Monthly Archives: March 2012

pain à l’ancienne

I like to judge the seemingly-arbitrary “success” of a recipe based on whether or not I would like it if someone else made it. Would I pay money to consume this same thing? I think it’s a good test, but I tend to flunk it, because I cook equally for survival and fun, and I’m often too hungry to judge clearly. The proof of the pudding is in the leftovers consumed with normal blood sugar levels.

But then! Sometimes I turn out something really good, and it’s like validation of all the time and money I’ve sunk into teaching myself to cook. And that something is this bread, which is fancily called pain à l’ancienne in my bread book but it’s basically just a variant of French bread. You can call it ancient pain in your mind, like I do!

Except that is a totally unfair nickname for something that is not at all painful to make. Making kneading yeast breads is usually a matter of weights & measures & autolyses & proofs & bench rests and stipulations: water at 110 degrees! rise in a warm place! DO NOT DEGAS IT!!! This one is basically like: dump together four ingredients, knead for a bit, stick in fridge. Next day, shape, slash, bake. Ta-da!

Okay okay, so I took a zillion pictures. Shut up! The point is: I am America content with this bread and so can you!

Pain à l’ancienne
adapted from the Bread Baker’s Apprentice

  • 3 cups (13.5 oz) bread flour
  • 1 teaspoon salt
  • 1 teaspoon instant yeast
  • 2 1/4 cups (19 oz) cold water
  • cornmeal, for dusting

Stir together all the ingredients until they form a ball, then knead by hand or by machine with dough hook on medium speed for 5-6 minutes. Dough will be fairly sticky, but it should release cleanly from bowl or counter. Oil a large bowl, dump in dough, cover with plastic wrap, and refrigerate overnight.

The next day, pull the dough out 3 hours before baking and let it come to room temperature and puff up a bit. Then, flour counter generously, roll the dough in the flour, and stretch it out to a rectangle 8 inches wide and 3 inches tall. Let it rest for five minutes and preheat your oven to its highest temperature, with a stone if you have one.

Cover a pizza peel or back of a sheet pan with cornmeal. Using a dough blade (or a very sharp knife, I guess) pinch dough into 3 strips. Stretch them out to the length of the sheet and make slashes in the top with a serrated knife. Pop in the oven (onto a stone or just on the sheet), wait a minute, then turn down temperature to 475. Check after 8 minutes to make sure they’re baking evenly, then bake another 10-15 until they’re deeply brown. Cool on a rack for half an hour before cutting (or else the bread will get dry).

road trips for young punks

Everybody needs to make at least one great road trip in their life. I don’t mean the kind that are a means to an end, like a trek to see relatives across the state or an attempt to cram five college visits into three days. A real, true-blue, hit-the-road-Jack road trip cuts right to the heart of travel and draws out the process just for the pleasure of the experience. As a veteran of both the practical (returning to college), the frivolous (three-day scavenger hunt for giant fiberglass landmarks while in costume), I believe young adulthood–any time between getting your license and getting your PhD–is the perfect time to strike out on one. It’s more than just a chance to go to cool places or see weird things–it’s kind of a rite of passage.

When I had finally showed my parents that, yes, I could be trusted with the station wagon for trips longer than to school and back, I remember feeling a kind of magical transfer of power. The keys were, literally and symbolically, in my hands, and suddenly, I was itching to get out there and drive. Gone are the days of sing-along tapes and coloring books in the backseat: it’s your turn to explore.

Get a destination. Even though the driving part is the point, you still have to be going somewhere. So pick something! And don’t feel limited to just the Grand Canyons and Mt. Rushmores of the world: I’ve made voyages to see abandoned mining towns, drive-in movie theaters, minor league baseball parks, and the Creation Museum. Be creative!

How about the biggest ball of twine made by one man?

Go with friends. This is obvious! Spending time with your personal merry band of thieves is the best part, and it’s always a good idea to swap out shifts driving. But keep in mind that you’ll be spending long hours in an enclosed space with these people. I guarantee that even if you love and respect your best friend like a sister, you might be tempted to throttle her when she snaps her gum for the millionth time.

