Lemon Cloud Scones

Lemon Cloud Scones

That's what I'll call them, I thought.

...

Needing Something Not Too Sweet

...

I knew that if I took a little coffee, with a little whole milk, with a bite or two of something not too sweet, I'd be zipping around. Motivated. Able. Willing. For a while, anyway.

My muse, the citrusy-floral notes perfuming the kitchen. The lemons from the lemon tree. They had been haunting me for days. Sneaking into my senses when least expected.

What is that smell? I'd think.

Do you smell that? I'd ask.

Where is that smell coming from? I'd wonder.

That's when I realized we were dealing with real lemons in the best possible way. The smell was like nothing I'd ever experienced.

...

Lemon Scones

...

I didn't hesitate. Joy of Cooking would have a recipe. Pages 640-641. Cream scones. Lemon scones.

There was some doubt, though. Two eggs? And cream? I worried they would turn into heavy little lemon pucks.

I was wrong.

The dough felt willowy and soft, like a cloud.

...

Not Too Sweet

...

I picked up one of the scones. Light as air. I imagined the inside. The crumb.

If I didn't eat one soon they would simply float away.

So, I took my coffee, with a little whole milk. I broke open a scone. I took a bite.

Not too sweet. Just right.

...

The Recipe

...

Preheat oven to 450 degrees.

Place sheet of parchment baking paper onto sheet pan.

Combine dry ingredients in a large bowl:

1 3/4 cups all-purpose flour

2 1/4 teaspoons baking powder

2 tablespoons sugar

1/2 teaspoon salt

Swirl dry ingredients around in large bowl with your fingers until everything feels just so.

Combine wet ingredients in a medium bowl:

2 large eggs

1 1/4 cups heavy cream

1 tablespoon lemon zest

Beat lightly with a fork until eggs and zest are thoroughly incorporated with the cream.

Pour wet into dry. Mix with the same fork you used to beat the wet ingredients together until just combined.

Dust countertop with all-purpose flour. Pour dough onto counter. Lightly flour top of dough. Pat down gingerly with one hand. Marvel in how willowy and soft it feels, but don't overwork the dough.

Flour a round cookie or biscuit cutter and start cutting away.

The amount of scones you end up with depends on how thick your dough is. My dough was about 1/2" thick, yielding about 11 scones.

Sprinkle with raw sugar to your liking and bake for 15 minutes.

Eating Pasta Every Day

Eating Pasta Every Day

We don't think. We just do.

We eat pasta every day, I said.

Roberto nodded in agreement as he washed dishes and I dried.

We used to throw in a day or two—at least one day—without pasta, but not anymore, I said.

And now, because of The Glorious Pasta of Italy by Domenica Marchetti, I'm thinking about all of the pasta we've yet to eat.

It was the book jacket I noticed first. The color. The photography. The typography. The title. I bent down and pulled a copy from the shelf and proceeded to thumb through. My eyes glued. My stomach growling like a pirate plagued with famine.

I thought about it for a second. Do we really need a cookbook about pasta? Not really. I thought about it for a second more. Would it hurt to have a little inspiration? Not really.

Happily, I went straight for the register.

...

Spaghetti Aglio, Olio e Acciughe

...

Inspiration came quickly. Page 216. Spaghetti Aglio, Olio e Acciughe.

Tomato paste!

An element we've yet to introduce into our traditional garlic and olive oil pasta.

Domenica called for anchovy fillets as well. That we've done, but tomato paste—I found the idea very smart. And very old-school.

I've heard the story many times. While he was a young man in Italy—Roberto's father—sometimes the only thing he had on hand was tomato paste and a huge box of loose pasta. He claims he'd eat a pound, himself, every day. My eyes open wide at the thought.

I asked Roberto if he had looked at the recipe. He had, but didn't remember exactly what was called for. His interpretation was pretty close, though. Instead of the red pepper flakes he used a spicy pepper from the farmers market. And for a bit of zing, a sprinkling of green onion. This would be in lieu of our staple, parsley.

I hovered as layer upon layer of flavor hit the pan.

The instant flood of color (a translucent burnt orange) from the tomato paste upon impact with the pasta, linguine (we already had an open box) had me grinning and anxious to eat. To eat. I was starving. We were both starving. Starving.

And, yes, it was delicious. A little bit beyond, to be exact.

...

Needless to say, dinner left me feeling—and I'll use the word again—inspired.

Our Lemons and Butchering a Chicken

Our Lemons and Butchering a Chicken

I stuffed my hand into the carcass without hesitation. Look at this!

