Back in November, The Chocolate Lady http://inmolaraan.blogspot.com/2008/11/jacob-topers-yeast-cake.html, posted a fascinating photo accompaning her blog. The photo was of a double tombstone in a cemetery on a kibbutz in Israel. The names Jacob Toper and Mina Toper are inscribed, along with their date of birth and death on the headstones. Nothing out of the ordinary there you say, but if you look at the bottom of the photo, something very out of the ordinary is present. There, inscribed in stone is a recipe for yeast buns. What, I began to wonder, was so important about those buns that these people would want the recipe inscribed on a tombstone? And what was so special about that recipe in the first place? Did it so define the Topers that it could only be shared upon their death? Indeed, is a recipe powerful enough to define a person? And if so, should a person be defined by the food he or she prepares?
I grew up in a town where the women in my mother's circle prided themselves on their baking. Each one of them had a cake that 'belonged' to them. The cakes, the flavours and textures were associated with these women. The recipes were coveted and never shared, lest two of the same cake were to, Heaven forbid, show up at the same party. It didn't take too long for me to know which cake was the mastery of which woman. To be fair, each was a work of art and a delight to the taste buds.
Alas, there was always intrigue surrounding the recipes. My mother tells the story of how one woman tried to weasel a recipe out of another. The conversation went thusly: I use 3/4 of a cup of such and such in my cake. Do you use that amount in yours? Or the dreaded, I leave my oven door open when I bake the cheese cake. Do you do that with yours? It may have taken years to acquire a secret recipe, but when it was done, it was as if someone had found the holy grail.
The whole thing always appeared quite childish to me, until I began thinking about the way my children talk about their mom's chicken soup. To them, my chicken soup is better than anyone else's. And although I know it to be correct, I also am cognizant that every child thinks his or her mother's or father's something or another is the best in the world.
I'm also reminded at how my dad used to tell my mother that by all means, she could try other chicken recipes, but he couldn't understand why she simply didn't make anything other than her Southern Fried (baked) chicken for dinner every Friday night. And I admit that I had to chuckle when my daughter said those exact words to me last Friday night as she noshed on the chicken crumbs. I think it would be neat if, one hundred years from now, my descendants might still be enjoying the recipes that had made their grandparents happy.
With all that said, I'm not quite sure that even famous chefs would want their entire life to be defined merely by one recipe a la the Topers. But food creates powerful emotions, and Mr. and Mrs. Toper must have known that. They kept that recipe theirs until their dying day. And they were smart enough not to take it with them. Now thanks to thee internet, they have kept their legacy alive for generations to come.
And speaking of yeast, stay tuned for my next posting, where I face my demons.....
Friday, December 30, 2011
Friday, December 23, 2011
Jamie Oliver, The Talent Code and me
Jamie Oliver is a real cool guy. Never mind that he's young and brilliant,
but he can make a meal in only 30 minutes (Meals in Minutes). But if
you want to know the truth…So can I.
My daughter and I have been having a lively debate ever since she
studied Daniel Coyle's book, The Talent Code in her psychology class.
Coyle claims that much of talent comes from practice...10,000 hours,
to be precise. Although I still have fundamental issues with the whole
concept, when it comes to making meals in 30 minutes, I must admit,
Coyle wins. A complete meal from scratch cannot be made in 30
minutes by a novice. One must have years of experience to pull it off.
First of all, 30 minutes is not really 30 minutes. In order to be able to
make a meal in 30 minutes, one must spend an hour at the grocery
store, purchasing everything needed for the meal. Sixty minutes, by
the way, is a very conservative estimate. And I am not even factoring
in meeting people we know in the vegetable aisle and having the
meaningful, let's-catch-up-after-15 years- of-not-seeing-each-other,
conversation.
Next, one must spend another 15 minutes at a grocery store (same or
different one, not counting commuting time), because inevitably, some
things were forgotten on the first run.
Let's not forget the time used for shlepping the food in to the house
and unpacking it, along with all of the other stuff we realized we
needed when shopping. Like toilet paper. Or chocolate covered...
well...anything.
