False Alarm Tennessee Bread Pudding

They told us we would be stranded, for one day maybe two, snow like an insurmountable blockade right up to our front door. We readied ourselves, grabbed a new board game, some candles and extra groceries. Leftover from Sunday dinner was a lovely loaf of bread that had begun to harden. Monday evening I began thinking about the potential of the snowy morning to come, and breakfast of course. I adapted a recipe from Lodge's A Skillet Full, for Tennessee Bread Pudding to include some extra decadence- dark chocolate. 

The snow came, but not to the degree they forecasted. Work was called off prematurely so we still have the day to stay in. I'm tempted to turn off all the lights, unplug and just pretend. Toss the phone aside, turn off the television and hide the iPad. Have a good old fashioned conversation, huddled on a blanket with a plate of bread pudding and a glass of milk. 

Ingredients: 

1/2 stick butter
1 loaf of French or Italian bread, preferably stale
2 cups of milk
2 eggs beaten
1 cup dried fruit; I used cranberries 
1/2 cup dark chocolate, chopped
1 1/2 tablespoons vanilla

To prepare:

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Melt butter in your 12 inch Lodge Cast Iron skillet. Slice bread into chunks.

Combine remaining ingredients in a large bowl.

Add bread chunks to the bowl and toss until the bread is saturated. Use your hands preferably and mash if necessary. Pour your mixture into the bubbling butter in skillet. Press down gently and allow liquids to rise to the top, moistening all the bread.

Bake for 40 minutes or until center is firm. When cool, top with powdered sugar.

If it wasn't morning time, I would top with ice cream. Maybe I will anyway. 

Scenes from Sunday: Cinnamon Rolls

There are few things in life, if any, that I have found worth trading my Sundays for. After the responsibilities of the week and social encounters of Saturday have come and gone, a day for family, reflection, rest, and catch up arrives just in time. 

I've been allocating Sundays for sweet treats as part of my New Year's resolution. While I won't give up the desserts I enjoy entirely, I can scale back how frequently I eat them. Furthermore, I'll make them from scratch so the effort warrants the indulgence. Deprivation with regard to food,  if I am being entirely honest, is not now and likely never will be an avenue for me. So all week, I'll be dreaming of Sunday. 

This Sunday's project was a batch of Cinnamon Rolls. Sarah Kieffer, one of my favorite food writers, shared her recipe for Truck Stop Cinnamon Rolls  using Breadin5's Brioche dough. Her writing and confections are stunningly beautiful, and these rolls were every bit as comforting as I envisioned. Having never made them from scratch, I can now appreciate the thorough process, the waiting, rising, folding, and rolling. The mixing, and zesting. Plain and simple - the effort. I won't stop at Cinnabon again and mindlessly eat a bun as I window shop with my sister, hopefully. It would be a betrayal of the process I have now experienced. 

Like nurturing a baby, if I may draw that comparison as I have no children of my own but pray that someday I will, I felt this inexplicable attachment.  I was expectant and anxious. I nervously asked James, does this dough look ok to you? Will it rise? Should I add more flour? James gave me his bench scraper from culinary school, a symbolic union of his past and our future. I gingerly handled the brioche after it chilled, the aroma of honey and yeast on my fingertips. I rolled out the brioche on parchment paper, a blank canvas patiently awaiting its sweet destination. Brushed with melted butter, covered with a combination of sugars and orange zest, and then rolled ever so gently into a long log. I sliced into rolls with a bread knife and arranged them on baking sheets where they rose for 2 hours. Then, I baked them at 350 degrees for 25 minutes. Warm from the oven, I covered the rolls with homemade cream cheese icing and snuck a bite, thinking to myself that while I can't buy lavish gifts, I can coat your ribs with comforting labors of my love. 

Happy Sunday!

The world is watching

All I offered was a kiss on the cheek goodbye and a mandate to check in when he arrived there safely. A sweet gentleman in passing said, "well, that was nice."  We smiled at one another and went on our separate ways. I was changed; perhaps he was as well. 

We are always under observation, under a microscope even.  An exchange, a word. These seemingly small moments affect other people.  We don't have to have adoring fans, buckets of money, or notoriety to lead a full life - to impact other people. If we quiet the noise and distractions, we would see this each day. A gesture of understanding in the checkout line between mother and child. A nimble young man helping an elderly man with his bags. Returning a lost glove, a smile at a wailing toddler, the acknowledgment of a lonely stranger. To believe that small gestures are meaningless is a disservice to the gift that life is. A gift every human person is afforded, despite his or her station in life.