I held the tiny muscle between my fingers and proceeded to examine it. It's the heart. It's tiny. Look at the ventrical. It had been a healthy bird.

Roberto pulled Pepin's book from the shelf and found instructions on how to butcher a chicken. The how-to seemed crude, but very matter of fact.

The best course would be to jump right in. To not over-think things. Sound advice.

While I twisted joints and cut, Roberto reminded me to be careful and watch your fingers.

I listened. In the end we had a respectable load of butchered chicken parts on the counter and not a drop of blood. We were both pleased.

...

Bumper Crop

...

It only took five years.

I clipped two lemons from the tree and brought them inside. They had a job to do.

I coated the bottom of the stainless steel pan with olive oil and proceeded to coat the chicken—sliding the parts around and flipping them until they were glossy and ready to receive seasoning. Roberto added salt and pepper. Oregano? Yes, oregano AND crushed red pepper. A healthy dose of fresh squeezed lemon and a glug or two of white wine.

Into the oven.

I hovered at first, but them surrendered myself to The Glorious Pasta of Italy by Domenica Marchetti. A nice surrender.

Egg Atop Crispy Quinoa, Ceci & Roast Zucchini

Egg Atop Crispy Quinoa, Ceci & Roast Zucchini

This was a serendipitous moment.

I knew full well that I'd repurpose what was left. A slight 1/3 cup. But if I was to follow my intentions—and I did—I would end up with a most delicious end of week lunch.

My only regret is that there wasn't more leftover quinoa. Had there been, it would have required a second egg (insert heavy sigh). There was certainly room in my stomach.

This quinoa salad, frugally preserved for this day, consisted of ceci (chickpeas), red onion and zucchini which I had roasted.

I drizzled extra virgin olive oil into a non-stick pan. This would give the quinoa salad something to crisp to, to sing out from. Gradually, over a low flame, the quinoa gained color, the ceci throbbed and popped (fried ceci is a revelation).

The nutty smell was mesmerizing.

I picked a random moment to slowly release the egg into the pan. It fell perfectly and nestled just right.

To aid, I covered the pan with a glass lid. It fogged up immediately, hindering my vision. I would have to lift the lid here and there to keep abreast of progress, releasing a swath of perfumed moisture right under my nose.

I waited. Patience was necessary. Finally.

This could become an addiction.

I hunched over the plate. Smiling. Quite pleased with myself.

That first crunchy bite with egg yolk—(insert heavy sigh).

Yarn Cupcake (with a cherry on top)

Yarn Cupcake (with a cherry on top)

Suspending Reality

Suspending Reality

A Bowl of Pasta

A Bowl of Pasta

The end of July. Tomatoes of all maturation dangled from the vine. Herbs flourished. The cupboard bulged with pasta.

I cut chicken breast into bite size pieces and sauteed mindfully in a shallow bed of salted butter and extra virgin olive oil.

I rinsed herbs under a delicate shower of cool water.

I peeled tomatoes and then commenced to dice. A methodical dice.

The kitchen, quiet. The sun shifting slowly towards sleep. The garden heaving heavy sighs under wisps of shade.

We would eat under the umbrella of streaming natural light entangled in the paddles of an overhead fan, safe from mosquito and sweat.

A fistful of basil. A generous grating of Parmesan. Cracked black pepper.

Al dente, zita cut.

Eating quietly, the two of us.

Shot from the Hip: Baltimore Farmer's Market

Shot from the Hip: Baltimore Farmer's Market

Indian Summer Salad

Indian Summer Salad

The old man at the market has the tiniest of displays. Cherry tomatoes. Melon. Squash. All meticulously arranged.

I handed him the pint of cherry tomatoes and $3. He retrieved a small plastic bag. Carefully he let the tomatoes roll out of the container into the suspension of the bag.

"Thank you." He said. His smile ever widened by imprints of his age.

"Thank you." I said. I smiled back.

When we got home I immediately put a pot of water on to boil. Two cups. A nice dash of salt. Once cup of quinoa. It came up to a boil quickly. I set the flame to low, covered the pot and set the timer for 15 minutes.

Like pasta, it would fret and muddle without modest attention. A stir here and there.

Lifting the lid gave way to a nutty, almost oatmeal-like fragrance.

It grew thicker. It's tiny tendrils curling out, a sign of its doneness.

When it was ready I pulled the pot from the stove and spooned the quinoa into a bowl to cool. A fluff with a fork as it came to room temperature was all that was required.

Meanwhile I prepped the rest of the salad.

A can of chickpeas, rinsed.

Three spring onions, thinly chopped.