Then comes the prepping. Even before cooking, everything has to be
ready. Like the gun in the cowboy's holster, everything needs to be
at your fingertips so that it can be grabbed effortlessly and practically
without thinking. When you're in that zen of cooking quickly, the dance
must be fluid and graceful. There's no time alotted for searching for the
proper utensil. Preparation is the key.
When all the steps above have been completed, and when you've put
in years of practice, making a meal in 30 minutes...and a good one at
that...is a snap. It's a real kick, too. Like those chefs on Chopped, I feel
a lot of pride when that food is completed and served up in no time flat,
even though it’s lapped up in less time than it took to make it.
So a meal in 30 minutes? Well, technically...but not really. And I've
heard rumours that Restaurant Makeover isn't really done in 5 days,
either.......................
but he can make a meal in only 30 minutes (Meals in Minutes). But if
you want to know the truth…So can I.
My daughter and I have been having a lively debate ever since she
studied Daniel Coyle's book, The Talent Code in her psychology class.
Coyle claims that much of talent comes from practice...10,000 hours,
to be precise. Although I still have fundamental issues with the whole
concept, when it comes to making meals in 30 minutes, I must admit,
Coyle wins. A complete meal from scratch cannot be made in 30
minutes by a novice. One must have years of experience to pull it off.
First of all, 30 minutes is not really 30 minutes. In order to be able to
make a meal in 30 minutes, one must spend an hour at the grocery
store, purchasing everything needed for the meal. Sixty minutes, by
the way, is a very conservative estimate. And I am not even factoring
in meeting people we know in the vegetable aisle and having the
meaningful, let's-catch-up-after-15 years- of-not-seeing-each-other,
conversation.
Next, one must spend another 15 minutes at a grocery store (same or
different one, not counting commuting time), because inevitably, some
things were forgotten on the first run.
Let's not forget the time used for shlepping the food in to the house
and unpacking it, along with all of the other stuff we realized we
needed when shopping. Like toilet paper. Or chocolate covered...
well...anything.
Then comes the prepping. Even before cooking, everything has to be
ready. Like the gun in the cowboy's holster, everything needs to be
at your fingertips so that it can be grabbed effortlessly and practically
without thinking. When you're in that zen of cooking quickly, the dance
must be fluid and graceful. There's no time alotted for searching for the
proper utensil. Preparation is the key.
When all the steps above have been completed, and when you've put
in years of practice, making a meal in 30 minutes...and a good one at
that...is a snap. It's a real kick, too. Like those chefs on Chopped, I feel
a lot of pride when that food is completed and served up in no time flat,
even though it’s lapped up in less time than it took to make it.
So a meal in 30 minutes? Well, technically...but not really. And I've
heard rumours that Restaurant Makeover isn't really done in 5 days,
either.......................
Friday, December 16, 2011
Making Shabbat last--Sunday breakfast
When the kids were young, Sunday morning wasn't a quiet time. It was about loads and loads of laundry. It was about shlepping the kids to dance. It was about grocery shopping. It was about getting lesson plans or report cards done. I remember those days well. They're gone now, which is good, because I don't think I could do it anymore.
These days, Sunday morning is a time to ease in to the work week. It's a time to do the crossword puzzle and catch up on cooking or baking. Yes, Sunday morning remains a time to do some grocery shopping. But Sunday morning is a now a time to enjoy something new. Sunday morning means that New Hubby is making breakfast for the two of us.
New Hubby knows his way around the kitchen. He can make eggs scrambled or sunny side up very well indeed, and sometimes, that's just what he does. Other times, pancakes might be on the menu. But one dish speaks to me more than the others. It's his Sunday best French Toast.
I'm not going to divulge his recipe, because I don't know it. It's more or less a standard french toast, but with a twist, not so much in its preparation, but in its presentation. New Hubby has taught me to top this goodness with a dollop of yogurt and some fresh fruit, before drizzling it with maple syrup (actually, he puts on the maple syrup first...and I don't ask questions even though it doesn't make any sense at all). It's quite yummy. But there's more.
One of the reasons that we have french toast on Sunday is so that we can use up the leftover challah from Shabbat. On the surface, it just makes sense. But on this day when we are forced to push ourselves into the new week, this little breakfast is there to make the memory of Shabbat last a bit longer. It's a bit of sweetness to start the new week.