Bonus points if they are willing to scale giant fiberglass otters


Get a car. If you (or your friends) have your own, lucky! You’re all set. If you need to borrow your parents’, assure them that you will be responsible and take good care of it–and then do that, duh. Also, it’s not a bad idea to let everyone who will be driving take a test spin in the car to get a feel for it before you hit the road. If you’re used to a Honda sedan, a Volkswagon campervan will feel like driving a school bus (I speak from experience).

Drive your deLorean, if you have one

Plan your time. Multi-day odysseys across several states are awesome, but even a day trip out to somebody’s cabin in the woods can be great. If you’re overnighting it, figure out when and where you’re going to sleep: cramming five people into a Motel room? Putting up a tent in a state park every night? Crashing in a cousin’s rec room?

Gear up. Besides the usual duffels of stuff, also make sure everyone’s got their licenses, insurance info, and contact numbers all in a line. Car chargers for cell phones are handy. Snacks are always a good idea. It’s also not a bad time to figure out the gas money situation (my usual solution is to keep a kitty of cash that everyone contributes to, twenty bucks at a time) and what you’ll do in case of a breakdown (AAA? Parents? OnStar?)

Pick tunes. Load up someone’s iPod with a massive playlist of driving music, plug it in on shuffle, and hit the gas. Or, alternatively, have everyone craft a their own mix CD and take turns, with explanatory commentary optional. No stereo? Do what we once did on a voyage through Wisconsin: sing Taylor Swift’s Mean a cappella as many times as everyone can stand it (see second point). Do yourself a favor and avoid the earworm that is the theme song from National Lampoon’s Vacation, even though it seems thematically appropriate. It’s maddening.

 

Be spontaneous. When it comes to weirdo attractions and extended scenic routes, I’m a firm believer that you should let your ADD run rampant. Spot a roadside fruit stand or a historical marker for some battle you’ve never heard of? Take a break, get a snack, stretch your legs. Think about all the groovy things you’d be missing if you just took a train or plane everywhere.

Fiberglass graveyards are always nice

Be flexible and keep your cool. Things are going to go awry. You might end up driving your boyfriend’s 12-seater van down a winding mountain road in the middle of a downpour. You might get to the International Clown Hall of Fame and find out it’s closed for the day. You might be treated with undue suspicion by the Border Control agents on your way back from Montreal. Relax. Breathe. You’re taking the road for its bumps, remember? Everything can make a good story later.

Be safe. Not to sound like your mom, but please, please, please, don’t drive if it’s late and you’re tired or you’ve had something to drink. Treat strangers with respect, but a healthy dose of caution. Don’t trespass anywhere you don’t belong (except mayyyybe the ghost town of Centralia, PA), and pay attention to the speed limit. And no more people than seatbelts, ever.

Centralia!

Make memories. No, seriously. You’re going to want to remember this. Bring your camera, diary, sketchbook, whatever, and record things. Not just the big photo-ops by the World’s Largest Six Pack, but also the attempts at reading the ancient road atlas, the cramped and drooly naps in the backseat, the elaborate games of MASH you play to pass the time. Pretend you’ve traveled in time from 10 years later in your life, and notice all the little things you love about these days. You may not always know where you’re going, but you’ll always want to know where you’ve been.

burger, bourbon, beer

Who was the marketing mastermind at Owen & Engine that came up with this special? I would like to give him or her a firm handshake. Tuesday evenings, the alliterative holy trinity of booze & bar food will set you back only $15 (plus $2 parking at the megaplex lot across the street). It’s ostensibly an English-style brewpub, but one staffed entirely by hipsters with handlebar mustaches; with dark wood paneling, a zillion beers on tap, and birds/blokes restrooms, it’s got the ambiance down okay. What was most surprising was that there weren’t more people packing in for the weeknight bargain.

Because the burger! The burger. It was hefty but not heavy, fatty but not greasy, cooked to a deep pink medium-rare and crowned with caramelized onions and aged cheddar cheese. According to research done by other food critics, the meat is a 60/20/20 blend of chuck, short rib, and brisket, which yields a patty with large, tender chunks that still manages to keep its structure and gives a huge boost of pure, rounded, beefy flavor. I only opted for cheese (onions come standard) but the house-made rasher (aka bacon, cured not smoked) was a hit with my companions, though we left the final option (a sunny-side up egg) untested.

Even though the bun was golden and buttery, it was sturdy enough to retain its integrity for the whole burger and managed to avoid the dread drippy, soggy ending of many a brioche roll. The fries, cooked just a touch too far past crispy toward crunchy, were redeemed by a dunk in the house-made mayonnaise.

