripe age, but I do. Or I did. My goal over this year was to let go of any transformative fantasies I historically associated with celebrating the day of my birth, like somehow my birthday would be filled with balms for every wound. I’d get some magical gift that would instantly solve all of my problems, like a million dollars or a new dishwasher. And then of course there’s the surprise party. I actually hate surprises and would be completely annoyed if I opened a door to the shouts of friends without being prepared (meaning, having a good hair day). Then again, there is a little part of me that wishes I was the kind of person who could relish that sort of thing and bask in all the attention. And maybe that’s really the dilemma. That I look at my birthday as the day, kind of like New Year’s, where I can turn over a new leaf and become someone else.
Last year, after deciding I was being ridiculous about all of this, I was committed to handling my next birthday more gracefully. Despite feeling like the year whizzed by, I think I did do enough work to finally put my special day in the proper psychological place. So, when the date got closer I was able to say honestly, when asked by friends what I wanted to do, “Nothing.” By nothing I meant nothing with them. Not in a mean way, just that I didn’t need to feel like I’d gathered people together to buy me dinner. I hate that by the way. When you’re of a certain age I think birthday dinners with friends should be the financial responsibility of the birthday girl or boy, something I am currently not in the mood to take on. It’s all so embarrassing when you’re with a group and there’s that moment of whispering as someone pulls out their iPhone to divvy up the check while someone else realizes the evening’s accountant counted the person being celebrated and then the check needs to be recalculated. All done in hushed tones and “don’t worry about it” glances to the mortified person who has caused the gathering to occur in the first place.
Anyway, I solved the “What are you doing?” conundrum by opting to spend the weekend with family and friend at my parents’ weekend house. I had just one request: that we all go out Saturday night (the day after my actual birthday) for lobster rolls and strawberry-rhubarb pie at the aptly named “Lobster Roll,” about a 25 minute drive away. I’d already prepared the nieces that I wasn’t going to be baking a birthday cake, the negative reaction to which I was I able to mitigate by telling them they were going to get to go out to dinner to a place that had chocolate chip cookie pie and a playground.
Arriving at the house at 6pm on Friday, with the rest of the gang already assembled, I found my mother preparing a sauce for the fish she was going to be serving for dinner and my sister boiling pasta for the girls. Now, as evolved as I’d like to think I’d become, I still had in mind that Friday was my actual birthday and shouldn’t there be some kind of something for dessert? I did some refrigerator and pantry reconnaissance and clearly, nothing had been planned. “Oh come on, how can anyone bake you something?” Mom responded when I asked if she’d had any dessert ideas.
And right there is the problem when you not only traditionally bake your own cake but also have a reputation for being controlling; you leave no room for anyone to do anything for you and then you get your nose out of joint when they don’t. Again, I refused to give in to the birthday disappointment feelings of yore and took matters into my own hands. I macerated some local strawberries, whipped some cream and topped the lemon pound cake I had asked Rich to pick up at the gourmet store in the city where he was busy buying cheese to bring for the weekend. Friday dessert problem solved and I wasn’t even annoyed.
Saturday was gorgeous and all was going swimmingly when a few things about our plan started to make me nervous. A scan of the restaurant’s website revealed “Live Music Saturdays from 4-8pm!” Oh dear. Somehow my father + Jimmy Buffett cover band=nightmare. You see, under the best of circumstances my Dad has a tendency to orchestrate the environs of all spaces in which he is present. I can’t tell you how many dinners have started with him directing the Maitre d’ to "please turn down the music, turn up the air conditioner and please give us that round table in the corner, thank you." Upon calling the restaurant to secure a perfect table away from the music we were reminded that they do not take reservations. I had already agreed to an early-bird dinner to accommodate the six-and-under set but what if we got there and had to wait? Early-bird turning into night-owl was sure to bring on a meltdown or two. At this point my sister mentioned neither niece had slept well the night before and wasn’t it a shame the restaurant was so far away. Okay, enough. It was time to adjust the plan.
And here is where I was really proud of myself. I easily gave up on the fantasy of lobster roll and the strawberry-rhubarb pie. Instead we went to a nearby seafood place where we could reserve a table outside and eat when we wanted without enduring “Live Music!” Jimmy Buffett managed to accompany our meal nonetheless, over the speakers mounted right by our table. But Dad was completely well behaved and the girls had the run of the outdoor space, gathering pennies to throw into the little fountain and dancing around like good parrot-heads when they got bored with our leisurely chatting. Why didn’t I pick this restaurant in the first place? Because the food is entirely mediocre and they don’t have strawberry-rhubarb pie.
Obviously I was going to need to satisfy my initial cravings. Coincidentally, my friend Marsha emailed me over the weekend wanting to make a date for a lobster roll taste-test at some of the new places that have cropped up all over the city. Done. But I still wanted my pie! Despite all this personal growth I will do almost anything to avoid making a double crust pie, especially when the people at Briermere Farms do such a great job and I know a trip to their place in Riverhead is going to happen in the next few weeks. So I settled on a galette, or free-form tart. That way I wouldn’t have to stress as much but I’d still get that unmistakably sweet, tart, juicy and flaky experience. It really is easy, yes, rustic to look at but definitely hits the spot. I whipped it up as soon as I got back to the city, cut myself a big piece and topped it with vanilla ice cream. Happy Birthday to me. And now I have 359 days to get ready not to care about my next birthday. I’d say I’m making progress.
No Birthday Expectations Strawberry-Rhubarb Galette
Adapted from Food and Wine, April 2004
Printer Friendly Version
Ingredients-Galette
Galette Dough (see below) or store-bought refrigerated pie crust
1 pint strawberries, thickly sliced
1 pound very red fresh rhubarb stalks, cut crosswise 1/2 inch thick (Discard leaves-they are poisonous)
3/4 cup sugar
2 tablespoons all-purpose flour
2 teaspoons fresh lemon juice
1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
2 tablespoons whole milk
4 tablespoons cold unsalted butter, cut into small pieces