Maybe that's what leftovers are all about....stretching the memories of the meal that was. I'll think about that as I eat my french toast! But first, I better get the challah in the oven!
These days, Sunday morning is a time to ease in to the work week. It's a time to do the crossword puzzle and catch up on cooking or baking. Yes, Sunday morning remains a time to do some grocery shopping. But Sunday morning is a now a time to enjoy something new. Sunday morning means that New Hubby is making breakfast for the two of us.
New Hubby knows his way around the kitchen. He can make eggs scrambled or sunny side up very well indeed, and sometimes, that's just what he does. Other times, pancakes might be on the menu. But one dish speaks to me more than the others. It's his Sunday best French Toast.
I'm not going to divulge his recipe, because I don't know it. It's more or less a standard french toast, but with a twist, not so much in its preparation, but in its presentation. New Hubby has taught me to top this goodness with a dollop of yogurt and some fresh fruit, before drizzling it with maple syrup (actually, he puts on the maple syrup first...and I don't ask questions even though it doesn't make any sense at all). It's quite yummy. But there's more.
One of the reasons that we have french toast on Sunday is so that we can use up the leftover challah from Shabbat. On the surface, it just makes sense. But on this day when we are forced to push ourselves into the new week, this little breakfast is there to make the memory of Shabbat last a bit longer. It's a bit of sweetness to start the new week.
Maybe that's what leftovers are all about....stretching the memories of the meal that was. I'll think about that as I eat my french toast! But first, I better get the challah in the oven!
Friday, December 9, 2011
Latkes, latkes, la la la
The calendar has turned to December, and with that comes latkes. Latkes in Yiddish, levivot in Hebrew or potato pancakes in English, latkes are the traditional Ashkenazi or Eastern European food served at Chanukah in many countries outside of Israel (Israeli's eat sufganiot, a type of jelly donut). We Jews do ourselves in at this time of year eating foods made with oil. It is most masochistic, and at the same time magnificently delectable.
Latkes are incredible, if executed correctly. At their best, they are fried to a magnificent golden brown; they are lacy and crunchy on the outside and 'meaty' on the inside. Latkes are a versatile food as well. They can be served for breakfast, lunch or dinner, and any type of snack in between. For the dairy meal, they can be topped with sour cream; for a meat meal, apple sauce is usually in order. I don't know why, but some people top them with sugar. To me, this is a bastardization of what I know to be traditional, but we live in a pluralistic society, so, hey, who am I to argue. Latkes can be 'kicked up a notch' as well. In times other than Chanukah, I have seen them served as an appetizer at parties, with a dollop of flavoured cream cheese and thin slice of lox on top. It is almost impossible to not sing the praises of what could never be considered a lowly potato pancake.
One of the things I like most about latkes is, they sit in your stomach for about eight days, coincidentally corresponding with the number of days as the holiday of Chanukah itself (this, by the way in case you don't know it, is the true meaning of the Miracle of the Oil). As well as the latkes themselves remaining, so too does the smell of the oil they were cooked in. The smell gets into your pores and into your walls. It's disgusting and beautiful at the same time. It's magnificent.
I've been making latkes for decades. In the beginning, I would make them by scratch, especially with my kiddies both at home at during the 22 years I spent teaching kindergarten, but one year I got lazy, and from there, birthed my ultimate latke recipe. It is the fusion of old school (pardon the pun) and new...and here it is.
First, you will need a box of latke mix (your choice). Prepare the mix according to the box. Next, you are going to add to the mixture your favourite latke recipe from scratch. Mine is the Easy Potato Pancakes recipe from the great Norene Gilletz' yellow bible, The Pleasures of Your Processor (pg. 166). They are, to quote Mel Brooks as the 2000 Year Old Man, 'simple, yet elokvent'. However I do make one change to her recipe....with deepest respect to my facebook friend, Norene.....I grate the potatoes (and onions) by hand. It makes all the difference in the world. For a few reasons.