As for the other two Bs, I found the beer (a German Oktoberfest-esque lager) clean and very drinkable (the menu listed notes of “fresh biscuit” and “bitter greens,” which don’t sound to me like they should be combined) but not anything remarkable. The bourbon was smooth & very vanilla’d, a pleasant 180 from all the smoky whiskey I’ve been drinking*.

Also, O&E called their pretzel a bread-tangle!** So I think I like them. Who wants to go next week?

*Bowmore 12 year! OMG!
**Homestar Runner reference? Maybe? Bueller?

links 3/27

The Iced Coffee Economy: Why the Cold Stuff Costs More–Interesting article, plus quotes like, everyone who makes good coffee in New York.

Dunkin’ Donuts Cereal–I would have loved this as a child, but as a sort-of-grown-up I’m more nauseously fascinated.

You Can’t Ruffle Sandra Lee–”There are 17 million children in this country going hungry every day, and we’re worried about my Kwanzaa cake from 10 years ago?” Yes, Sandra. Yes we are.

Loft Resumes–And I thought it was cool when I switched from Times New Roman to Palatino Linotype! Totally going to ape one of these.

 Daria and Jane Would Be 31 Now–We’re all so old :(

Popcorn Packed with Antioxidants–True story: I used to eat a bag of microwave popcorn for dinner like, three times a week in high school. And now I know why this didn’t give me scurvy! Seriously, though: microwave popcorn is the devil. Don’t ever eat it. Also: there’s a university in Scranton? LOLOL

weekend in drinks

Four quarts (& change) of homemade chicken stock. Just kidding! I did not drink this; that would be weird. But I did make it and Instagram it, so.

In case you’re wondering how to make it: take 1 (cooked and picked clean) chicken carcass, the ends of 2-3 onions/carrots/celery if you’re not allergic to it like I am*, a few bay leaves, and chuck them in a crock pot with enough water to cover, then cook on high for as long as it takes you to get a cookbook signed. Boom. Stock!

Bourbon Barrel Quad, chez Abe. It was one of those Saturdays where me and my fellow editor of a yet-to-be-launched pop-culture blog were 2/3 of the way through a terrible Lifetime movie (for research) when something reminded me of your first-grade math teacher whom we called Bill Crumbly, for some reason? And then I texted my beer-obsessed grade-school buddy who lives down the street to reminisce, and then, next thing I know, we’re going over to his place for some beer and and baked goods, watching a video tribute to Shooter McGavin, and getting tickets to Judge Mathis. Are you jealous of my life? You should be jealous of my life.

The beer was excellent; I was too tired from being up all night to remember many details. It said it was flavored with cherries, but I didn’t get too much of that, which, thank God. Cherry anything always tastes like cough syrup.

Not booze, but a café au lait from New Wave Coffee. I just liked the way they wrote on the cup. Olé! Triforce! Let’s bomb some dodongos!

The milk was the kind of thick and frothy that feels like drinking a warm coffee milkshake**. I had to spend my final two cash dollars, BUT one was a Where’s George bill, which is always exciting, because I’ve been on that damn site since the sixth grade and NEVER get any hits on my bills. Grr. Also: please to ignore my fingernail dirt.

I came home from picking up my meat and buying books at around 4:30 and found that my roommates had already begun to drink, and obviously I couldn’t be rude. I’m a fan of Great Lakes’ Edmund Fitzgerald but had never had their lighter stuff, and I found Mr. Ness winning. A medium body, I think? As in, it didn’t seem too thin? And with a kind of rounded sweetness to it that I will inelegantly describe as “apple-juice-like.”

*Yes, this is a real allergy! Seriously.
** It is this kind of sparkling prose that will win me a Pulitzer for food journalism

goat cheese biscuits & how to be weird at book signings

I have the tendency to have weird moments at signings. Nora Roberts’ publicist thought I was too young to be reading her books (I was 18?) and then asked me if I was nervous (no? kind of?). Meg Cabot said she, quote, “loved” my hair, and I was so flattered I forgot to say thank you. Loudon Wainwright called me his cutest fan and then told me I should take banjo lessons. I pulled off being pretty normal around David Leibovitz and just chatted with him about the roast chickens at the Marché Richard Lenoir in Paris. And though I told Julia Quinn she was, quote, my “gateway drug” into romance novels, she managed to look mostly polite and only slightly uncomfortable when signing a paperback for me.