Basil, a handful rolled, tucked and cut.

Cherry tomatoes, quartered.

Salt.

Cracked black pepper.

Olive oil.

Now I only had to wait. Adjust my attention slightly. A fluff here and there with the fork. A shuffle of the mis en place, now tumbling together in another bowl.

Once the quinoa had sufficiently cooled I commenced with combining things. A taste. Just right.

To be eaten for lunch. I, we, couldn't wait.

It has taken some time, but with a little—but not too much—effort, this hearty little salad has become a lunchtime staple.

"I like quinoa better cold." I said.

I do. I think it's at its zenith when married with other whole foods that balance and bring out it's unique flavor. It breaths when it's cool. I'll leave the mushy clumps up to my oatmeal.

Some time I'll have to write about another favorite quinoa salad. One that mixes black lentils and feta cheese.

Another time...

A Book List

A Book List

The house was dark so I had to turn on a light.

I started to flit about. Engaging myself in making a list. In no particular order, but with great urgency.

flit

n.

1. A fluttering or darting movement.

2. Informal An empty-headed, silly, often erratic person.

Source: The Free Dictionary

A shelf, here. A bedside table, there.

Book after book. It seemed like many at first. Many, it was not. Not as many as I would have liked.

And I know why.

Anne Sexton, A Biography

by Diane Wood Middlebrook

I read about Anne at night before drifting off to sleep. A deep book, thick with tiny words and psychosis. It droned on and on. It was a struggle, but I couldn't look away.

But I was pulled from the depths of literary tragedy when a new friend (Julie of Kitchen Culinaire) sent me not one, but two books. I remember the morning I was handed the package by the office mailman. I looked at the return address. Canada! I turned around in my cubicle, my back to the outside world and quietly opened the envelope.

Inside...

Tin Fish Gourmet, Great Seafood from Cupboard to Table

by Barbara-jo McIntosh

A thin volume filled with simple recipes starring tinned fish. I read it from cover to cover. A first for me, reading a cookbook straight through.

Cooking for Me and Sometimes You, A Parisian Romance with Recipes

by Barbara-jo McIntosh

It wasn't just the first paragraph that drew me into this second thin volume. It was the entire package. The ribbon bookmark, the fabric cover. It had the smell of summer's past to it. Trips to the library. I got lost immediately. And soon I was fully engulfed by the day to day quiet adventure of Barbara-jo in Paris.

Julie had hit the nail on the head. Not once, but twice.

After that, for the most part, it was a Parisian summer of sorts.

The Elegance of the Hedgehog

by Muriel Barbery

Lunch in Paris, A Love Story with Recipes

by Elizabeth Bard

The Paris Wife

by Paula McLain

And because I'm a sucker for a good food memoir, I threw one of those into the mix as well.

Home Cooking, A Writer in the Kitchen

by Laurie Colwin

But I like to keep things interesting and diverse. Or, at least I like to try.

The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks

by Rebecca Skloot

The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath

Edited by Karen V. Kukil

The Summer Book

by Tove Jansson

And that's the list. The short of it anyway.

I wonder what you read over the summer.

In Kitchen

In Kitchen

Almost in Season: Clementines

No Reason: Slatted Bread Board

Out-of-Season: Tulips

A Cake of Pumpkin

A Bread of Pumpkin

The weather is playing tricks on us. Mid-October—mid-eighties. An Indian Summer?

...

Pumpkin Bread

...

On Saturday I made a bread of pumpkin. I've had it on my mind for quite some time and it was time.

I was intent on omitting the ginger, nutmeg and cloves. The pumpkin-non-embracer-disliker is not a fan. But cinnamon, yes. Cinnamon would stay. Okay by me. I don't necessarily want my bread of pumpkin to taste like pumpkin pie.

And when I added an entire can of pumpkin instead of the prescribed 1 cup—I felt defeated. I had thought that I had ruined it. But, I had not. I added 1/2 cup flour more and crossed my fingers.

It baked at 350 degrees for a good hour, fifteen.

It worked.

The pumpkin-non-embracer-disliker hunched over his piece. I waited for the sniff, the face, the taste.

"It doesn't taste like pumpkin." He said.

That means he thinks it's edible, I thought.

...

And, yes, it does taste good with peanut butter (in case you're wondering).

...

Recipe can be found at thejoykitchen.com.

Note: I omitted ginger, nutmeg and cloves. I used milk instead of water. Olive oil instead of butter or shortening. 1 can of pumpkin vs 1 cup. Lastly, I opted for pecans over walnuts because that's what I had in the pantry.