For some reason, when you grate potatoes by hand, the texture is slightly different, and I like that. People scoff at me all the time when I tell them that I hand grate. They say that I'm crazy and that the processor does the same, if not better job. But they don't understand. It's not just about the end result. It's about...ok...another unintended pun....the process.
It's about tradition. Granted, in my life, I've broken traditions. I've created new ones, too. But I have memories of my grandmother grating potatoes. And I have years of wonderful memories making latkes with my children. Ann Landers once advised that if you want to have meaningful conversations with your children, get them to do the dishes with you. I think the same goes for latke making. I've watched many tiny fingers attempt to grate (haven't lost a finger yet!). I've helped little hands crack eggs (I have decided that little pieces of cracked eggshell in your latkes are a good source of calcium), and held my hands over smaller ones to stir the mixture. The process is as satisfying as the end result.
So I continue to grate my potatoes by hand...and cry while I grate the onions, too. It's all about tradition.....and the oil that lasted for eight days...in my hair, my skin, and happily, in my tummy. May my kitchen produce latkes for many years to come!
Latkes are incredible, if executed correctly. At their best, they are fried to a magnificent golden brown; they are lacy and crunchy on the outside and 'meaty' on the inside. Latkes are a versatile food as well. They can be served for breakfast, lunch or dinner, and any type of snack in between. For the dairy meal, they can be topped with sour cream; for a meat meal, apple sauce is usually in order. I don't know why, but some people top them with sugar. To me, this is a bastardization of what I know to be traditional, but we live in a pluralistic society, so, hey, who am I to argue. Latkes can be 'kicked up a notch' as well. In times other than Chanukah, I have seen them served as an appetizer at parties, with a dollop of flavoured cream cheese and thin slice of lox on top. It is almost impossible to not sing the praises of what could never be considered a lowly potato pancake.
One of the things I like most about latkes is, they sit in your stomach for about eight days, coincidentally corresponding with the number of days as the holiday of Chanukah itself (this, by the way in case you don't know it, is the true meaning of the Miracle of the Oil). As well as the latkes themselves remaining, so too does the smell of the oil they were cooked in. The smell gets into your pores and into your walls. It's disgusting and beautiful at the same time. It's magnificent.
I've been making latkes for decades. In the beginning, I would make them by scratch, especially with my kiddies both at home at during the 22 years I spent teaching kindergarten, but one year I got lazy, and from there, birthed my ultimate latke recipe. It is the fusion of old school (pardon the pun) and new...and here it is.
First, you will need a box of latke mix (your choice). Prepare the mix according to the box. Next, you are going to add to the mixture your favourite latke recipe from scratch. Mine is the Easy Potato Pancakes recipe from the great Norene Gilletz' yellow bible, The Pleasures of Your Processor (pg. 166). They are, to quote Mel Brooks as the 2000 Year Old Man, 'simple, yet elokvent'. However I do make one change to her recipe....with deepest respect to my facebook friend, Norene.....I grate the potatoes (and onions) by hand. It makes all the difference in the world. For a few reasons.
For some reason, when you grate potatoes by hand, the texture is slightly different, and I like that. People scoff at me all the time when I tell them that I hand grate. They say that I'm crazy and that the processor does the same, if not better job. But they don't understand. It's not just about the end result. It's about...ok...another unintended pun....the process.
It's about tradition. Granted, in my life, I've broken traditions. I've created new ones, too. But I have memories of my grandmother grating potatoes. And I have years of wonderful memories making latkes with my children. Ann Landers once advised that if you want to have meaningful conversations with your children, get them to do the dishes with you. I think the same goes for latke making. I've watched many tiny fingers attempt to grate (haven't lost a finger yet!). I've helped little hands crack eggs (I have decided that little pieces of cracked eggshell in your latkes are a good source of calcium), and held my hands over smaller ones to stir the mixture. The process is as satisfying as the end result.
So I continue to grate my potatoes by hand...and cry while I grate the onions, too. It's all about tradition.....and the oil that lasted for eight days...in my hair, my skin, and happily, in my tummy. May my kitchen produce latkes for many years to come!