Right around Christmas time, I received a message from Beth Sweeney, founder of Coppermill Kitchen, a luxury brand of restored European antique copper cookware. Her pieces are absolutely stunning, and her story is equally inspiring. She wanted to send me a present for my kitchen. I was flabbergasted. "You want to send me a Christmas present?" As I have recently undergone a transition in the workplace, I was feeling a bit lost, uncertain, and worried about keeping up appearances. What will I tell people I do for living, I wondered. I surely cannot say I am a writer, as I haven't been published by a respected source. At best, I am a decent home cook with a great appreciation for mealtime. I like to dabble here and there, while I figure out the next step, if there even is a concrete step. The road is winding and I must remember that. 

Beth told me she was inspired by my work. I was deeply touched from a maker's standpoint, as I have been diligently striving to develop a craft. But more so I was touched on the human level. An act of kindness from a stranger, a small symbol of appreciation, and it made all the difference.  She and I have remained in contact and plan to get together in her Copper Kitchen in the future, to share "good food and good stories." A friendship sparked from a darling copper mould, one I will treasure.

To prepare compound butter:

Bring 1/4 cup (1/2 stick) of butter to room temperature, until it gives to the warmth of your hands and is malleable. Finely chop a selection of your favorite fresh herbs. I used rosemary, chives, and sage. In all, it should amount to a little less than a tablespoon. Using a spoon, break down your butter and mix in your herbs, working the excess off the spoon with your fingers. When the herbs are evenly distributed, spoon the butter into your mould and press down with your fingers to fill the crevices. Continue to pack the butter into the mould, level, and chill. I left mine in the freezer overnight, as it was my first time using my mould, but an hour will do. 

Beth taught me to run the mould under hot water ever so briefly. I gave my mould a little tap on the cutting board and it popped out. If you have difficulty, work it gently with a tooth pick. We will be serving this atop a grilled steak for dinner, but you can serve as you wish. Atop a sandwich on crusty bread would be a delight as well. 

To shop Beth's catalogue at Coppermill, click here.  

Success is a skillet

"Success is a skillet", her grandmother said. "Come here and I'll show you." 

The little girl dropped the book she was reading, grabbed the brightly colored apron she received for her birthday and stood next to her Grandma, a woman that never seized to show her something worth knowing. 

Grandma grabbed a twelve inch cast iron skillet from the shelf, and wiped it gently to remove the residual oil from its last seasoning. Meanwhile the little girl foraged for onions, garlic, parsley, carrots, and broccoli rabe among other things from around the kitchen. Grandma said, "bring me whatever we've got and we will make something of it. Success is a skillet. The outcome depends on what goes in."  

The little girl looked on as some butter was melted in a small pan and added to it were Panko bread crumbs. They were lightly browned, mixed with fresh parsley and set aside. The girl shredded the carrots while grandma chopped onions, garlic too, always garlic, and removed sausage meat from its casing. All were added to the skillet, item by item. 

Grandma spoke as she worked methodically, sautéing the onions and garlic, filling the house with warmth and the scent of making. The little girl looked and listened; her favorite place had become Grandma's kitchen. It might as well have been a classroom. Formative learning occupied this small space.

She began, "When I was young, we had fewer options. Women were expected to fulfill certain roles. Today my darling, you can be any number of things. But I implore you to be not a thing, but a person. A loving, hard-working person. People will throw around the word 'success' at every juncture in your life. Remember that success is a skillet. It comes slow and steady, like this cassoulet we are stewing. It can't be rushed, and you won't always be certain when it has arrived. You'll have to taste it. Varying elements comprise the desired end for different people. I know my successes had to cook a little longer. I was cautious, and took my time. 

"Successes will be charged with flavor, only attained with time and careful attention. You have to respect the ingredients and nurture them along the way. With enough preparation, the outcomes truly take care of themselves. You musn't hurry or vital parts of your life will be overlooked. You have to savor the seemingly insignificant moments. They amount to so very much, even if at the time, you wish to push them aside."

"Grandma, when can we eat? " the little girl innocently asked. Grandma smiled tenderly and said, "with all this talking, supper is actually just about complete. Help me top it with breadcrumbs." She looked on knowing before her stood her most precious success.  