Fortunately, Joy the Baker is as friendly and adorable as her epithet suggests, and she and I (and Kathy) had a totally pleasant, normal, friendly interaction. And I got a cookbook! And I was way too tall!

GIANTESS

Considering how insane my Saturday was (wake up at 5, 8:30 flight, Farmers’ Market run because WHY NOT, then drive out to Burbsville, IL to a very crowded little bookshop) I’m surprised I was coherent enough to say hello. But I’m not one to let a little thing like sleep deprivation or impaired mental capacity stop me from getting a cookbook signed!

Triptych! Can't get enough!

Which, obviously, I did, successfully, and then came home and proceeded to make four quarts of chicken stock, blanch & freeze a bag of spinach, roast two pounds of beets, defrost some suspiciously old black bean soup, and then bake goat cheese biscuits. You know, to relax.

And then I slept til noon, didn’t do any work, and scrambled eggs instead of getting up early and finishing a draft of my thesis (because I AM THE LAW, that’s why!)

Anyway, they’re pretty good. I had to change the recipe because I had TWO HUGE THINGS of Fage to use up, which I bought because they were on sale, ignorant of the fact that their sell-by date is like, tomorrow. So yogurt for every meal! And also biscuits!

Goat Cheese Scones
adapted from the Joy the Baker cookbook

  • 2 cups whole-wheat flour
  • 3 teaspoons baking powder
  • 1/4 teaspoon baking soda
  • 1 1/2 teaspoons salt
  • 1/2 stick butter, cold and cut into cubes
  • 3 tablespoons goat cheese, crumbled
  • 3/4 cup greek yogurt
  • 1/2 cup whole milk

Preheat oven to 400 degrees. Whisk together flour, baking powder, baking soda, and salt. Using your fingers or a pastry cutter, cut butter and cheese into dry mixture until the lumps are between oat-flake-sized and pea-sized.

Whisk together yogurt and milk. Create a well in the middle of the dry ingredients and dump in the yogurt-milk mixture, stirring together with a spatula (you might need a little more milk). Drop dough by rounded 1/4 cupfuls onto a baking sheet lined with parchment or Silpat (or, like I do, bake two for now and freeze the rest on a baking sheet until firm, then store in freezer in a plastic bag and bake off one by one, as usual).

Bake for 14-16 minutes, until puffy.

spring break: diptychs & triptychs

(Apologies to my artist mother if these aren’t really triptychs. I guess I could be safe and call them collages, but I’ve never been one for a penny word when a 20-drachma one will do.)

I spent 24 hours (total) on the train up and down New York State (bottom left and right) on the way to Montreal (upper left). I’ve pretty much perfected the art of sleeping in a ball, plowing through a season of Fresh Meat on my laptop, and lying to customs about the amount of clementines in my backpack. Fruit smugglers forever!

I did a fair amount of classy-type eating à la carte: a pain de campagne from La Pâtisserie Belge in MTL, where I went pretty much daily for bread (and then stopped at Pikolo for an americano so as to get my heart beating again).

I threw together a rando salad at home of microgreens, oranges, bleu cheese, onions, hard boiled eggs, and lemon-thyme vinaigrette, which felt incredibly lefty and snooty but also delicious, so whatever. And today, I had a croissant date with my mom (with bonus souvenir coffee beans!) at Chestnut Hill Coffee, post-pheblotomy appointment (I may have fainted, alas).

Abroad, I had heartstopping amounts of pork at the Dépanneur Le Pick Up Cabane à Sucre Pork Club , which was five courses of wonderful. We started with a sweet-and-fatty lardo spread, with chunks of apple and onion, spread over pumpernickel, then pea soup that was pleasantly earthy and I didn’t hate (??). The salad was chicarrón (pork rinds!) in a spicy arugula (so it’s healthy!) and then, at last, came meat: a house-made sausage, maple-smoked pork, and pork belly confit, each of which was a different and incredible kind of savory-sweet. The baked beans (fèves au four?) were molassesy and thick, and I got to eat twice as much since my dining companion did not particular care for them (again, ??). Two shots, as well: vodka with the lardo (na zdrowie!) and white chocolate with bacon for dessert. So fun, so tasty, and I got to chat with Chef Szef Bartek, a very cool guy who gave me some tips on making the confit (apparently not that hard? ça s’peut…)

Also: Portguesey rotisserie chicken that was buried in peppery fries, from a corner joint that reminded me very much of Calvin Trillin (long line, no plates). And watched (but did not help) Shannon eat a biscotti (biscotto?) roughly the size of her head.