Sunday, December 4, 2011
Tandacookie by any other name
At the dawn of the internet, as I created my first email account, I had to think up a name for myself. Now, in those days, we didn't have to think too hard. It was an usual thing to get a message saying, 'username taken', so anything was possible. I didn't give a minute's thought before deciding upon my moniker, Tandacookie.
Over the years, all sorts of people have asked me about it. The lady at Air Canada bookings cared to hear the explanation. Clerks at stores who ask for my email address so that they can send me junk mail wanna know. Who is Tanda Cookie?
The answer is...nobody. Tanda Cookie doesn't exist. I'm not Tanda anything. Tandacookie is really T and a Cookie...T being short for tea, making my name 'tea and a cookie'. I was simply too lazy to write tea-and-a-cookie every time I wanted to enter an email address. Okay you say, so why 'tea and a cookie'?
My pat answer to explain to anyone who asks that in university, everyone knew that they could always come to my dorm room for tea and a cookie (I was always well stocked). Once the name stuck, friends would ask if I ever invited people up for tea and maybe a cookie. That euphemism stuck, too, by the way. The other day as I realized that Tandacookie is writing about food, I wondered if there could be a deeper reason why I chose the name. I think there is and I believe I've figured it out.
Unlike today's busy world where too many families eat on different schedules, my family sat down and broke bread together every night at precisely 6:00 p.m. My father would sit at the head of the table, and go around asking me and my siblings what we had done at school that day. From there, lively conversation abounded between my parents and my grandmother, who lived with us. Dinner was always simple but tasty. And then came dessert.
My mother and grandmother shared the baking duties, so we were never short on dessert. I think those two women shared some religious belief that one must have three dessert options every night. And we did. There was always some type of fruit pie along with my grandmother's strudel and one of two types of cookies.... chocolate chip cookies, or my grandmother's sugar cookies....everything homemade. And of course, there was tea. That's right; tea and a cookie every night. No wonder I've decided to write about food!
So why do I call myself Tandacookie? The more I think about it, the more I realize that for me, tea and a cookie means that full, happy, sleepy feeling after a great meal. It means comfort and deep satisfaction. Tea and a cookie describes what is most important to me...my family.
Tandcookie means home.
Over the years, all sorts of people have asked me about it. The lady at Air Canada bookings cared to hear the explanation. Clerks at stores who ask for my email address so that they can send me junk mail wanna know. Who is Tanda Cookie?
The answer is...nobody. Tanda Cookie doesn't exist. I'm not Tanda anything. Tandacookie is really T and a Cookie...T being short for tea, making my name 'tea and a cookie'. I was simply too lazy to write tea-and-a-cookie every time I wanted to enter an email address. Okay you say, so why 'tea and a cookie'?
My pat answer to explain to anyone who asks that in university, everyone knew that they could always come to my dorm room for tea and a cookie (I was always well stocked). Once the name stuck, friends would ask if I ever invited people up for tea and maybe a cookie. That euphemism stuck, too, by the way. The other day as I realized that Tandacookie is writing about food, I wondered if there could be a deeper reason why I chose the name. I think there is and I believe I've figured it out.
Unlike today's busy world where too many families eat on different schedules, my family sat down and broke bread together every night at precisely 6:00 p.m. My father would sit at the head of the table, and go around asking me and my siblings what we had done at school that day. From there, lively conversation abounded between my parents and my grandmother, who lived with us. Dinner was always simple but tasty. And then came dessert.
My mother and grandmother shared the baking duties, so we were never short on dessert. I think those two women shared some religious belief that one must have three dessert options every night. And we did. There was always some type of fruit pie along with my grandmother's strudel and one of two types of cookies.... chocolate chip cookies, or my grandmother's sugar cookies....everything homemade. And of course, there was tea. That's right; tea and a cookie every night. No wonder I've decided to write about food!
So why do I call myself Tandacookie? The more I think about it, the more I realize that for me, tea and a cookie means that full, happy, sleepy feeling after a great meal. It means comfort and deep satisfaction. Tea and a cookie describes what is most important to me...my family.
Tandcookie means home.