Directions-Galette
Preheat the oven to 400°. Line a large rimmed baking sheet with parchment paper. (This is important--the galette leaks and you need the rimmed pan to catch juices or your oven will be a mess.)

On a lightly floured surface, roll the dough out to a 16-inch round 1/8 inch thick. Transfer to the baking sheet; the pastry will hang over the edges. Refrigerate the pastry for 10 minutes.
In a large bowl, toss the strawberries with the rhubarb, sugar, flour, lemon juice and vanilla.
Spread on the pastry to within 2 inches of the edge.
Fold the edge over the filling, pleating it at 2 inch intervals. Lightly brush the dough with the milk. Dot the filling with the butter.


Bake the galette in the center of the oven for 1 hour, or until the fruit is bubbling and the pastry is golden brown. Let cool slightly before cutting into wedges.
Yield: 6-8 servings

Ingredients-Dough
1 1/4 cups all-purpose flour
3/4 teaspoon kosher salt
1 teaspoon sugar
10 Tablespoons (1 1/4 sticks) cold unsalted butter, cut into 1-inch pieces
5 tablespoons ice water

Directions-Dough
Place a large piece of plastic wrap on the kitchen counter.

In a bowl, using a fork, blend the flour, salt and sugar; scatter the butter on top. Using a pastry blender, cut the butter into the flour until it is the size of small peas. Sprinkle on the water and toss with the fork. Dump contents onto plastic wrap.

OR in bowl of food processor, buzz flour, salt and sugar briefly just to mix. Scatter butter on top and pulse a few times quickly until butter becomes the size of small peas.

Sprinkle the water, one Tablespoon at a time, pulsing briefly (like 2 seconds) after each Tablespoon. You want the water to be incorporated but you don't want the dough to come together in a giant ball. It should look like small clumps and you want to see the butter. Dump contents onto plastic wrap.
Using your hands, press the flour mixture together to form a dough. Pat into a 6-inch disk, wrap it in the plastic and refrigerate for at least 30 minutes or overnight.