Drinks: Victory Lager, Blood Orange Gin Sparkler, Bulleit Rye (which tastes good and doesn’t burn, so, win!).

On the porch! On my parents’ dime! With New Yorkers to read! I might die from all the luxury!!

And! Two pairs of homemade socks, from my lovely Aunt E., that I wore almost without pause while home. I don’t care if I got weird stares from a gaggle of middle schoolers at the Hunger Games* when I wore them in a pair of Crocs-clogs and shorts. It’s a look.

Back to Chicago, butt-early o’clock tomorrow. On the plus side: Green City Day and Joy the Baker, so sleep up, kids!

*Which, OMG. Katniss!

 

links that are pictures

Suburban Station–Panoramic shots of Philadelphia commuter stations, sure!

A Great Idea for This Morning–Let’s! This is probably how Da Vinci and Newton started their mornings and look what they achieved

Come On People Cream Cheese Isn’t That Awesome–Pinterest, LOL?

Mystery-Machine-themed Van for sale in California–Because my dad won’t let me repaint the family Vanagon.

A Calendar Page for March–You need more medieval manuscripts in your life. Also: don’t care that the month’s almost over.

My Pie Town–Imagining a same-sex Depression.

Uncovering YA Covers: How Dark Are They?–All this nonsense over the quality of The Hunger Games led me to some neat infographix about cover art in YA.

my dad has some career advice for you

I mean, technically speaking, it was meant for me, but I’m going to share, because I’m plagued with thoughts of career doom. And it seems to be a theme that I write about a decent amount.

A man of refined literary tastes

Talk to more people.

Me: I’m exhausted. I’m over it. I will not find a job.
My Dad: Just keep talking to people. Opportunities will spring up.
Me: I have talked to 35 people already. Nothing has sprung.
My Dad: Blair, do you know how many people I talked to after grad school? Sixty. Five. Keep talking.

It is exhausting, but he’s right. And by “talk to people,” he doesn’t just mean informational interviews (but do those! if you feel like it) but also just…talking. To people. Knowing people helps you do things, even if they aren’t going to give you a job necessarily.

Write thank you notes

“Call them up, ask for advice, and then write them a note to say thanks.

I do this, always, and I don’t care if it makes me look like a dork. And then when I went to visit an advisor/mentor of mine, she had my dorky note tacked to her corkboard. See?

Hustle, hustle, hustle

“[Local band] get good gigs because they are constantly out there promoting.”

Another reason to get business cards! And to tell people insistently that you are a writer (knock that “aspiring” nonsense off, right now. You string words together, you’re a writer). Also: give your cards to your dad and he will give them to his friends and your net practically works itself.

He gave me life, and I gave him a cake with sperm drawn on it (apologies to B. Collins)

You do not have to know what you are doing.

Me: You were a janitor?
My Dad: Yeah, the summer after junior year. But I was also doing…communications, or something. Mainly I remember emptying trashcans and watching TV.

Crappy jobs happen, see? And you can still end up running a graduate school at an Ivy League University!

Liberal arts, forever and always

“No one cares what you majored in. Can you read and write well? Good. You’re set.”

Lest you wonder where my Medieval Studies degree came from, I am going to put the blame entirely on my dad. Not only did he encourage me to follow my heart, he also bankrolled the entire thing so that I can graduate debt-free. What a jerk!

Ars longa, vita brevis

“If I were you, I’d just take the summer off, take a few Vanagon trips, write, do whatever. Just tell them ‘see you in September.’”

Because, actually, I am but 22 years of age, which is young enough to be stupid and old enough to recognize that since being stupid seems inevitable, I should just cave, embrace it, and take a road trip to Kansas City*.

The resemblance between us is clear

Don’t take yourself, or anything, too seriously

My Dad: [fart sound effect from iPhone]
My Mom: Da-vid. Please.

This one speaks for itself.

*To eat barbecue, duh. Why is that even a question?