Friday, December 2, 2011
Taste testing, testing, one, two, three
So it's been a while since my last posting. As some of you may know, my life has taken a dramatic and fantastic turn since I signed off in April. I have a new portfolio at work, which is exciting. I've taken the plunge and have re-married. Extremely exciting. I have moved homes. Exhausting but very exciting. All of these are life altering events, to be sure. But in the midst of it all, my dirty, secret passion has been rekindled....I've fallen deeply, madly in love with the Food Channel.
It began quite innocently. When new hubby and I renovated the house, we opened up an existing kitchen wall so that the kitchen and family room would essentially become a 'great' room. By doing this, we felt we could entertain guests better. The open concept ensured that conversations could carry on and flow between rooms. Continuing with the idea of the two rooms becoming one, we placed the TV in the family room over the fireplace so that we could easily watch our shows from the kitchen if desired.
Now as you may already know from older postings, other than Seinfeld reruns, I'm not much of a TV watcher, so I paid no never mind as to where the TV would hang, or which angle would be best to gain the ideal view from the kitchen. It was virtually meaningless to me...until that fateful day. That day back in September when I was cooking multi meals for the then upcoming High Holy Days and decided I wanted to have a little company. I flicked on the TV and instinctively clicked to Channel 52, the beloved Food Channel. Glory, Glory Halleluyah! I was home.
Immediately, I felt a rush of adrenaline hit me. Here were 'my' chefs, doing their thing so expertly, so exquisitely, and without much mess. I welcomed each of them in, one magnificent half hour after another. Together, we created that first batch of meals. It was completely and utterly satisfying. And even though we were creating different dishes, we were in it as a team. And even better, they did it there, in TV land, where they couldn't bump into me or get their mess mixed in with mine. It was a beautiful thing. It was a turn on. It was the start of a beautiful and meaningful relationship.
I'm not a foodie. I don't profess to be one. I don't even aspire to be one. I'm not the best cook in the world.... I'm not so bad, either, so I've been told. But I've realized lately that I'm very happy being in the kitchen, and I don't think it's simply because of the Food Channel. I'm not sure how regularly I'll be writing this blog, but I seem to think that for this next little while, my thoughts will eminate from what's cooking on my stove or in my oven.
So pull up a chair. I welcome you into my kitchen, my sanctum sanctorum, my place of frenzy, my place of peace. Make yourself at home.
It began quite innocently. When new hubby and I renovated the house, we opened up an existing kitchen wall so that the kitchen and family room would essentially become a 'great' room. By doing this, we felt we could entertain guests better. The open concept ensured that conversations could carry on and flow between rooms. Continuing with the idea of the two rooms becoming one, we placed the TV in the family room over the fireplace so that we could easily watch our shows from the kitchen if desired.
Now as you may already know from older postings, other than Seinfeld reruns, I'm not much of a TV watcher, so I paid no never mind as to where the TV would hang, or which angle would be best to gain the ideal view from the kitchen. It was virtually meaningless to me...until that fateful day. That day back in September when I was cooking multi meals for the then upcoming High Holy Days and decided I wanted to have a little company. I flicked on the TV and instinctively clicked to Channel 52, the beloved Food Channel. Glory, Glory Halleluyah! I was home.
Immediately, I felt a rush of adrenaline hit me. Here were 'my' chefs, doing their thing so expertly, so exquisitely, and without much mess. I welcomed each of them in, one magnificent half hour after another. Together, we created that first batch of meals. It was completely and utterly satisfying. And even though we were creating different dishes, we were in it as a team. And even better, they did it there, in TV land, where they couldn't bump into me or get their mess mixed in with mine. It was a beautiful thing. It was a turn on. It was the start of a beautiful and meaningful relationship.
I'm not a foodie. I don't profess to be one. I don't even aspire to be one. I'm not the best cook in the world.... I'm not so bad, either, so I've been told. But I've realized lately that I'm very happy being in the kitchen, and I don't think it's simply because of the Food Channel. I'm not sure how regularly I'll be writing this blog, but I seem to think that for this next little while, my thoughts will eminate from what's cooking on my stove or in my oven.
So pull up a chair. I welcome you into my kitchen, my sanctum sanctorum, my place of frenzy, my place of peace. Make yourself at home.
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