Ingredients 

• 1 tablespoon butter
• 1 cup panko bread crumbs 
• 1/2 cup chopped fresh parsley
• 1 tablespoon olive oil
• 1/2 cup chopped onion
• 12 oz cooked sausage, sliced or diced
• 2 cups shredded carrots
• 4 garlic cloves, chopped
• 2 (15.5 ounce) cans cannellini beans, drained and rinsed
• 1 (14.5 ounce) can tomatoes, diced or crushed
• 2 cups chicken broth
• 2 tablespoons chopped fresh thyme
• 1 bay leaf
• 1 teaspoon salt
• 1/2 teaspoon pepper
• 5 ounces broccoli rabe, roughly chopped 

To Prepare 

The recipe for this cassoulet was adapted from Weight Watchers Magazine. 

Preheat oven to 375 degrees. Set aside a twelve inch, seasoned, skillet. If you don't have a skillet, you can use a 13 by 9 baking dish, sprayed with vegetable oil. Or you can shop Lodge Skillets here. 

 In a small skillet melt the butter over medium heat. Add panko and cook, stirring, for two minutes or until lightly browned. Let cool and toss with parsley. 

In a large saucepan, heat oil over medium heat, add onion and cook until onions are softened, about five minutes. Add sausage and cook until lightly browned. Add carrots and garlic. Cook for an additional three minutes, or until carrots are crisp-tender. Add the beans, broth, tomatoes, and all seasonings. Bring to a boil and add the broccoli rabe. Stir until broccoli rabe is wilted.  Pour the mixture into your skillet, top with Panko and parsley. Cover with foil and bake until heated through, about fifteen minutes. Remove foil and cook for an additional five minutes, until the top is crusty and golden.

What I learned in 2014

In what feels like an alarmingly fast fashion, 2014 came and went. It was a nourishing experience to recap lessons learned in 2013, so I gathered myself to compile this year's list. 

I learned that is it more important to be present, than happy. The human condition is comprised of a spectrum of emotions and tendencies, most of which have a functional purpose. Rather than crowding out negative feelings, I endeavored to grow from each experience.  

James taught me how to make broth from tortilla chips, a hearty sauce from leftover pot roast and potatoes, and broccoli rabe so enticing that I prefer it to mashed potatoes, and that is saying something.

I learned that Disney can make a successful film around two female protagonists, that "Bakers gonna bake, bake, bake, bake, bake, Nick Jonas grew up, and "It's all about that bass", thankfully. 

I was reminded almost daily that I crave the exact. There is comfort in certainty as expectations can be defined and managed. But I have learned that real courage and growth manifests in the unknown. The yearning for order will taunt until you learn to dance in the gray area. 

Speaking up for yourself is daunting but worthwhile. No one else knows exactly what to say or how to say it on your behalf, so open yourself to communication. Advocate for yourself and the world will often welcome your entreaty. 

You are successful in whatever faculty you choose to pour your heart into. No act is too small to leave an impression on someone. 

Urgency makes you creative and resourceful. 

I learned that when you expect perfection, brokenness will undo you. When you expect brokenness and vulnerability, everything will rise to greet you; all will be in the realm of ok.

I learned how whiskey is made, how to assemble dream catchers, and re-learned how to make drop-down menus in Excel which is incredibly useful in lots of applications. A new friend of mine taught me a breathing method to combat anxiety and also introduced me to the primary foods. They have nothing to do with food. 

That we can't live our lives afraid of something going wrong. We must be so engaged, infatuated even, with the life we made that not even hardship can deflate our joy. 

I learned that the above doesn't mean we should be arrogant. Humility is timeless. Competition is human, but kindness divine. And very little comes from comparing yourself to others. Self worth is like a pie with limitless slices; everyone gets a slice regardless of his or her station in life. 

Pulling an engagement ring out of a pair of cowboy boots, makeup-less, unfixed hair, with no one around, is just as special as something out of a storybook. 

On that note, storybooks are overrated and unrealistic. The good stuff lies in the trials and overcoming them. Embracing someone despite their flaws and having them embrace you in return. People come into your life exactly when you need them, and not one second before. 

And I learned my sister gives a mean speech, although I never doubted she would be poised in any situation with a microphone. 

The end of the year often carries with it an air of melancholy, the high of Christmas having worn off and the shorter days cloaking us in darkness. But I've learned every morning we can begin again. I've found solace in the morning light and am grateful for these pockets of stillness.

Happy New Year to you and yours!